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|Sunday, August 23rd, 2015|
|if not for the puppies
Presenting: the Hugo ballots we would have gotten if not for the slate voting.
Please note that I am not touching Best Dramatic Presentation, Long Form, as the puppy nominations were fairly well-liked elsewhere, and I know a lot of people concluded that giving an award to a puppy pick in this category wouldn't hurt anything as none of the puppies were actually involved in producing any of it. Also, I'm only including categories in which somebody was bumped by a puppy. Nominees are listed in order of the number of nominations they received, with the puppies removed, five nominations per category. This year's actual winners marked by an asterisk, when relevant. All statistics are derived from the Hugo statistics PDF, which is publicly available in a link from here
. That's also where you can compare this with the ballots we actually got.
Best Novel:Ancillary Sword
, Ann LeckieThe Goblin Emperor
, Katherine AddisonThe Three-Body Problem
, Liu Cixin* Lock In
, by John ScalziCity of Stairs
, by Robert Jackson Bennett
Best Novella:The Slow Regard of Silent Things
, by Patrick RothfussThe Regular
, by Ken LiuYesterday's Kin
, by Nancy KressGrand Jete (The Great Leap)
, by Rachel SwirskyThe Mothers of Voorhisville
, by Mary Rickert
'The Day the World Turned Upside Down', Thomas Olde Heuvelt*
'Each to Each', by Seanan McGuire
'The Devil in America', by Kai Wilson
'The Litany of Earth', by Ruthanna Emrys
'The Magician and LaPlace's Demon', by Tom Crossbill
Best Short Story:
'Jackalope Wives', by Ursula Vernon
'The Breath of War', by Aliette de Bodard
'The Truth About Owls', by Amal El-Mohtar
'When It Ends, He Catches Her', by Eugie Foster
'A Kiss With Teeth', by Max Gladstone
Best Related Work:What Makes This Book So Great
, by Jo WaltonChicks Dig Gaming
, ed. Jennifer Brozek, Robert Smith, and Lars PearsonShadows Beneath: The Writing Excuses Anthology
, ed. Brandon Sanderson, Mary Robinette Kowal, Dan Wells, and Howard TaylorInvisible: Personal Essays on Representation in SF
, ed. Jim C. Hines
'Tropes Vs. Women: Women as Background Decoration', by Anita Sarkeesian
Best Graphic Story:Ms. Marvel Vol. 1: No Normal
, by G. Willow Wilson and Adrian Alphona*Saga
, Vol. 3, by Brian K. Vaughn and Fiona StaplesRat Queens Vol. 1: Sass and Sorcery
, by Kurtis J. Weibe, Laura Tavishati, Roc Upchurch, and Ed BrissonSex Criminals Vol. 1: One Weird Trick
, by Matt Fraction and Chip ZdarskySaga
, Vol. 4, by Brian K. Vaughn and Fiona Staples
Best Dramatic Presentation (Short Form):Doctor Who
: 'Listen'Orphan Black
: 'By Means Which Have Never Yet Been Tried'*Agents of Shield
: 'Turn, Turn, Turn'Game of Thrones
: 'The Lion and the Rose'The Legend of Korra
: 'The Last Stand'
Best Editor, Short Form:
John Joseph Adams
Best Editor, Long Form:
Patrick Nielsen Hayden
Best Professional Artist:
Best Semiprozine:Lightspeed Magazine
, ed. John Joseph Adams, Stefan Rudnicki, Rich Horton, Wendy N. Wagner, and Christie Yant*Strange Horizons
, ed. Niall Harrison, Julia Rios, An Owomoyela, and Catherine KraheBeneath Ceaseless Skies
, ed. Scott H. AndrewsThe Book Smugglers
, ed. Ana Grilo, Thea James Interzone
, ed. Andy Cox
Best Fanzine:Journey Planet
, ed. James Bacon, Christopher J. Garcia, Colin Harris, Alissa McKersie, and Helen J. Montgomery* The Drink Tank
, ed. Vanessa Applegate, James Bacon, and Christopher J Garcia Lady Business
, Renay and Jody File 770
, Mike Glyer A Dribble of Ink
, Aiden Moher
Galactic Suburbia Podcast*
Tea and Jeopardy
The Coode Street Podcast
The Skiffy and Fanty Show
Laura J. Mixon*
John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer:
Andy Weir (who was eligible, because the Campbells go by first professional
publication, as opposed to the Hugos, which count self-publication against eligibility; thanks to rosefox
for clearing this up)
Carmen Maria Machado
My congratulations and condolences to everyone who got bumped from the ballot. Not only does this ballot have, in my opinion, an appreciable increase in quality over the one we got, but it looks one heck
of a lot more like the Nebulas and the Locuses and the other awards in the field.You can comment here or at the Dreamwidth crosspost. There are comments over there.
|Saturday, August 22nd, 2015|
|links of interest
The 2015 U.S. Trans Survey is running! This is a demographic survey for people who identify as trans, genderqueer, or non-binary who are living in the U.S. or U.S. territories or military bases. It is the largest demographic survey of this population and is an extremely important policy tool and referent for lobbyists and activists. I'm linking to the FAQ
, and I strongly urge anyone who identifies as being in the target population to take the survey. It took me about half an hour.
You can send your name to Mars! NASA is etching submitted names onto a microchip that they are sending on the Mars Insight mission in March 2016. Enter by September 8th here
. Complete with shiny generated boarding pass and adorable 'frequent flyer' program.You can comment here or at the Dreamwidth crosspost. There are comments over there.
|Thursday, August 13th, 2015|
|wait, what was that call number
Did I ever tell you all about the time I read the Necronomicon in a reference library? I must have done, because it's a story I tell because it's amazing and kind of hilarious, but I don't seem to be able to find anywhere on this journal I've told it, so maybe I haven't.
Anyway, I was in some part of high school age, let's say fifteen, and I was in the middle of the phase where I was running rampant through the occult/esoteric/new age section of the library, a thing I did for a few years which served to fill my brain with extremely peculiar trivia and eventually gave me a stone-cold rock-solid bullshit detector which has served me very nicely ever since. I lived in Columbus, Ohio, which is important to the outcome here, I think. And I was a kind of semi-goth semi-punk deeply geeky sort of kid; I went to a very ritzy private school and spent four years causing them to make all kinds of sudden new specifications in the uniform requirements.
So what I was wearing on the day in question was a little plaid skirt and a white blouse and a uniform blue knit cardigan with the school crest, and the uniform (deeply sensible) black Doc Martens (which were constructed along the lines of Roman public works and which I wear to this day), because I had just come from school. Also safety pins through my earlobes-- I'd filed down the points and put them in through existing piercings instead of regular earrings, because I wasn't an idiot, but it was impressive how everyone who saw them assumed otherwise, which I found sad and a little funny; and my nice cold-weather water-resistant black cloak with the steel pin that I'd gotten at the Renaissance Festival (and which I still wear also), because it was winter, and, again, because I had just come from school. In short, the way I looked was one people who know me now would probably recognize, except that my hair was brown then and I had no facial jewelry, and back then in Columbus, Ohio at that time it was a look that guaranteed that no one would ever, ever approach me on the street for any reason. I regularly had conversations with panhandlers who dressed more respectably than I did. Not more nicely-- more respectably. But honestly, once I left the school building and stopped being in actively-pissing-these-people-off mode, I didn't really consider it a statement, unless the statement was 'leave me alone'. Oh, and I had a backpack covered with quotes from Hothead Paisan: Homicidal Lesbian Terrorist
, in White-Out, and I'd probably painted my nails in either White-Out or black Sharpie, which were the only things I ever used for that, because I never had any money. Fairly standard alienated teenager stuff.
Anyhow, that day in the main branch of the Columbus library I spent some time working on my project of the moment, which was collating mentions of esoterica in H.P. Lovecraft with the card catalog and the indices and bibliographies of other books to see which things were real and which Lovecraft had made up. This was before there was much in the way of internet, so it took me awhile, months I think, and many library hours. And as I was trying to make the very new and very clumsy computer card catalog talk to me, I got a wild hair and decided to look up the Necronomicon, knowing that nothing would come of it.
Popped right up. The entry said it was in the building. No author listed, just the title.
This confused me.
It was labeled reference, of course, and that part made sense, so I left the circulating part of the stacks and went to the non-circulating and there was nothing of the sort where the call number ought to be. No hole for it. I figured it was probably a joke that somebody'd put into the system, in which case it was a good example of librarian humor and I approved mightily. But I have always been the sort of person who would like to know exactly what is going on, when possible, so I went over to the reference desk and I asked about it.
Now, in my life up to that point, librarians had been a constant positive influence. I had met good librarians and incompetent librarians, well-meaning ones and patronizing ones and unthinkably useful ones, but this was the first time in my life I ever met an actively hostile librarian. She looked me up and down and started exuding a three-foot-thick wall of ice in my general direction. She knew exactly what I was talking about and she was Not Happy. She said, in tones identical to those in which she might have said the words 'go fuck yourself', that they had the book and I could see it, but that she would have to go get it for me. By this point I was somewhere beyond confused and into weirded out, so I said sure, just to see what she would do. And she stood up and disappeared into the back.
She was not gone a short time. She was not gone too long a time. She was gone what I would consider to be a precisely calibrated professional
amount of time, enough time to make her disapproval plain and to hope I would wander off, but not long enough to make it valid if I decided to complain to the management. Mind you, by that point I would have stood there until the library closed. She came back, finally, carrying a book, which looked to me like a disintegrating mass-market paperback, and instead of handing it to me she explained that all use of this book had to be supervised. She marched me over to a table with a chair at it, and she put the book down on the table, and I sat down in the chair, and she stood about a foot behind my left shoulder, fixed her eyes on the wall opposite us, and settled in to glare at that wall for the duration. I mean she stood there with her arms crossed, so close I could hear her breathing, and if her eyes had had laser beams that wall would not have stood one instant. It was meant to make me feel uncomfortable, and it succeeded admirably.
I picked up the book, and it was
a battered and disintegrating mass-market paperback, and it had 'The Necronomicon' on the cover of it. There was no author listed. There was no publisher's information. There was no copyright page. It had obviously been printed, because it was in print, but there wasn't even a title page, and I couldn't tell if there had ever been one. It was full of diagrams, which began straight away, and most of them didn't have captions. They looked like the back section of my geometry textbook, except all the angles were labeled in, as far as I could tell, Hebrew. Where there was text, it was the sort of thing you get as Necronomicon quotes in Lovecraft, some of it verbatim.
By this point my bullshit detector, which had not yet attained finely tuned but which was certainly more than nonexistent, was telling me that this was one of the more ludicrous things that had yet happened in my life to date. Also, I was getting sick of feeling the librarian lurking over my shoulder and hating me. There did not seem to be much of interest in the book, really. I gave it back to her, and thanked her politely, and went home wondering what the actual fuck.
When I saw myself in the mirror at home, I realized some of it, because remember, I had forgotten about my outfit as soon as it stopped being a statement. I looked at myself, and I thought about her face, and I started laughing, because it was that or be very upset. She'd thought I was a witch, or that I was trying to be one; and not the neopagan Wiccan-y kind that you got some of even in that city in those years, but the kind who could give you the Evil Eye, the really malefic kind. There had been fear as well as anger and disapproval there. It remains one of the only times an adult human being has been honestly scared of me, and I have never forgotten how it felt, for her to have that specific type of fright and mistrust in my direction. I did not like it at all, though I'm probably lucky it didn't go to my head. And I still had no idea how the whole thing had even happened.
It took more than a year for me to find out (remember, this was before the internet), but at a pagan Halloween party at the Only Occult Store In Columbus, Ohio the next autumn, I got to talking with the shop owner, and I asked him about it, as it continued to confuse me. He told me (and I corroborated, years later, when the internet happened) that back in the 1970s a vaguely Satanist vaguely Gardnerian type had had a yen for Lovecraft and had done up a version of the Necronomicon with a New Age press, using extrapolation from the Lovecraft stories and the kind of ritual magic that he practiced personally, and leaving out all the publication stuff in hopes of convincing everybody that it was authentic. It hadn't sold very well, because after the initial rush of people hoping for scandalous and evil secrets everyone realized it was mostly diagrams and that even if you were into ritual magic they weren't all that interesting (and, he added, mostly didn't work). But copies continued to float around, basically on the strength of the title. I mentioned what had happened with the library, and he said that yeah, he'd heard about other people having similar experiences, and that he was under the impression that the library started that because they'd had several copies go on unauthorized walkabout. I had noticed myself that there were things they had trouble keeping in stock in the occult section, especially anything that looked like a manual, and that a title I'd see there one week would very frequently be marked the next as missing. But something about the book, or its associations, or more likely about the kind of people who asked for it, meant that the librarians had gotten-- well, the way I'd seen, about the whole thing. He also found it both a little upsetting and kind of hilarious.
I thought it over and decided that Lovecraft would have been tickled pink by the way we'd all behaved, me and the librarian and probably even the publisher. It remains one of the more surreal experiences of my life.
Advantages of a Midwestern childhood. I suspect it's as close as a person can come to the experience of, well, reading the Necronomicon, and closer than most people get. It is certainly the only time I've been mistaken for the frightening kind of witch. The whole thing was, honestly, very educational. I expect it means I get stat points if I play Call of Cthulhu, though I've never taken advantage of that; and at least any SAN loss was temporary, as far as I know.You can comment here or at the Dreamwidth crosspost. There are comments over there.
|Thursday, July 30th, 2015|
|There is too much. Let me sum up.
The longer I go without making an entry, the harder it becomes to summarize all the huge things that have gone on since the last time I made an entry, and therefore the longer I go without making an entry. I should probably just nip this vicious circle in the bud.
So, in no particular order:
-- A thing that has been making me happy for a few days: ♥ ♥ ♥ NO BOSTON OLYMPICS ♥ ♥ ♥
Seriously, the entire concept of having the Olympics here was, as I have been saying to people for months, literally the single worst idea I've heard this year, but I was pretty convinced it was going to happen anyway, because that is how things have generally worked with huge sporting events and their placement committees and city governments and protesting populace in recent years. Fortunately, the Boston Mayor decided that the city government here would actually listen to the protests, a revolutionary step that should be taken more often. Every time I go downtown for, oh, probably the next few years I am going to remember and be thankful that it isn't all being torn down and relocated for shit we don't need or want.
-- I got a second nose ring. It is on the same side as the first, and about an eighth of an inch behind it. My body modification policy is that I won't get anything that I don't solidly want, i.e. the same exact thing in the same exact location, for a full calendar year, but this idea has been kicking around in my head since I got the first nose ring fifteen years ago. Before I went off to college in Philly, I'd only ever seen pictures of people who had single nose rings or studs, let alone having met anybody in real life who had even one, but the person who did my first ring had two studs on the same side and it looked absolutely amazing on her. Every so often while looking in the mirror over the years I'd hold up a second ring, and it usually passed the other test-- do I look more like my internal mental image of myself with this item than without it-- but it's only recently it passed the full-year marker.
Went to Brian Moeller
at the Boston Tattoo Company in Davis Square, and it was a lovely experience. I walked in off the street and they were friendly and polite and charged a reasonable amount and gave me exactly and precisely what I wanted. It's healing up nicely, and, as I remembered from the first one, really isn't all that unpleasant during the healing process (certainly nowhere near as bad as a tattoo).
The amusing thing is that (and I had this some with the first ring but nowhere near as thoroughly) people don't notice. I have found it entertaining to have to explain to people that I have a new facial piercing, but that's how it's been going down. Like, B. has been my lover for a decade and I had to tell him about it, and he's a pretty observant guy.
-- Speaking of B., as I said, we've been together for ten years now. The anniversary was back in June, and his anniversary with gaudior
(also the tenth, this year) is a movable feast but usually in late July/early August, so we split the difference and the three of us went to Quebec City for a week's vacation last week. gaudior
and I haven't been traveling much and haven't been traveling out of easy driving distance of our fertility doctors, because we're trying to have a kid and timing is a thing, but it had been ten years since gaudior
took a vacation that wasn't going to see people for conventions or holidays, which is a great vacation but a different sort of vacation, and it was about time.
Quebec City is a wonderful place to spend a week and I recommend it, although you should probably think of it as a hiking holiday. The hills did more of a number on me than the hills of San Francisco ever had, as, even though they theoretically aren't as bad, San Francisco has replaced more of its slopey bits with actual stairways than Quebec City has. After an incline passes a certain point I would honestly rather have stairs than slope, because at least you can sit down on stairs for a while if you need to, and your thigh muscles aren't going 'what
angle are you trying to put your foot at again?' every step. There is a funicular, which helped a lot.
I've never been to London, but the descriptions I'd heard of QC were 'about sixty percent Paris and forty percent London, with French food and American-style plumbing', and the non-London parts of that statement are precisely accurate. The pastry is as good as in France, and we got to introduce B. to maple products (it turns out that if you didn't live in New England and didn't go to state fairs as a kid you may, somehow, be unaware that the maple tree loves us and wants us to be happy), and we had a whole lot of poutine with the kind of cheese curds you can't get around here. This included some cheese curds purchased from a Benedictine monastery near the town of Magog (B. said 'if I see any signs for Gog also, I am turning this car around', which is fair), and those cheese curds were so good that they stood up to sitting in a hot car for some hours and then being put into an American pseudo-poutine in which I made brown gravy and we poured it and the curds over pasta because damn if I was making French fries directly after a long road trip. It was ludicrously delicious. This is not meant to be a real or thorough travel report, but this is a reminder to myself and a note to other people that if the Boutique de l'Abbaye de St-Benoît-du-Lac ever manages to get online shopping together, they sell the best cheese curds I have ever encountered.
The thing I will probably remember about QC longest is that the horse-cabs that go through downtown have a depot just in front of our hotel, and in an attempt to combat the smell all the hotels on that street (it is lined with them) had planted massive, massive beds of lilies. So the street literally smelled of horseshit and lilies, for blocks. Lilies do not cover the smell of horseshit, being in a different part of the odor spectrum, but the mingled smells were pleasantly and peculiarly medieval-feeling in a way I had never expected to encounter.
-- Readercon happened. This is not a con report, either. It was a decent con in that I did all of the programming that I was supposed to be on, and I saw some of the people I wanted to see, but I got sick in the middle and didn't manage to attend after Saturday afternoon, so I didn't see enough of people and didn't get to much programming that wasn't including me. Next year I may well not click the program ticky-box that says that I am willing to moderate, because I think I have moderator-burnout; it takes a certain set of social skills, because I am invested in everyone on the panel having about the same amount of time to talk, and keeping the conversation flowing smoothly, and interrupting anybody who is starting to be a blowhard but without making them feel as though I've shut them up forcibly so they don't escalate, and it's a great deal of work, really, and work that I basically only do in this context. I'm good at it, and I got good feedback about every panel I moderated this Readercon, from random audience members, including about the panel I thought went sufficiently badly that I wince when I think about it, but at this point my principle mental association with cons is exhaustion, so it's time to start doing less work.
Books purchased: American Shore
, Samuel R. Delany, new Wesleyan edition; Archivist Wasp
, Nicole Kornher-Stace, which I have been looking forward to since her short story in Clockwork Phoenix 4
; Faces Under Water
, Tanith Lee, and The Year of the Gryphon
, Diana Wynne Jones, both cheap used like-new hardcovers of things I've been wanting to have around.
-- Also, marriage equality happened! It is not the end of the tunnel, for me or for others, by any means, it is not the entire lifting of the weight, there is a lot of work to do; but it is a lifting, it is a victory, it is a longed-for and much-awaited light. For my family, personally, it is the financial consideration of one of us not having to adopt the children the other might bear, our own children, should we ever want to travel even in our own country with them; it is the sigh of relief on realizing that it would take days instead of hours to drive anywhere that we are legal strangers; it is more certainty that we will never again have to pay the gay-marriage tax, which was the money we paid when we could not file federally as married. It is real financial and emotional and legal gain, for me and for my household and for others that I love, and I saw it coming but could not, of course, be really sure until it happened, and I am delighted that it did.
-- That, of course, is not everything that's been going on in my life the last month or so, not even everything vitally important, but it's enough to be going on with, I think. Whew.You can comment here or at the Dreamwidth crosspost. There are comments over there.
|Saturday, June 20th, 2015|
|salad for a hot day
It is so muggy out today that all three of us eating here felt as though we had been mugged, so we needed something really quick and doable in hot weather and balanced and with stuff that was already in the house and didn't require a store trip, and this came out so well that I felt the urge to write it down.
A recent food discovery of mine is acino di pepe, tiny pearls of pasta which cook into something which should resemble couscous, but does not, and should resemble orzo, but does not. It expands dramatically over the course of its cooking time.
Salad of Acino di Pepe
1/2 box of acino di pepe (this is like 1/4 lb. uncooked)
1/4 lb. frozen spinach
2 Quorn vegetarian chicken cutlets, or 1/4 lb. of tofu
1 red or yellow bell pepper
1 clove garlic
5 or 6 capers
Put about three times the volume of water as you have pasta into a large pot with some salt and bring to a boil. Pour in the pasta. Acino di pepe takes 12 minutes, so set a timer for 10.
Chop the bell pepper and set it aside. Defrost and chop the Quorn, or chop the tofu. Mince the garlic very fine. Chop the capers coarsely.
In a very large bowl, pour about 1/4 cup of good olive oil, about 1 T balsamic vinegar, maybe 10 drops of lemon juice, and 1/2 tsp. mustard. Whisk until emulsified. Add about 1 tsp. salt, 2 tsp. black pepper, 1/4 tsp. paprika and the same of oregano. (All of these measurements are approximate and should be tweaked to taste.) Whisk in the raw garlic and the capers.
Stir the Quorn or tofu into the vinaigrette until coated and let sit at least five minutes before adding anything else.
When the timer goes off, toss the frozen spinach into the pasta pot, without doing anything else to it, and set the timer for another two minutes.
The annoying thing with acino di pepe is that it needs a fine-mesh strainer. If you have a large one, use that; I have a smallish one and found it easier to ladle the drained pasta and spinach out of the pot than to pour out the water. Anyway, drain and put the pasta and spinach in the mixing bowl and stir to coat. Add the bell pepper and stir in that. At this point it turned out to need another splash of lemon juice and about another 1/2 tsp. of mustard, stirred in vigorously.
In an ideal world, one would then put this in the fridge overnight. In this imperfect world we live in, it feeds three for dinner with ample leftovers, which will taste way better after being left in the fridge overnight, but which are delicious even while still warm. This is balanced, complete in one pot, contains protein, starch, and veggies, is vegan (acino di pepe does not have egg), takes about twenty minutes, and is genuinely far tastier than I expected even knowing the ways of classical French salads, of which this is an adapted version. If you were being extremely classically French you could top each person's plate with anchovy fillets, an impulse I understand but do not share. (Of course, if you are the sort of person who habitually tops each person's plate with classical French anchovy fillets, you have probably been making something very similar to this for years now and have no need of this entry.)You can comment here or at the Dreamwidth crosspost. There are comments over there.
|Wednesday, June 10th, 2015|
|bits and pieces
I feel as though I ought to be writing more about my actual life, but I'm not up for piecing together any kind of coherent account of what I've been up to lately, so here are some snippets of things that I've done or thought or felt as they've gone by.
-- The aftertaste of the shot of Fernet Branca was very distinctive and familiar. Maybe it was honey? I kept thinking it was honey. There wasn't any way to check at the time, as there was a full dancefloor and no particular lighting and I do not, in fact, have a smartphone. I was not old enough for eighties darkwave dance nights the first time they happened but, apparently and unsurprisingly, eighties darkwave, when it dispersed into the Midwest, became nineties tryhard Goth nights in Ohio with no particular alteration, at about the time I started sneaking out to attempt to have a life. The shot of Fernet was in memoriam: it's what the fifteen-year-olds around me used to drink instead of absinthe, because we weren't aspirational enough for Pernod, I am not even joking. The nice thing about now is that I can go to this sort of thing with my girlfriend and enjoy it a great deal while realizing that literally every single aspect of my life is categorically better than the nineties in Ohio; it overlays the evening like a veil, how bad it would be there, how good it can be here. Research afterwards said the aftertaste was probably saffron, and as soon as I heard the word I recognized the flavor, oh, of course, saffron, how did I mistake it for honey.
-- I didn't lie to the cat. Saying 'We don't eat roses' would have been a lie, because rose is one of my favorite flavors. "You
shouldn't eat roses," I said, firmly. He told me I was still lying. The rose, which belonged to my wife, was yellow with red edges, and was evidently the most appealing object ever to have existed. He kept lunging, and sneaking around behind when our backs were turned, and it was worse than I've seen him be with anything except pumpkin muffins, for which he turns into a ninja. It was worse than the time I fished him out of the salad bowl. I have made a mental note never, ever to bring rose-flavored pastry home with me as I do not want him to drop on my head from the ceiling. "You'll only be terribly ill later," I told him. Coming in from the blind side, he swallowed an entire petal before he could be pulled away, and sat self-righteously and triumphantly as we all awaited his stomach going into reverse. The other cat, at this point, had almost considered waking up and staring at all this, but had decided it was too much work to bother.
Sadly, I did not in any way lie to the cat. I rather wish I had been.
made and gave to me a not-quite-anniversary quilt, which is in various shades of blue and black and one unexpected interweaving of pink, in curves and paths and circles. It reminds me a little of aquarium light and a little of wirework jewelry and a little of the boardgame Tsuro, and she was correct about the weight of blanket that I like on my feet when it is too warm to have any other blankets. It fills out the entire trifecta: beautiful, useful, and sentimental value. (If I am going to keep anything long-term, it has to be at least two of those.) I am still gobsmacked by it.
-- Canobie Lake, an amusement park up across the New Hampshire border from here, does in fact have a lake and will take you out on a twenty-minute lake cruise so you can stare at all the houses and try to figure out how many of them are real and how many are summer people. It also has several adorable little rollercoasters. Honestly, they are mostly so short in duration, like under two minutes ride, because of having such tiny spatial footprints, that I wouldn't consider it worth spending the time in line waiting to go on them except that there basically weren't any lines. An economical and lovely way to make your roller coaster look classy as all get out is to paint the major uprights so they appear to be birch trees. There was also a peacock in a cage behind one of the rollercoasters, so we could get a lot closer than you can get to free-ranging peacocks, and it even seemed vaguely glad to see us, as long as we fed it.
(Peacocks are dicks. At the Sydney Zoo, once, there were albino peacocks ranging freely, and when we got to the echidna enclosure, which was just a big hole with a rock wall around it, there was a white peacock who would flutter delicately over until it was standing in front of the echidna, and then make a loud, peacockish, offended noise, at which point the echidna would trundle-- the only possible verb for an echidna is trundle-- directly away from it, huffing and puffing, and the peacock would wait for it to get some distance and then flutter delicately over... There was an attendant, who seemed to think it was the only way the echidna ever got any exercise, but still. Peacocks are dicks. I am unwilling to get close to them unless there is mesh between the two of us, is what I am saying here.)
Canobie Lake is a smaller theme park, and consequently not owned by any major media corporation. It was peculiar and relaxing to be in a theme park not owned by any major media corporation. The mascots walking around were, like, a guy in a dog costume, and a guy literally dressed as a slice of pizza. The antique statues of things like popcorn above all the concession stands have no brand labels whatsoever, and were clearly never tested on any focus groups, which was both endearing and moderately terrifying-- above a sandwich shop, for instance, a plaster statue looking every bit of fifty war-worn years old showed a six-foot hero sandwich which had somehow grown a human head and was literally in the process of consuming its own body. Good clean fun for the whole family.
It was a lot more of my family than usual, actually, as gaudior
went despite not liking rollercoasters, and so did jinian
(who does), and sovay
(who really, really does), and B. was up from Virginia for the weekend, and while I don't think that's the greatest number of my partners I've ever had in the same place doing the same thing at the same time, it is certainly more than quorum. Noteworthy.
-- Twin Peaks
, which is out in its entirety on Netflix, has held up extremely well; it is just as good as it ever was, or better. Highly recommended.You can comment here or at the Dreamwidth crosspost. There are comments over there.
|Saturday, May 30th, 2015|
|Elle est trois, la morte (Tanith Lee, 1947-2015)
I am lying on a couch, in that stage of food poisoning where one lies on a couch and looks wan and pale, the stage where I feel as though I am probably on the couch for dramatical reasons until I try to get up and realize that the whole thing, sadly, has nothing to do with drama. This makes it a decent time to write about Tanith Lee, who didn't, as far as I am aware, actually write any stories in which somebody owns a genuine fainting couch, but I would not remotely have put it past her.
I can't remember when I first read Tanith Lee. That is literal. I can't remember not
having read any Tanith Lee. She's one of the writers I can trace swiped phrases from in the early, derivative, plotless stories I scribbled in notebooks when I was seven. Heinlein, Andre Norton, E. E. "Doc" Smith, Tanith Lee. She's also the only one of those writers whom I must have found for myself, because my father's SFF collection is encyclopedic and exhaustive until Dangerous Visions
(1967), in which year he gave up in annoyance. (He and I have our... differences in this matter.) Lee is too late a writer for him to have collected, so I must have come across her on my own, in one of the sneaky forays into the adult half of the library which occupied so much of my time as a child. I simply can't recall how I did it, or when, or what caused me to pick up something of hers, much less what drew me back to her repeatedly over years and years before I could understand ninety percent of what was going on in her work. She was just always there. I always had some book of hers floating around the house, but she was so prolific that there was always something new to find, a trait she shared with Norton. If I bounced off one of her pieces, I could move on to the next, and then try again in a year, or two years, or never, and not worry about running out.
I am now worried about running out.
The interesting thing is that, unlike many of the writers I read when I was extremely young, or the ones I imprinted on when I began to develop selectivity, I have never been aware of Lee as a writer I particularly love. I am also, most of the time, not aware of my own DNA as something governing the expression of certain physical and mental traits. It underlies a great deal of my life, but something has to point it out to me. This may be because I couldn't understand so much of her when I started; I do
remember the dawning, gradual awareness that if I had no idea what was going on, the story was probably about sex.
As Lee was one of the last and greatest of the Decadent writers, her stories are very frequently about sex. Lee's work is one of the reasons I was always confused by the sexual conservatism of entire chunks of SFF as a field in about, oh, the early oughts-- not the people who were making conservative arguments, but the people who were tentatively and slowly making moves towards putting in genderfuck and occasional gay people and heterosexual kink, and I was sitting there going, look, I know Delany is an outlier and I should expect the world to be twenty years behind him, but I don't hear much about Tanith Lee as a radical force and she did all this in the eighties and y'all are therefore just behind. It turns out that what this means is that Tanith Lee was a quietly
radical force. You can be incredibly transgressive if everyone thinks of you as a Decadent writer, because the assumption tends to be that your narrative is going to come down on the side, whether intentionally or otherwise, of condemning the transgressive things you write about, and that if your narrative doesn't do that sufficiently, your life will do it for you. It's true that Baudelaire and Rimbaud and Verlaine etc. led extremely disorganized and frequently unhappy and dysfunctional lives, but one reason the anecdotes about said unhappiness and dissipation have gained such currency in the public imagination is as an Object Lesson against any radical politics with which their readers might come away. Look-- their lives are so awful that their ideology must be on faulty grounds! (Whereas a lot of the awful actually comes from being gay, and/or kinky, and/or radically eccentric, while living in a society set up to quash all that sort of thing.) And there Tanith Lee was, being alive and prolific and not making any tabloid headlines, and in her work everybody (especially women) has sexual agency, queer people exist, gender roles range from oppressively enforced dystopian nightmares to optional playthings, and when rape culture and sexual brutality exist they are damaging and destructive to everybody involved with them. Lee has characters who are asexual and characters who are cheerfully promiscuous; who are monogamous in orientation and who are all shades of otherwise; who are abused and abusers and who are neither; happy endings and the reverse for the good, the bad, and the everything in-between. It is a foundation of the human and diverse supporting trappings so Gothicly lush that the complexity and fundamental empathy of it all are, apparently, not obvious.
And, above that basic foundation, which was formational for me on deep levels, I have spent much of my life arguing with Tanith Lee as a writer. I disagree with her about the proper construction of a plot, the emphasis which ought to be put on character, the rhythm of scenes, how foreshadowed an ending ought to be and how foreshadowing should work at all, when a happy ending is and isn't appropriate, the number of adjectives it is useful to have piled all over everything... I could go on. And on. Her work draws me back and back and back to yell at her. The Book of the Dead:
STOP THAT THAT IS COLONIALIST BULLSHIT and also these aren't even stories
this is literally a collection of images you have thrown at the page in hopes that some of them stick oh wait apparently that one did as it has appeared regularly in my dreams for years now DAMMIT Tanith. Black Unicorn
: there is no other book in the world as charming and perfect as the first about fifty pages of this novel, and I will now proceed to read it fifty jillion times in order to figure out EXACTLY how the ending of this book and the ENTIRE REST OF ITS SERIES go COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY OFF THE RAILS and I can now pinpoint to within a sentence where it goes wrong, but not, so far, why and how, DAMMIT, TANITH. (When I was interviewed for my high school yearbook they asked about my pet peeves and I said that peeves are too high-maintenance to make good pets and nobody got it.) 'Elle Est Trois, La Morte': that is BAD FRENCH POETRY and also this entire story is such a ripoff of de Quincey that you have cited him to make sure people know about it, and I have had the verse of I repeat BAD FRENCH POETRY stuck in my head since approximately 1992, dammit, Tanith, why are you doing this to me. The Gods Are Thirsty
: wow, it's amazing how much you can make specific historical figures fit your particular archetypes for characters as opposed to, you know, resembling what those figures were actually like, but also, wow, it's amazing how well a book works when you very carefully select the historical figures to work with based on the ways you know you will deform them into the archetypes you always end up using, this is authorial jujitsu against yourself on a level I don't even know how or whether to complain about, damn it, Tanith.
Also, as I believe I have stated elsewhere
, she and I would get on much better if only she didn't hate the color blue.
Hadn't hated. This is the problem and the glory of an author being so mentally integrated into my understanding of the universe. I don't have to stop explaining to her in my head that she is WRONG, but I am never going to get to do it in person, and she's never going to write a book fixing any of these things, or elaborating on them, or making them even more wrong. Dammit, Tanith.
Anyway, the masterpieces, as far as I'm concerned, at any rate the ones I recommend to people, are Black Unicorn
, and Faces Under Water
(about which I do not want to yell at her even a little bit!), and The Book of the Mad
(though you should probably read the other Secret Books of Paradys too for context, and they're good but not as good), and The Silver Metal Lover
, and the Biting the Sun
duology, and the short story 'The Devil's Rose' (the single cruelest piece of fiction I have ever read, due to its distressing plausibility and significant chance of having happened at some point). But everyone who reads Lee has a different list. It's time, now, to start the work of keeping her read, of keeping her in the conversation, of not letting that quietly radical force go silent. Apparently she had trouble being published towards the end of her life, and now, when her ideas are starting to have some wider cultural weight and currency, is exactly the wrong time for that to become an issue.
Please read Tanith Lee.You can comment here or at the Dreamwidth crosspost. There are comments over there.
|Tuesday, May 19th, 2015|
|Recent Film: Holy Motors
(2012), dir. Leos Carax
is out of town, I spend a lot of time with jinian
(I mean, more than the lot of time I do usually), and I also spend a lot of time poking at Netflix. Netflix appears to have realized that the way to my heart, specifically, is to acquire recent-ish festival-circuit movies that I did not manage to see. (It's probably also reasonably cheap for them.) I tried to see Holy Motors
when it came out, at the Harvard Film Archive, but the director was there in person, and I have never seen such a line at a movie theatre anywhere in this town at all, let alone at the HFA, which is genteelly unaccustomed to the concept of 'line'. So I finally got around to it this past Friday night, and I have been struggling to articulate the experience ever since.
This is pretty much the standard critical reaction. Everyone agrees that it's a really good movie, but beyond that, things become more difficult. I mean, the Guardian apparently called it 'a splendid furry teacup of a film', if that gives you an idea. Over email I have compared it with the Golux's hat. If I have to pick vaguely describable things to compare it to, it's probably as close as we'll get to a film of Tanith Lee's The Silver Metal Lover
, despite having no plot, character, or setting elements in common. I also suspect a chunk of it of being an unfaithful adaptation of Michael Cisco's novel The Great Lover
, which, if you have not read it, is one of the most resolutely anti-narrative books ever written for most of its length.
Fortunately, I was lucky in that I got what I believe to be the correct connotations from the title, which helped exceedingly. I heard 'holy motors' and thought, what concepts of that sort are floating around in the world, and then I thought of the mythological blood engines, the continuous sacrifices necessary to keep the entire Aztec cosmology working. Those are holy motors, and they demand food. In the movie, the motors are the same and the sacrifice is similar, but the system that is being served is cinema, the entire apparatus of movies and those who make them and those who view them.
I was also lucky in that one of my strongest associations with the word 'saint' comes from John Crowley's novel Engine Summer
(cf. my username), in which a saint is "someone who lives many lives between birth and dying". I haven't asked Crowley if he had film in mind at all when he came up with this, though I would be fascinated to know, but that complicated and multivalent definition, which has in its novel of origin so many meanings that I don't want to go into it, is also certainly true of those actors we call 'the saints of the cinema'. Many lives, many births, many loves, many deaths. So I was able to recognize the main character of Holy Motors
as a saint, cinematic variant, fairly easily, which made wrapping my mind around the movie a much faster process.
The basic conceit of Holy Motors
is that its principal actor (Denis Lavant, stunning) spends a day traveling through Paris in a large white limousine, being chauffeured to what he refers to as appointments. For each appointment he wears a different costume, and each one is literally a chunk of a life, which he lives out until it's time to get back into the limousine. Through various conversations he has with his chauffeur (Edith Scob, majestic) and other people around, it eventually becomes clear that this is set far enough in the future for cameras to have become basically nano-drones, and in this way the actor is participating in the making of multiple movies at the same time. In some, he is important, in at least one the protagonist, in at least one the villain, in several minor bystanding characters. He dies in a couple, by violence or otherwise, and because this is cinema it looks perfectly real, until the bodies all stand up again.
Two things become clear over time, and the interplay of these things is the principal emotional arc of the movie: one, we are not going to get to see his 'real life'. He has no 'real life'. Going from appointment to appointment like this is how he spends at least eighteen hours a day, every day. These are his real lives. They're scripted, of course, because movies are scripted-- and one thing I love is that the different appointments have different levels of quality in the scripts; one of them is such an embarrassingly cliched soap-opera weepie that it's only the fact that it's his real life that makes Lavant's lines even mildly sayable-- but he spends the hours living in each of them, and each of them is truly a part of him. He seems exhausted by this, but it's hard to tell, because, two: because the interludes inside the limousine, in which he is supposedly not acting, are being shown on film, to an audience (me) which is watching it, those cannot, if you think about it, possibly be unscripted either. I mean they are doubly scripted, they are scripted in the world of the movie as well as in our world. So he has an entire emotional arc with his chauffeur, and an interlude that is supposed to play as unscripted time in which he sneaks off and has an emotional chat with another actor, and I sat there fiercely doubting that that could actually be happening until suddenly there was a grand sweeping musical number and I realized the whole thing had to be an easter-egg for the people (like me) who are following the actor instead of watching any one of the movies he's making. This film puts the viewer firmly in the exact place of its projected SFnal audience, which I think is spiffy.
The other way it puts the viewer in the place of its projected SFnal audience is that none of what I just said above is explained at all in-text. You just watch it. You have to assemble it piecemeal entirely from incluing. It took me most of the film's two-hour running time to be certain of my hypotheses, and there was a stretch of at least a half hour in the center where I sat there thinking 'I have no idea what is going on here, but I am really enjoying this movie'. I can't recall the last time I had that particular experience. Usually not knowing what is going on bothers me.
However, what makes the film work, and the only reason it can work at all, is that each individual movie scene is so good. I would cheerfully watch any of the larger films. Even the ones that obviously suck do so very entertainingly. They are visually stunning and unique, brilliantly acted, and extremely engrossing. Denis Lavant's actor is chameleonic, fading into each part while still maintaining a startling degree of charisma and almost forcing a sense of empathy with each of his characters. (It is also astonishing how much emotional charge each scene gains from being a documentary of his real and lived life, and how much that works to produce an emotional charge even though it is only true in-universe... I hope someone has written a dissertation on this movie's layers of meta-fiction.) I would have found Holy Motors
just as entertaining, though I probably wouldn't admire and respect it this much, if I'd never been able to put together the intellectual web of it. Given that Leos Carax has said that it started as a compilation project of a chunk of every feature film idea he's never been able to get the money to do, I am impressed that either he doesn't have dud ideas or he has successfully managed to weed out the portions of these projects that do not work. And he's thrown them all at the screen in a brilliant, charming, and actively joyous jigsaw-puzzle Golux's hat of a movie, and the question I came away with is: if this is how we wind up feeding those holy motors, would it still be worth it? Denis Lavant's character is living in his own private utopia and dystopia, at the exact same time. Every emotion is curated for maximum effect, every single aspect of his life designed for maximum artistic gorgeousness. But how many people have ever really
wanted to trade places with one of the saints?You can comment here or at the Dreamwidth crosspost. There are comments over there.
|Wednesday, May 6th, 2015|
, C.J. Cherryh
This is the somewhere-in-the-low-double-digits-I-hav
e-frankly-forgottenth of Cherryh's atevi books, and it is not where you start. At this point, this series is almost less a series of novels to me than it is a series of yearly family visits. How is Ilisidi's leg? What has Cajeiri's terrible pet broken recently? Oh, Bren got his apartment back, how nice, my, that was quite a complicated thing, some people's children, you did mention something about that last year, yes, I will have some more tea, thank you. This impression is not weakened by the fact that all the book titles ending in -er
means that I cannot assign a book's events to the book they took place in with any degree of accuracy. I was able to pick out this book as the newest one in the shop because it was the only one in hardcover, and I can actually recite with fair accuracy what has happened in the series to date, but ask me whether Precursor
comes before or after Betrayer
and I'll be like I DON'T KNOW THOSE ARE CERTAINLY BOTH WORDS. So, the kind of family visit which you have, about once a year, and greatly enjoy, but which has gotten into a rhythm, where you know how it is going to go to such a point that you almost do not need to go.
Which is not to say people shouldn't read these; they're lovely. Merely that I urge you to cultivate a sense of calm and detachment about the pacing of the overall plot.
There is a thing which can happen to writers of series, where they write a book, and it comes out, and they want to have a time skip before the next one, and they hand in an outline or possibly even a manuscript to their editor, and the editor says 'I have absolutely no idea how the situation we find ourselves in at the start of this next book could have happened during this time skip, please write a novel set during the time skip because your readers are going to be totally lost'. And then the writer does, and that book comes out, and the writer brings back the original outline/manuscript, and the editor says 'That's better, but we still haven't had xyz things explained, you need to write another book set during the time skip before we can get back to the plan'. And the thing is, this can go on basically indefinitely. It very famously happened to George R.R. Martin, but I've also heard of it happening to Rosemary Kirstein, and to Elizabeth Wein, and in all cases years and years and books have passed and we've either only just gotten to the post-time-skip or it hasn't turned up yet at all. I am about eighty percent certain that this precise situation happened to Cherryh with the atevi series, and that it happened right after the re-establishment of Tabini's government, and all the books we've gotten since have been explanations Cherryh originally thought we should have been able to infer between the end of that book and the beginning of... and this is the nice thing about Tracker
, actually... the next book in the series from now, whatever it turns out to be called. If this is what happened, Cherryh was wrong and we couldn't infer all the things that would have been elided, but the editor was also wrong and we could have had at least two fewer books. As of next book, we shall resume our regularly scheduled actual series plot.
In the meantime, these are people I've really liked seeing once a year, because one always worries that Bren is overworking (he is) and not eating or sleeping enough (the eating's fine, the other isn't). The cover of this installment is also damn close to priceless. Presently the other shoe will drop, but until then, more more tea, thank you. The Three-Body Problem
, Liu Cixin, translated by Ken Liu
In an essay somewhere in The Language of the Night
, Ursula Le Guin asks the question of whether a science-fiction or fantasy book should be a novel, that is, whether it should attempt the three-dimensional portrayal of its characters with sufficient complexity as to make them mimetically convincing. (She also asks the question of whether a science-fiction or fantasy book can
do this, but that's fairly easily dealt with by finding examples of it happening: yes, it can.) After pondering the question for a while, Le Guin confesses that it's difficult for her to work with, as a question, because to her it is so obvious that not only can it be done, but that we have not seen anything like the full potential of what could happen when it is done well, and consequently it ought to be done. So she's entering the question with bias, she says, and therefore puts it down again.
It is true that one of the principal forms of SFF, and a form which it does not share with much else in literature except possibly historical fiction, is the depiction of long-term, very large things at a scale far greater than the human, in a manner which remains engrossing without containing any complicated or even remotely mimetic characters. Take Olaf Stapledon-- Stapledon is gripping. Entire galactic civilizations rise and fall, and it's almost pure sense of wonder and brilliantly written, and if Last and First Men
has any characters whatsoever I certainly failed to notice them and did not care about the lack. This is the kind of thing one would like to see continued, as a literary tradition.
And of course those of us who do hold that an SFF book should be a novel-- and I am with Le Guin on this, always and forever and unequivocally; it can, it should, it ought to be-- would like to find some way of fusing the two, of having the novel-as-world-schema, covering aeons and/or concepts on the macrocosmic scale, having that be the same book as the novel with the three-dimensional characters that become, for the reader, real people to the point of being friends and enemies and family you look in on every so often.
This is, I expect, why there's a blurb on the cover of The Three-Body Problem
by Kim Stanley Robinson, who is one of the people in the field who works hardest at fusing the two. The Three-Body Problem
can be read as an attempt at such a fusion. The thing is, though, I think that's erroneous. I think that all the characters in Three-Body
are types, and intentional types, and that each of them represents a specific viewpoint in the complex intellectual structure of speculation that the book is setting up, and nothing else
. I think this because none of them ever does anything surprising, not once; the book itself
is what does surprising things, the twists and turns of that intellectual structure as expressed through the overall narration and not through the actions of individual people.
Taken that way, it's a very good book. It's one of the better books of its kind I've seen. And I am not frustrated with it for not being a fusion of the story based on ideas and the novel of character, because I don't think it's trying to do that at all. But it's never going to be a favorite book of mine, because, as I said before, I'm with Le Guin. Lots of people have written good books based on ideas this way, and lots of people have written good novels of character, and very few have explored the space between and that's what I want to read, personally. Read, and write myself, and if I fail at one or the other aspect of the fusion what I am actually good at writing is character.
And this leads into an interesting thing about the Hugo Awards, since Three-Body
's nomination was why I got around to reading it. The Hugos are trying to judge chalk and cheese, in the novel category, which is pretty standard for the Hugos. This year there are three honest nominees for Best Novel, by which I mean nominees not gamed onto the ballot for political reasons. Katherine Addison's The Goblin Emperor
is a fantasy of manners and entirely a novel of character. It's very good at what it does. The Three-Body Problem
is hard near-future SF and entirely a story of ideas. It's very good at what it does. Ancillary Sword
, by Ann Leckie, is an attempt at a fusion between the two things, and a sequel to a fusion between the two which actually worked
both, and I'm about a third of the way through it so I'll get back to you on how good I think it is at what it does and whether it falls into being entirely one or the other of its subcategories. But, assuming it is also very good at what it does, how is one to choose between these three? They're not trying to do anything like the same things. Not by how well they meet their own ambitions, because it's possible to be infinitely ambitious in each direction, and at least the Addison and the Liu Cixin appear to have lived up to their authors' hopes for them. Not by personal inclination towards whether I prefer a novel of character or a novel of ideas, because that inclination on my part has nothing to do with the quality of the works. It's an interesting problem.
[The Puppy factions, as far as I can tell, would like the novel of character to remove itself from SFF and go stand in a corner somewhere being abstruse. This is what they mean when they say they want 'good old-fashioned storytelling'-- they want characters who are types, because then they can be intellectually challenged on the macro level without being challenged about their conceptions of people on the personal level. Including any elements in a character which don't fit into the character types they grew up with is read and taken as a challenge to their conceptions of people on a personal level, which is why they seem to have missed the intellectual structure of Leckie's Ancillary Justice
and its questions about AI, personality, and identity, in a great morass of being distressed about the universal 'she' pronoun used throughout it. To a person who wants only
idea-driven fiction a la Stapledon, every character attribute must directly contribute to the overall scaffolding of the idea, regardless of whether people would actually behave this way or not. It doesn't matter that the characters aren't acting like real people-- that's not what they're there for. They're there as a device. So those of us who say, for instance, that we would like more women in our novels, more GLBT people, more cultural diversity, they see that not as assisting the depiction of more mimetic characters but as complicating the idea structure with things that aren't an integral part of the device. Because everything other than the very vaguest sketch of a character is non-integral, and, due to any number of factors including outright horrible prejudice and/or character traits not being things the writer of ideas cares about, the very vaguest sketch of a character tends to come out as the cultural default of straight, white, male, cis, ablebodied. That's why there are some Puppy-types who keep saying 'but we do have characters who are black, or gay, when it's necessary to the story!' and then looking confused when we growl. What they don't seem to understand, or claim not to understand, is that those of us who want diversity in our fiction don't have anything against novels of ideas. Or even against character types. What we want is to change
those types, because it will make the outcome of the thought experiments in the novel of ideas more interesting
. Change the defaults. I found the type characters in The Three-Body Problem
way more interesting than most other two-dimensional characters I've encountered recently, because they are sketches from a different culture.]You can comment here or at the Dreamwidth crosspost. There are comments over there.
|Wednesday, April 29th, 2015|
|"Dogs never bite me. Just humans." -- attributed to Marilyn Monroe
This post is about the 2015 Hugo Awards. For more information on the co-option of this year's Hugos by approximately 1.5 factions of U.S.-based right-wingers, consult Abigail Nussbaum on this year's nominations, or Making Light (continual coverage, not just the linked thread), or George R.R. Martin's Livejournal, or the excellent ongoing daily roundups at File 770, or, at this point, like, The New Republic. Comments here are moderated, and anonymous comments require unscreening before they appear. Unscreening is entirely at my own discretion, as are deletions.
The reasoning that the Sad Puppies and Rabid Puppies factions give for their chosen names is something about how message-based fiction winning the Hugos because of some Sekrit Cabal of left-wing types makes puppies cry, and then people in the factions get angry about the puppies crying and, uh, contract rabies, or something. Many, many words have now been expended in pointing out that, until this year, no cabal has ever taken over the Hugo Awards; that, in fact, "message-based fiction" is not a significant portion of recent nominees; that Hugo nominees and winners have over the decades come from all portions of the political spectrum; and that no one has ever, in fact, been forced to fill out any sort of political questionnaire before they could be nominated. The only people gaming the Hugos here are the Puppies. Therein lies the problem.
Have these people ever met any dogs?
Dogs, taken as a species, aren't much into any of the following list of things:
-- thinking anything complicated about the Hugo Awards whatsoever
Here is a far more typical picture of a dog: ( Collapse )You can comment here or at the Dreamwidth crosspost. There are comments over there.
|Tuesday, March 17th, 2015|
|Saturday, March 7th, 2015|
|O that this too, too solid snow
Would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew.
It's about half as bad out there as it was at its worst, which means there are only piles of snow taller than I am lying about everywhere. Considering taking a calendar outside and showing it to the weather, just in case someone failed to notice something-- I know it's not officially spring yet, but all the March pages of the calendars I am familiar with are cheerfully, optimistically springlike, possibly to give you something to look at during the latest blizzard.
In a fit of likewise misguided optimism, I took the snow tires off my boot soles* when things started melting at all and have now fulfilled my traditional winter destiny of falling unpleasantly once per slippery season. This time I escaped with minor lacerations and will call that good.
Cheery anecdotes about warmer climates welcomed. Or stories about how there was snow piled up to here
this one time and you came out of the house one morning and it had all just totally melted away. Either one. I am completely over this weather.*YakTrax. They work, too.
You can comment here or at the Dreamwidth crosspost. There are comments over there.
|Tuesday, March 3rd, 2015|
|SH news: A Book Roundtable + First Readers Wanted
Up now at Strange Horizons
: Foz Meadows, T.S. Miller, and I, moderated by Niall Harrison, discuss K.J. Parker's collection Academic Exercises here
. I loved the book, despite its regrettable sexism, and am looking forward to reading more Parker. Other opinions were rather different.
Also, the magazine has put out a call for First Readers, i.e. those brave and hardy souls who tromp through the slush pile and pass things upwards to the editors. This is not a paying position, but you get to read some very interesting stuff. Details and how to apply here
.You can comment here or at the Dreamwidth crosspost. There are comments over there.
|Monday, February 23rd, 2015|
|Saag Tofu with Misc. Greens
1 lb. frozen broccoli
1/2 lb. frozen spinach
1 cup parsley, measured after it has been picked off the stem, washed, and squeezed to get the water out
about 20 fresh sage leaves, also washed and squeezed
12 oz. firm or extra-firm tofu
1 large shallot
1 very large tablespoon powdered ginger
1/2 teaspoon garlic salt
1 tsp. cumin
1 scant tsp. paprika
2 tablespoons butter
1/4 cup canola oil
1/2 tsp. lemon juice
one Cuisinart (really really, trust me)
one large pot
one large skillet
cooking chopsticks or kitchen tongs
You will want to serve this over rice. It will serve 4-6 people.
Cut the tofu into 3/4-inch cubes, pile them all in a bowl, cover them with hot water, stir in a teaspoon of salt, and leave for fifteen minutes.
Dice shallot. I picked the parsley off the stems at this point, which takes forever.
Defrost frozen vegetables by rinsing them under warm water. Set a large pot of water to boiling, and boil the broccoli and spinach for 5-6 minutes, or until wilted, bright green, and reduced in volume significantly.
Drain the tofu and put it on a plate covered in a paper towel to dry.
Put ginger, garlic salt, and shallot into a Cuisinart and blend until it is a paste. You could also use fresh ginger and/or fresh garlic with a little salt, but I haven't shopped lately.
Heat canola oil in large skillet over high heat and then pan-fry the tofu until it is light gold on 3-4 sides of the cubes. Use the chopsticks to turn the pieces over. If it spits at you, turn the heat down. Transfer tofu pieces to a plate lined in different paper towels. Leave the oil in the pan and hot.
Remove shallot paste from Cuisinart. Don't bother washing the Cuisinart. Remove the boiled vegetables from the pot with a slotted spoon and transfer directly to Cuisinart. Don't worry about getting all the water out of them. Add sage and parsley. Blend into a paste. Consistency will resemble batter, which is correct.
Fry the shallot paste with the cumin and paprika, stirring continuously, for several minutes, until dark brown and very aromatic. Add tofu back in and stir just to combine.
Add the greens paste and at this point we should have put in a teaspoon of salt-- it turned out doing it later was fine, but it would be better here. Beat heavily. Cook until the greens have darkened and reduced slightly, trying to beat out pockets of water as you see them. Taste and add salt if necessary. Sprinkle the top with the lemon juice and beat it in.
Finally, stir in the butter. You really do need butter or something like it to bind it all into an unctuous sauce as opposed to a pile. Uncertain what vegan ingredient would do this. Serve immediately.
I have not had better in a restaurant. The freshness of the parsley counterbalances the darkness of the broccoli, and the sage adds something indefinable but necessary. Could be easily made with paneer cubes if you have them or feel like making them.
Loosely adapted from Andrea Nguyen's cookbook Asian Tofu, Simmered Greens With Fried Tofu, p. 121.You can comment here or at the Dreamwidth crosspost. There are comments over there.
|Monday, February 16th, 2015|
I am delighted to say that, beginning immediately, I am a senior fiction editor at Strange Horizons
. I've been easing into the job for a little while now, and I am, frankly, enjoying the hell out of it. If you're surprised to see me editing, well, so am I, but the skillset turns out to overlap with criticism pretty significantly.
Thanks to Niall Harrison, Julia Rios, An Owomoyela, Catherine Krahe, and also to everyone else who suggested this job might be a good fit and that really, it was worth applying. You're all wonderful.You can comment here or at the Dreamwidth crosspost. There are comments over there.
|Tuesday, February 10th, 2015|
|The Duke of Burgundy, dir. Peter Strickland
The Duke of Burgundy
(2015) is the British film director Peter Strickland's third feature, after Katalin Varga
(2009), which did not have a very wide release, and Berberian Sound Studio
(2012), his breakout, which did. Berberian Sound Studio
was one of the most enjoyable films I saw in the year it came out, and I was lucky enough shortly after that to visit jinian
when she still lived in Seattle, so that we were able to rent Katalin Varga
in European-region-only DVD release from the invaluable Scarecrow Video.
Having seen all three of his feature films to date, then, there is a description which I have never seen applied to Strickland in a review or an essay or an article, but which I find readily visible in his work, delightful, and heartwarming:
Peter Strickland is one of the finest feminist filmmakers working at the moment. Katalin Varga
is a bitter little Hungarian murder ballad which has a wrinkle I had not seen on the classical rape-and-revenge plot-- and that is difficult-- a wrinkle based on the woman at the center of it having more agency than everyone else expects of her. Even the audience. Berberian Sound Studio
, a complex and multivalent movie, contains among its many subjects a scathing critique of the way female characters are treated in horror movies and a scathing critique of the way female actors are all too often treated by male horror movie directors. I therefore expected the women in The Duke of Burgundy
to be three-dimensional people, to be well-rounded characters who are subjects as well as objects, to have their own motivations and minds and methodologies. I got more than I expected, in multiple directions.
I got more than I expected in just about every direction, actually, because I do not go around expecting movies to be as good as The Duke of Burgundy
is. Quite simply, they usually aren't.
A thing that has come up in every review of it I have read thus far is that The Duke of Burgundy
is probably set in a world in which there are only women.* If this is the case, it's the only film I've seen where that is true. Certainly, every character we see is a woman, every extra, every passerby. This was incontrovertibly necessary, because, and this is one of the points Strickland is making, the story he is telling would change extremely for the audience if anyone performing gender in a currently culturally common male way so much as wandered through the background of one set, for five seconds, once. It would be like an event horizon. The entire film would be pulled after it like a black hole.
And this is because the story Strickland has chosen to tell is about power exchange. This is the best movie I have ever seen about kink. In order for this particular story to work, the characters must have what the audience sees as a basically even level of intrinsic personal power and dominance. They are women because either performing or specifically opting out of some amount of dominant behavior on various occasions is built into current popular conceptions of masculinity. If there were men around in the movie, the audience would be waiting for them to either demonstrate dominance or show that they weren't going to, and, as I said, event horizon, because that is a complete distraction from what is actually going on here.
What is actually going on here is one of the most complicated, beautiful, believable love stories I have encountered since I don't know when. It's also done wonders to help with my phobia of insects.( Collapse )
I left the theatre smiling. I smile when I think about this movie. It is an embarrassment of riches. I have no idea what Peter Strickland will come up with next, but I will be there for it. If I see a better film this year, I will be very surprised indeed.* I am uncertain about this, because the worldbuilding is not explicitly discussed onscreen (and why should it be, as there is no in-world reason to do so). I think there may be a very few men, because there are several scenes in a crowded lecture hall, which is filled with seated women and with seated mannequins dressed in female clothing. The mannequins are outnumbered by the women perhaps one hundred to one. The only reason I can think of for having them there is if there are men in those seats, who have been visually replaced by mannequins so that they are demarcated only by their own absence. Which, just, bless.
** Literally twenty minutes after making this entry I found out I have clothes moths. The lesson here is NEVER GIVE ANY GROUND.
You can comment here or at the Dreamwidth crosspost. There are comments over there.
|Monday, December 22nd, 2014|
|the perils of antiques
Distressed selkie assisted near Newton-le-Willows.
"I just thought it was my grandmother's old seal coat," the confused citizen typed with her nose. "I guess it was, but not the way I pictured it." Authorities have helped her contact cousins in a rookery off Skye.
With adorable pictures!seriously if there is another plausible explanation I would like to hear about it, 'we think it walked fifty miles and came out of the brook', pull the other one, it has got folksongs on it
You can comment here or at the Dreamwidth crosspost. There are comments over there.
|Friday, December 19th, 2014|
Ugh, I don't mean not to have been writing here, but my brain keeps on either not coming up with anything to say, or else coming up with things which are long thinky essays that I would like to write but simply do not have the mental space for at this point in time. I will I am sure get to some of them eventually, but in the meantime, well.
I did have an experience regarding one of the usual dinners I make the other day, which caused me to remember that it's not a dinner I've seen many other households do, and so I thought I'd mention it.
For many years of living with Thrud, one of our default dinners was best describable as antipasto, and it's a really good dinner for a day one has been shopping. You get a loaf of bread, baguette or pain batarde or something of that sort, from the grocery store bakery department, and you get the best tomato you can possibly find in the store, organic if you can swing it; also fresh basil; also the kind of mozzarella that is high-quality enough to come in salt water, but not the ludicrously expensive kind. And you can get a jar of green olives, or of black olives, or of green olives stuffed with garlic, depending on what people like, and a jar of marinated artichokes, and maybe a jar of sun-dried tomato spread, or you can take these jars out of the fridge if you do this frequently enough to have them there. Then you wash the tomato and basil and put everything on plates with serving implements, and everyone takes what they like, in the combinations that they want it, and ninety-five percent of the work was in the shopping, and it is a delicious dinner, good enough for company and reasonably healthy. You can even make other people cut their own tomato and basil. This is of course also especially useful if you need to cause dinner for an unpredictable number of people two minutes after walking in the door, which is a thing that happens around Thrud.
So I was grocery shopping recently at the time of day where when you get home the last thing you want is to make dinner, you just want it to magically appear from the heavens, preferably within thirty seconds after you sit down, and consequently I was shopping for antipasto. But it is the dead of winter, and they did not have any fresh basil. Which is fair. All right, I thought, we just won't have fresh basil this time. Then they didn't have any reasonable mozzarella, i.e. anything other than shredded, which while all very well in its own way is not really mozzarella and does not work for this. And I despaired a little, because I did not want to think of another dinner on no notice at all standing in the grocery store.
Then it occurred to me that most major European cuisines have appetizer-y courses or light meals centered around bread, and there is no reason it has to be, specifically, antipasto. So I bought a jar of hearts of palm, and some of that Portuguese farmer's cheese that is exactly halfway between mozzarella and ricotta in taste and behavior, and some sliced linguica, and a hummus mixed with tapenade, and it was just as good. I could have gotten a jar of white asparagus, and a curdier farmer's cheese, and quince paste, in a vaguely Spanish direction; or a Brie and the fancy European butter and some bitter chocolate and some anchovy paste, in a French one; or even, I suppose, black bread and mustard and sauerkraut and some pickled mushrooms, if I'd been the only person in my house eating it, and called it vaguely German.
This may or may not mean that we have this dinner more often. But it is certainly a useful revelation given the vagaries of season and grocery store.You can comment here or at the Dreamwidth crosspost. There are comments over there.
|Tuesday, November 25th, 2014|
|Thursday, November 20th, 2014|