David Stevens

Posts Tagged ‘science fiction’

Stuff I am doing or more accurately, stuff I did

In Uncategorized on May 22, 2017 at 6:35 pm

Watched: The Dressmaker – how had I not seen it before? It was compulsory viewing for all Australians, but I must have been on shrimp-tossing duties that day. It made me want Kate Winslet to love me, the way she automatically and effortlessly fell in love with Liam Hemsworth. A bonus was that I have now collected all three Hemsworth’s, and one was by accident, I did not know that Stubbs in Westworld was Luke Hemsworth. But I have to be honest, the only Hemsworth performance I am concerned about is Thor: Ragnarok, because, fair dinkum, Taika Waititi meets Marvel is something to look forward to, and why didn’t I do better in life, why didn’t I do that – sorry. It is odd, I bet the people who watched and loved The Dressmaker back home were not the sort of people who normally watch cartoons, an by jingo, weren’t there a lot of cartoon characters in that film. Barry Otto was probably not born a cartoon character, but he has certainly evolved into one, and well done to him. Plus the film gave the extra survivalist knowledge of the relative virtues of diving into a silo of wheat, versus diving into a silo of sorghum. I did not know that fact, but I will not spoil it for you. But even the guy from House Husbands apparently knew. I still have no idea what a 41 year old and a 27 year old were doing going to school together, and Liam Hemsworth’s character must have been two when the defining incident of the film occurred, yet he was able to remember the activity in the playground vividly. Oh well, suspension of disbelief, and Judy Davis was bloody fantastic, yes she was.

Read: The Nightmare Stacks by Charles Stross, (well, that’s as good a link as any) and I have been tricked, but I knew it. Far out, I am an easy target. Years of watching the Paranormal Romance shelves spread and spread and spread in Galaxy Bookshop in Sydney, and complaining loudly about it (oh, look at that, there’s paranormal romance everywhere, its reproducing paranormally, oh, I’m hilarious), and here I am reading the stuff. BECAUSE IT IS. I mean, its not just that, but Alex and the Elf Princess, it sucked me in just like certain women of my vintage get sucked in by Mills and Boon, because, he is a nerd with no saving graces and no social skills, but because of inherent strength that only the exotic Elf Princess can see, he gets the girl anyway. And Tor says “Stross is clever in representing Alex’s helpless, under-socialized terror of women without giving the audience the sense that Alex is in the right about his weirdness”, and I say, fuck off Tor, that’s me, and just about every nerdy bloke I knew, knowing someone special had to be out there who would see the good inside underneath the hopelessly unsocialised exterior (hello Mrs Stevens – not you, Mum, the other one). And so why does it still warm my heart, why do I still need the nerdy guy to get the impossible girl – you know why, the same reason you have nightmares that you have to go back and sit that final maths exam again, because every single achievement since high school is a dream, you IMPOSTOR … sorry. I also like the shooting bits and the dragon bits and other bits. And this is why I do not do book reviews. (I like that there is a character who is a vicar, very generous and indeed diverse of the author, but I do not believe the bit at all where he does not pray because he does not want God to know what he is doing.)

Drunk: Hoegaarden Grand Cru: a lov – er – ly drop. Plus, what they say, at the link there.  Lov-er-ly. Available exclusively in Belgium, but the occasional bottle finds its way into the Netherlands … and into my heart.

Writing: Yes I am. And bad things are about to happen to Grandma. Meanwhile, while I am working on that, have a look here.

Well played, straight bat and a fine century

In Uncategorized on May 22, 2017 at 5:22 am

Aurealis, a much loved and very entertaining science fiction and fantasy magazine that also happens to be Australian*, has released its 100th edition. In the world of genre periodicals, this is an excellent achievement. Congratulations to all involved, well played!

 

*And just happened once upon a time, way back in edition #68, to include my sf-horror story ‘Avoiding Gagarin’. 

Attack of the Spider Woman

In Uncategorized on May 13, 2017 at 12:59 pm

I awoke the other morning from uneasy dreams to find that, lying in my bed, I had been transformed into a giant insect. In the unearthly morning light, the remnants of a purple mist could be seen, passing through walls and windows.  Not again.

There was nothing for it.  Lying on my hard, as it were armour plated, back, I knew I had to wait it out.  What about sleeping a little longer and forgetting all this nonsense, I thought, the klaxon lighted sky making me feel melancholy.

But then I thought some more.  Realising no one else was about (for I share my fortified compound with no-one), I dangled first one leg, then the next, then another, from the bed, until my centre of gravity shifted and I tumbled to the floor.  I shook my segments, set my bearings with my multi-faceted eyes, and set off to explore the room.  Before I knew it, I was walking up the wall, and on the ceiling.  I felt my wings begin to quiver, and was almost overcome by a desire to set sail across the air.

I explored my home as though a stranger, which I suppose I was.  I knew I should not be doing this.  The accepted etiquette is to simply wait until one is one’s self again.  We are in possession of our faculties.  We know better.  As I set off, I felt naughty, then more than that.  I felt great.

 

I opened the door (yes, I was a giant insect and did not have opposable thumbs, however I retained a human brain and it was my door after all), and nearly fainted with the overload of my senses, with all the signals of death and decay.  A whole universe of half broken down organisms to be clambered through and consumed.

Shaking a little, I danced with joy.  Liberation.  A secret indulgence.  How often does one get to experience the pleasures of another creature, to live in the body of another?  Even if it was the body of a giant cockroach.

Then I noticed the stillness.  Something was wrong.  From a corner of the garden, it ran at me.

Before I knew what I was doing, I realised that I too was running as fast as my six legs could take me.  Purely from instinct, I jinked and changed direction.  One of my compound lenses revealed what was in pursuit.  A giant spider was coming at me at terrifying speed.  This was outrageous.  It was nothing natural.  A creature of that size could only be another person, transformed for the moment by this morning’s toxic discharge.  I tried to gather who it must be.  It could only be the woman from across the road.  She always seemed a little wrong headed.  She knew she was supposed to stay in her own place.  I cursed myself for my stupidity,  no matter how high my walls, they were no match for a giant arachnid.

I turned again, having the advantage of knowledge of the layout of my fortified compound.  Fool.  I was running where she was driving me.  Just when I thought I was about to reach the safety of the house, I stopped.  The more I struggled, the more I was stopped.  Web!

I turned and looked at her.  There was something disturbingly Freudian about the way she was manically manipulating her pincers.  I tried to reason with her, but only a whole lot of roach gibberish came out.  Though afraid, my anger dropped away: she was only doing the same as me, experiencing the alien.

Then it stopped.  The rigidity of the armour passed away, and there I was, flesh bodied and human again.  The same for the woman, although she continued to run oddly for a few steps after her body had returned.  At least she had the courtesy to help unwrap the web from me.  It was only afterwards that I reflected how odd it was to be standing there naked in that situation.

Lost in Venus

In Uncategorized on February 18, 2017 at 11:57 am

Sniff of chlorophyl

whiff of ether

Look down

fronds part and unfurl

cupping

leafy embrace

cool breeze

tugs you in

sinking the green

moss is velvet

plant yourself

lean in and

skin unfurls to mask you

the perfect kiss

inside out

you are draped

try to make sense

of distant calls

lose yourself in

the wind blowing

through her branches

are you dead

or are you

loving the alien?

***

 

lost on venus

lost on mars

press up against

foreign atmosphere

do you lose yourself

if you love the alien?

 

Old school anime

In Uncategorized on February 13, 2017 at 10:18 pm

MARINE BOY

You need your gadgets boy,

and how cool they are:

rocket propeller shoes

electric boomerang

oxy gum.

But you will never fit in.

Everything underwater will always be blurry before your eyes

obscuring the truth

that the mermaid is never taking you home to meet her parents.

You are a fish out of water, boy

Always just one stick of gum away from death.

That’s no way to live.

Presumption

In Uncategorized on January 9, 2017 at 2:24 pm

My good friend Stephen suffered a great loss recently, and there is little I can do for him, other than let him know that I am thinking of him. It is not my place to share that loss. I have written a bit here about my dear friend, and how much he shapes what is inside my head, to put some meat on those bones, to show how and that I am indeed thinking of him.

My thoughts of Stephen lead me many places. He was one of the first and greatest influences on me in many ways, who came from outside my family. He came from a family that read. I read, randomly and voraciously, but my lack of direction is probably clear from the fact that any list of my all time favourite fiction would still include the 70s and 80s bestsellers I was devouring at that time. Senior English class, he is speaking with Mr Coombes about how nothing of interest was happening at that moment that was of great interest to them at the time, referring to some writers, and I pipe up with something like “Len Deighton’s pretty good”. I was specifically thinking about SS-GB – I mean for goodness sake, a book about Nazi’s ruling England. Imagination, good plotting and pacing, interesting ideas. Nazis. Mr C, who I liked very much, paused, thought and said, “But we’re talking about literature”. I can still remember my brain clunking into gear, I still remember being a little embarrassed and becoming defensive. Of course I read literature. That’s what they taught at school, and I was good at it, top of my class, able to tell lies with the best of them about an author’s purpose and the symbols they littered their books with. But literature did not come in the yellow-jacketed Gollancz volumes at Chester Hill library, so how could I distinguish it from other books, other than if it was on my school curriculum?

His family was Labor and union, and of course we could bond over that. He followed Wests where I followed Canterbury, but it was all working class rugby league. Books, politics, music (Devo!), WW2, but lets stick to books – he introduced me to Kafka and Orwell and Huxley, and we discovered we both liked Philip K Dick. I still have a favourite memory of us both aged 17, our last ever high school exam finished (German), our futures in front of us, the great feeling of relied the HSC was over, and we are sitting on a gutter at Sefton, outside the milk bar, me eating a steak sandwich with chips (because I liked it better and because it was fancier than a hamburger), I don’t know what he is eating (a Danish salami and cheese sandwich perhaps) but I can pretty well guarantee he is drinking a can of creaming soda, talking about the things we were going to write together (including the great radio politico-comedy-tragedy, “Hercules Fontopolos and Socrates Dassaklis in The Great Teenage Proletariat Revolution”), before taking our coins into the why was it there, how did it survive all those years? second hand bookshop at Sefton Railway station to scab around for sf books and other like stuff. (1)

We did write. We had a weekly radio show at university. We wrote comedy sketches together, and sold some to Doug Mulray at 2MMM-FM, and this led to a comedy sketch show staged at that pub in Glebe where they had comedy sketch shows (Harold Park!, he belatedly remembers), and it played every Thursday for a month, with proper actors. And we definitely weren’t cool. (2) (I won’t mention the bad films we made on weekends with our friend The Great Auteur, Rat.) And then life happened, the Soviet Union surprised us by collapsing, two women surprised us by agreeing to marry us, family surprised us by happening, careers replaced university, and time disappeared.

It is fun to remember, and there is no time for the-could-have-beens etc, I am very happy with the what-did’s, the children and careers and experiences. I want to let Stephen know that I think of him all the time, that he influenced the course of my life and the course of my thoughts. Like this. Stephen introduced me to Kafka and Orwell and Aldous Huxley, as I said.

More recently, Stephen introduced me to Adam Roberts, and that’s pretty good company to be in, so Adam Roberts should be happy (you will start to notice why the heading above is ‘Presumption’). (And the company is larger, because part of our friendship is about discovering new (to us) stuff and introducing it to each other – what, other people have friendships like that too? I thought it was just us … 😦  – but we don’t need to worry about Robert Sheckley and Neal Stephenson and Talking Heads and Tolkien and Marx and Eno and punk and Aldiss and Charles Fort and Harlan Ellison and all those other characters just now.) So I read some of the AR (3) back catalogue, and read his new stuff as it comes out, and enjoy it. I don’t write reviews or blog about it because unlike AR I don’t have the training, skills or language to do it justice. Eg, I could not write a review like this of AR’s ‘The Thing Itself’, by Kevin Powers.(4) But in idle moments, one of the many things I sometimes do which can be traced back to my friend Stephen’s influence, is read about the author’s we share, which led me to look at ARs webpage.

So here is me thinking about chatting with my mate Stephen. Here is the link to the bit I am going to focus on here. It is about failure, and it is useful to read, and to remember that ultimately, everybody is a failure. Failure is the sort of thing we’d like to chat about. (6) And AR acknowledges that there are levels to this success/failure thing, and the whole piece is littered with appropriate caveats that I don’t cavil with at all. It is just that I realised that I sort of simultaneously did and did not understand the post, which is exactly what I would discuss with my friend Stephen next time we sat down to lunch at the food court at Market City in Sydney, if only I wasn’t so far away.

The first time I read it, I thought I was reading of the failure of The Adam Roberts’ Project, though AR would not have called it that, I am sure. This followed the apparent lack of success in the SF world of his 16th novel, The Thing Itself, a work into which he had poured hear, soul, guts, craft. And so instead of reading it properly, I thought what TARP might look like. PKD is the sf writer I place above all others (7) – what was The PKD Project? Writing way too much – trying to pay the bills – trying as hard as hell to be accepted by the literary mainstream, and failing – marrying a bit too often – taking too many drugs and hanging out with the wrong people and living a strange and probably miserable life? Ultimately, I suppose, thinking the thoughts and writing the works. Probably not a good example. In his lifetime, he won one Hugo award, one John W Campbell award, had one movie deal go through. Someone might aspire to have a body of work like Dick’s, but I don’t know if anyone would want to be him or live like him. (8)

What was The Brian Aldiss Project? To make a living from being a full-time writer. But all the other things he did: establishing societies, supporting magazines, his involvement in international SF, producing anthologies, producing criticism, etc. (9) All things that I am sure AR does. But I don’t think Aldiss spoke of it in terms of failure. Now, if AR was to join us at Market City – I like the Vietnamese lamb chops, the chicken katsu-don is not as good as it used to be, we suspect they are just using some frozen supermarket chicken schnitzel –  well, hmm. I think we’d have trouble with small talk for a start, he is a stranger after all. But we’d get around to giving him useful tips about his Project. I mean, no one person can start a huge cultural movement, not on their own – I’m thinking of things like New Wave Science Fiction, or, say, the Enlightenment.  (9b) What School do you belong to? Who are similar writers with similar aims with whom you can band together? Have you thought of starting your own magazine? Editing anthologies? Writing something like Trillion Year Spree? Oh, we would be full of the most useful tips. Adam, you should be like Michael Moorcock with New Worlds. Adam, you have to fully commit – give up The Day Job and live the life science fictional. Hey Adam, we’ve both done project managing (sounds better than we’ve both managed projects) – what are your goals, where are your time lines, where’s the management buy in? How do you define deliverability? (10)

Or maybe we’d go therapeutic on his arse. Especially as on re-reading the post, I saw that I had not understood it, that it was about not having made it, not having entered the inner-circle of science fiction – the big awards, big sales, big status. Smoking my metaphorical pipe – now Adam, have you read CS Lewis on the Inner Ring? (11) No matter how far you penetrate, there is always a more inner ring, a deeper circle. (12) We’d point out, but you are an insider. You are in Strange Horizons. And the good reviews outside SF, PKD and others craved those. You’re in The Guardian. But yeah, we know what you mean. There is always more, always further, and you don’t have to suffer from Impostor Syndrome (13) to feel you don’t belong. People with delusions of grandeur don’t declare they haven’t made it. We’d ask, who has made it, give us some examples. And then we’d pour buckets of shit on each example. Them? Who’d want to be them? They write crap.

And you know what? AR wouldn’t have to be there. Other people are Monday morning coaches – well, we can comment on the football, and politicians as well, but better than that, we don’t need any sf writer, hell, any writer, bugger that, any artist, to be there to work out how they can improve their writing/art/lives/body of work/marketing/image whatever. We give that advice out free all the time. Though of course, nobody listens.

This is not a piss take. This is not envy. This is not, oh, first world problems. I read the AR post and it stayed with me for days. And I have been thinking about my friend and his loss since it occurred. And I thought of the conversations we used to have when we were young, and the fewer conversations we have now. And how we would talk about this. And the more important conversations we should have, and don’t, and that’s just the way it is. Stephen wrote a sketch once, about disasters and reporters asking the family of victims, “how do you feel?”, and the responses included something like “how the fuck do you think I feel, fuckwit?”. So I can’t keep just asking how he is, and I have no profound words so that he feels better. We feel bad because we should feel bad, it is entirely appropriate. But I can write something down to show I am thinking of him, and how grateful I am for all the music and writing and comedy and fun he introduced to me, and how he even shapes what I think about, the things that fill the ongoing conversation inside my head. (14)

 

(1) Not that time, but a while later, I can remember buying Black Easter and Day after Judgement by James Blish at a smelly 2nd hand place in Sydney at Stephen’s urging. I also picked up Death Hunter by Ian Watson, another one of those writers we introduced to each other. And because of Stephen I just spent time re-reading Watson’s account of working with/for Kubrick here (and I wonder why he and Brian Aldiss were/are enemies). And as I am about to write something about Adam Roberts, I think of the connection between Watson’s Miracle Visitors and Roberts’ Yellow Blue Tibia. And in all that I think of how I used to greet anyone introduced to me as Todd with “ah, from the German for death”, and how I used to say Ya liublu peva to Russian girls.

(2) I just read Jonathan Lethem describing how he and his soon to be junkie mate saw Tim Burton’s Batman after taking mushrooms. (The Disappointment Artist, p.6.) Lord, the most Stephen and I ever took together at that time was a pint of Guinness, practising for our trip to Ireland. We saw Batman, and the only thing weird we did was walk home from Parramatta (no, autocorrect, I did not mean Taramasalata) afterwards instead of catching the train, talking about the film and our upcoming trip to Europe.  We moved on to include various lagers, ales and so on as we grew older.

(3) Speaking of presumption! And my original blog heading was something like ‘How presumptuous of me! The (not-the-Alan-Parsons) Project’. Because I thought that sounded presumptuous. And Adam Roberts and Alan Parsons start and end with the same letters, and have the same number of letters (how relieved was I when I checked and confirmed Parsons does not have a double ‘l’ in his Alan!). And then, just before publishing this blog post, I discovered The Adam Roberts Project. So I can just fuck off.

(4) in fact, reading the review, which is very good and illuminating, I feel stupid and under-educated and not very well read at all. Which is probably accurate, but I don’t like feeling that way, so I’m going to run off and read a detective novel. How very Bertrand Russell of me! (5)

(5) I’m not stupid. I saw Arrival. I understood bits of it. And I didn’t just go for Amy Adams. Honest!

(6) Fortunately in areas of our greatest interest, we are both happy failures, or else one of us would have to write one of those I hate my fucking famous friend things. This is not one of those. (I really like the one in Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, where she just dumps her famous friend, who kept calling to brag.)

(7) acknowledging all that Thomas Disch included in his introduction to  volume 5 of Dick’s collected short stories: “What more can we ask of art? Well, the answer is obvious: polish, execution, economy of means, and other esthetic niceties”. But loyalty, a dog of a virtue, is of immense importance to me, and Dick claimed me early, when I yearned for novelty, ideas, strangeness, and lots of it. As Disch also said, “Reading a story by Dick… (is)  like becoming involved in a conversation”, conversations I could have with few people around me apart from Stephen.

(8) Am I being too first world? Is PKD’s life aspirational, with his suicidal tendencies and drug use and early death and so on, to someone living in a hell hole? I confess to my bourgeois tendencies.

(9) All the stuff he talks about in Bury My Heart at W. H. Smith’s: A Writing Life.

(9b) Or this.

(10) Do not suppose for a moment that we would allow facts, including especially known facts, to get in the way of giving this advice. It could include items such as, have you ever thought of publishing 16 sf novels? Also, how do you define deliverability?

(11) And this would be me, not Stephen, there is no way that he is going to read or quote CS Lewis, except maybe that Young Ones episode where Vivyan smashes through the back of the wardrobe and meets the Ice Queen, and instead of wanting Turkish Delight, asks for a kebab. I remember Stephen pissing himself laughing trying to describe Vivyan’s body searching for his head after it was knocked off by a train, and Vivyan even needs to insult his own body.

(12) My memory of that was that it was simply better not to bother, recalling the certificate Stephen gave me many, many years ago for my birthday, bestowing me “UN Observer status on life”. Re-reading Lewis right now, I see it is more on the inevitability of such rings and circles, but that they are ultimately unsatisfying and like most things, can lead to great evil through insinuation and seduction. (see loyalty at (7) above) And reading the end of that speech, I think of my dear friend again: “And if in your spare time you consort simply with the people you like, you will again find that you have come unawares to a real inside: that you are indeed snug and safe at the centre of something which, seen from without, would look exactly like an Inner Ring. But the difference is that the secrecy is accidental, and its exclusiveness a by-product, and no one was led thither by the lure of the esoteric: for it is only four or five people who like one another meeting to do things that they like. This is friendship. Aristotle placed it among the virtues.”

(13) We do, we do!

(14) Dear Mr Roberts, I enjoyed The Thing Itself, the writing, the ideas, how it made me think while I was reading, how some parts genuinely scared me, how it made me think and feel about the prospects of such an experiment being carried out. It is a good book. I was sad to read “2016: The story so far”. It is presumptuous of me to think I could have words in response. However, I don’t think that you should let your crisis of confidence lead you to write what you might think of as lesser works, or less ambitious books. You are right not to focus on “next year will be better”. No amount of so-called positive thinking will achieve that. What is important is the body of work. You have no control over how it is received. You do have control over what you produce. Aim high. Not that you want to show them all, but given your reference to Randian responses, I prefer “well then, look at this one! And this one! And my next one…”, to “the fools don’t understand/appreciate/love me enough” (which isn’t what you are saying, I know). Isn’t the pleasure in producing this good thing you wanted to make? Life is short, so should not that be the goal? Be more ambitious (I say selfishly, for my own reading pleasure).

Grappling with 2017

In Uncategorized on January 8, 2017 at 11:08 am

The coming soon is coming sooner. Long awaited, the second volume of the Grapple Annual is, I hear, coming this way. If not just around the corner, then surely it is just down the street and couple of blocks to the left. Some rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Canberra to be born. Should we be bewaring the ides of March? Or April? Or even February? Dunno. But I hear that it is coming.

Sergeant Burns is a character that/who has been living inside my head for a long time. He had a little peek out of my third eye hole a few years ago, courtesy of my self-trephination (there are some who say the pineal gland is not meant to see the light of day. Who says it doesn’t already? I just wanted to let some air in. Are these the same few who would restrict surgery for the elite, and deny it to the masses? I speak of the performance thereof. But now is not the time to discuss Amateur surgery. I capitalise Amateur in the spirit of the Olympics. But I digress. And where would the fun be in life if we didn’t?), in his initial public appearance a few years ago in the first Grapple Annual, which published his Penultimate Report. And now he wakes me from my sleep, demanding I record his final adventures. Another character, little harmless (I think there is a spelling mistake there somewhere) MacGuffin, spends a few moments in the daylight in the second Grapple, before being replaced in his cupboard, or setting off to interstellar darkness, or both, or perhaps I just can’t remember which.

The Golden Age of Science Fiction, celibating or is that celebrating Robert Heinlein’s birthday as I colonise July in the Grapple Annual. Coming soon-ish.

The Grapple Annual No. 2

FEATURING:

Braille by Louis Klee (4 January)
Hydra by Emma Marie Jones (11 January)
– 28 January by Soraya Morayef (28 January)
– Loss by Alice Bishop (7 February)
– Racey Friends – looking by Paden Hunter (12 February)
– Nightdriving by Alexander Bennetts (28 February)
– Fairy Goddaughter by Sarah Pritchard (6 March)
– Beware the Ides of March! by Sam Brien (15 March)
 The Connected World by David C Mahler (21 March)
– Visiting Richard Yates by Elizabeth Caplice (25 March)
– March Camping, 1990s by Christopher Evans (26 March)
– Dreamcast Monolith with Undergrowth by Alice Carroll (31 March)
– Meander, Triste and Awe by Brett Canét-Gibson (14th April)
– Divine Vinyl by Owen Heitmann (16 April)
 From JG Ballard, July 1966 (behind Foot Locker, August 2013) by Andrew Galan (19 April)
– Today I Feel Like Remembering by Anna Jacobson (22 April)
 Thoughts on art and the ways it reaches you by Sandra Hajda (29 April)
– May, The Opening by Ben Walter (1 May)
– Mahala by Fikret Pajalic (5 May)
– The Drunk and the Flower Man by Nathan Fioritti (11 May)
– What If? by Miranda Cashin (15 May)
– The River Fisher’s Daughter by Kirk Marshall (25 May)
– Baby Emma by Emma Makepeace (1 June)
– All these places have their moments by Madeline Karurtz (12 June)
– After Life by Lauren Briggs (23 June)
The Golden Age of Science Fiction by David Stevens (7 July)
– The 8th July in History by Safdar Ahmed (8 July)
– Positive Space by Lynley Eavis (21 July)
– The End of Days by Jack Martinez (1 August)
– When They Were Young by Shuang West (13 August)
– Audley by Humyara Mahbub (14 August)
– The Gurindji People by Mandy Ord (16 August)
– Go Troppo by Isabelle Li (17 September)
– Campo de’ Fiori by Ashley Capes (22 September)
 Rule Ten by Gregory Wolos (28 September)
– Four Confessions That I’ve Been Meaning to Confess Since That Evening When We Made Guacamole and I Compared All Three Avocados to my Womb, Which Might’ve Made You Uncomfortable but I Couldn’t Tell for Sure by Kayla Pongrac (29 September)
– Pilot Episode, October 2nd by Lauren Paredes (2 October)
– I Desire; I Have Our Home by Emma Rose Smith (2 November)
– Great Emu War by Eleri Mai Harris (8 November)
– Lucia by Lucy Hunter (13 December)
– An ordinary domestic pattern was disclosed by Monica Carroll (17 December)
– Time Zones by Jake Lawrence (30 December)

Editor: Duncan Felton

Designer and visual art editor: Finbah Neill

Editorial Assistant: Rachael Nielsen

Readers: Lucy Nelson, Frazer Brown and  Kara Griffin-Warwicke

 

Kaleidotrope

In Uncategorized on January 2, 2017 at 10:12 am

The new edition of Kaleidotrope is live and ready for your reading pleasure. Check out the contents below – in the words of various people, including that little kid, in O Brother Where art thou?, its bona fide.

Fiction
“The Song of the Whistling Crab” by Michael McGlade
“One Thousand Paper Cranes” by Julie C. Day
“The Big Reveal” by David Stevens
“Scrapie’s Trap” by Lisa Bergin
“The Last Seven Eternities of Dr. Julian Slade, PhD” by Joshua Kamin

Poetry
“Ship of Jinn” by Holly Lyn Walrath
“From the Dictionary of Nonexistent Words, A Sampler” by Kathrin Köhler
“The Last Word” by Gwynne Garfinkle

Artwork

Cesar Valtierra
10 years and they are still going strong, have to be doing something right! (A future in advertising awaits me not.)

When your dreams are shaky, think of Mr Cranky

In Uncategorized on November 7, 2016 at 8:16 pm

Mr Cranky, a man who does not dream. Or who dreams in weight and movement, instead of images and memory. Or …

Mr Cranky has been with me a very long time, and has finally oozed out of my pores to see the light of day, published in Sci.Phi Journal, the magazine of science fiction and philosophy.

I do miss his original title, though: “Mr Cranky and his Amazing, Performing, Evolutionary Dogs”, despite the fact that it was completely misleading. Though there are dogs. Or a dog – Mr Lumpy. Perhaps he dreams. Woof.

Hutchinson’s Europe

In Uncategorized on August 3, 2016 at 2:50 am

I have been lucky to find some gold nuggets amongst the dross recently. It is amongst my favourite things, to settle into a book, and to have the feeling grow, yeah, this is one of those, I like it, I really like it … The smile widens, time passes, and I throw up a silent thanks, and debate whether I pass the book onto one of my mates to share, or just pass on the name of title, from fear the book may never be returned (and yes, my fears are based on the number of volumes of “borrowed” books on my own shelves).

I really, really enjoyed Dave Hutchinson’s ‘Europe in Autumn’. Perhaps that is not enough for a review, or enough to convince you. Let’s take an oblique step back. I am currently reading, and thoroughly enjoying, ‘Germany: Memories of a Nation’ by Neil MacGregor. I have just read his description of the Holy Roman Empire, of the patchwork of principalities and duchies and independent cities collected under one Emperor, and how it worked and hobbled forward in its awkward way for a millenium. I live far away from Europe. In NSW, we mostly think of ourselves as Australians (with whatever other religious/ethnic/sporting identities we share with that), citizens of a large (in terms of geographical size) nation state. In other parts of Australia though, identity is more of a mixed bag. I leave aside the most obvious, that of our original people, the Aborigines and Torres Straits Islanders. Just based on our administrative divisions from colonial times, people who live in at least some of the other states identify as Queenslanders, or Western Australians. During boom economic times, when its mining industry is pouring the wealth in, we hear calls by some Western Australians to secede from the Commonwealth of Australia. When the inevitable cyclical decline begins, those voices are quietened.

I find it difficult to understand the separateness that a lot of Queenslanders express. It is even more difficult for me to understand what Europe was after the fall of Rome, and before the rise of the nation state, other than in an intellectual fashion. I know when I teach legal history, it often appears difficult for young students to make that leap to a time before the emergence of parliamentary government, fixed borders, one source of legal authority, and so on. I need someone to help me with the imaginative leap to elsewhere and elsewhen.

One thing – and not the only or the main thing – that Hutchinson does very well, is to demonstrate that history does not have to be the way it is, and the future may not be the way we imagine. Child of my times that I am, we will never be living in the future until we have flying cars, and Elon Musk hasn’t done that yet. Hutchinson shows us a near future where technology continues to develop – there are some very interesting shiny things – but the world is fracturing, not developing into the One World Government of either HG Wells or conspiracy theorists: imagine Brexit on a scale where suburbs, not even suburbs, city blocks or even buildings – secede from a common union, where border walls go up in the oddest of places. Imagine if the disintegration of Yugoslavia knew no bounds. People are still people, spies are still spies, sewer engineers are still vital – it is not a world of cyphers, but of real people doing real jobs (in particular, cooking). Rather than green faced aliens in a world that is just ours but slightly relabelled and rejigged, we have real humans with real lives in a world that is ours gone sideways. Ahh goes my slow brain, this is how it might feel to be part of such a world, and my imagination expands (and I think I am being clever, but I suspect that is a gift from the writer, dragging me along). And then out of those cracks, from between those fractures, something strange and inriguing emerges, drifting out in hints and suspicions at first, until we are confronted with something bizarre that may have been playing with us all along. And then in ‘Europe at Midnight’ things grow odder still, beginning with the tale of a university in armed conflict with itself.

The title above is “Hutchinson’s Europe”, because with all of the world building that goes on here, I think that he deserves it – it is truly a most interesting creation. I loved all the bits: the world building, Les Coreurs des Bois, the major world disaster at first mentioned in passing, the spies, the exciting set pieces, our various heroes, and the impossibilities. Read both books, and save your pennies for ‘Europe in Winter’, whenever it might arrive (soon, please).

And you can read Mr Hutchinson’s views on Brexit here.