gullyfoyle

Somehow I'd never managed to read Lucius Shepard's Nebula-winning novella "R & R" (1986) until tonight. It performs not exactly a balancing, but instead a melding of science and fantasy, of surrealism and science fiction, of madness and clarity, of magic and whatever you want to call not-magic, but don't call it reality, the likes of which I'm not sure I've ever encountered before. Here was Shepard at the absolute top of his form, his writing at one moment stately and lush and measured as a hymn, then suddenly a punctuation of imagery as vivid and sharp as a needle to a nerve. It chronicles a few days in the life of an American soldier in a near-future war in Central America. On some levels -- the ones inside the protagonist, Mingolla (do I hear an echo of "Mandella" from The Forever War? -- apart from some of the technology, which includes berserker drugs, it could be any war, any time. But Shepard grounds the story in his expertly realized jungles, battlefields, towns and rivers of a war-riven Guatemala.

I find it incredible and saddening that, according to ISFDB, "R & R" has not appeared in an anthology since 1988, although its 80-page length may have worked against it in that regard. No matter. It was collected into The Best of Lucius Shepard in 2008, and the ebook of that is available for as little as $3.00. If you, like I, don't care for some of the stylistic excesses that appear in some of Shepard's stories, don't worry. The Best Of collection is easily worth it just for "R & R" alone. If I were a writer of stories, I'd consider myself lucky and blessed to write at least one during my life with the scope, depth, and emotional and visceral impact of "R & R."

I wasn't as scared as this picture makes me look, really. I enjoyed the quirky little Cryptozoology and Paranormal Museum in Littleton, NC. No link since their web site got hacked. The owner's currently having a hard time, so the place may not be around for much longer. Glad I finally got to see it. Now I'd really like to see the the big one in Maine.

The bush that produced this one beautiful rose behind our mailbox died, I thought, a couple of years ago. But this year it grew back enough to produce this single flower which caught my eye today. It's been rainy recently and we're at the peak of near-tropical, lush, Ballardian green fecundity. But it's this speck of red that stands out for me.

I know my brain chemistry's probably, let's say "eccentric," but I swear, in this picture I think he looks like Alan Tudyk.

Today, on the fifteenth anniversary of her death, here are the comments I wrote after I learned of it late in April, 2010. I miss her, and am glad she's not around to see the cesspool into which this country is swirling. I know times are hard. If you're having trouble coping, real trouble, don't hesitate to call (in the "United States") 988 Lifeline (https://988lifeline.org) or 1-800-273-8255, a service of the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration of the "United States" Department of Health and Human Services, assuming DOGE hasn't cut its funding and fired its employees. 

Dorothy Wright, 1962-2010

     My friend Dorothy died last week, apparently a suicide.  Born in Canada, a naturalized American who grew up in Pennsylvania, she’d lived for many years in London.  She originally moved there to pursue a PhD in biology or biochemistry.  She was close to completing it when she dropped it and took up a career in information technology.  She’d worked for nearly nine years for the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine.  She was my friend and more for over twenty-seven years, and she will always be a part of my life – a part of me – even though now she’s gone. 

     I met her in 1982 near the start of the fall semester at UNC-Chapel Hill, when she transferred there from Northwestern.  She showed up at a meeting of either the science fiction club or the astronomy club, wearing a Narnia button.  By the end of the semester we were dating, and soon I asked her to marry me.  We were engaged for about two years, but it didn’t last.  We broke up as a couple for good in the fall of 1985.  That was her decision.  Those two years and that awful sundering were more influential to the course of my life than anything else that happened in it up to the birth of my children.

     She was intense, vibrant, and interested in everything.  I loved science fiction and science, and so did she, but she also loved, and helped to introduce me to, theater, poetry, and classical music. Being with her and around her family – father from England and mother from New Zealand – made me feel more intensely alive and a part of the world than anything else:  more than leaving home, more than being at a large university, more than getting to know the many writers and artists and fellow fans that I began to meet around that time through my involvement with the SF community.

     It’s not possible in a few paragraphs to describe the intensity of that time or of her, or to summarize the many years of long-distance friendship that followed.  She wasn’t perfect.  She craved attention and longed to be part of a larger group, and was willing to sacrifice personal relationships to that longing.  But I don’t think she ever found a group that she could belong to for more than a few years before she either moved on or was, basically, asked to leave.  She could be jealous, envious, and paranoid, features not conducive to healthy group or personal dynamics.  That didn’t matter to me.  I loved her unconditionally.  I don’t know how long I could have held on if we’d stayed together.  Her intensity would have eventually, I’m sure, driven me away.  She held on until April 19.  I’m saddened beyond measure that my luminous, mercurial, exasperating friend is gone.  She helped me become me, and so will always be a part of me.  And I will always miss her.  A paradox.  Nothing could be more appropriate for Dorothy.

My Goodreads review of The Last Dangerous Visions. I'd give this an extra half star if possible just for Straczynski's lengthy essay on Ellison and the DV books. It's more enlightening about Ellison than the full-length biography from a few years ago. But half stars aren't possible here, and I can't bring myself to give the book 4 stars, so consider it 3.5 stars. Most of the stories simply aren't exceptional. Should you read it? If you're a serious SF reader and have read "Dangerous Visions" and "Again, Dangerous Visions," then yes, of course you should read it, if only because of the historical significance of the book. But this isn't an outstanding anthology. Too many duds, too many stories that are past their prime and out of their time and that have become irrelevant or embarrassing. Perhaps Straczynski should have split the project into two volumes: one with some of the older stories that Ellison bought, giving us a time capsule look at supposedly dangerous SF from 1973 to around 2000, and another volume of newer material from 2000 onwards. One of Straczynski's purchases, the James S. A. Corey story, is one of the better ones in the book, and the other more recent stories by Doctorow, Tchaikovsky, and Hartenbaum (their first publication) have some strengths. It would have been interesting to see more stories by other younger writers.

Recorded from the deck. Fish crows (Corvus ossifragus) doing their thing. There's a lot of this in the afternoon this time of the year. We're also coming off a week or two of The Honkening, when the Canada geese fight it out for the best nesting spots alongside the lake.

A work colleague who lives near Boston has for many years run Scriptor Press New England and published The Cenacle, a quarterly of prose, poetry, photography, and opinion. Please check it out. Have any of you heard of it, or even possibly have contributed to it? Looking at you, sovay