Acaba la setmana amb el divendres i el programa 452 d’El crepuscle encén estels · IB3 Ràdio, 21:00 · en el qual ens visita el mag GERMÁN RÉHERMANN, especialista en hipnosi. La hipnosi és un estat mental constituït per un grup d’actituds generades a través d’un procediment conegut com inducció hipnòtica. La primera meitat del segle XIX va esser quan l’escocès James Braid encunyà aquest terme i quan escriptors com Edgar Allan Poe qüestionaren el caràcter omnicomprensiu del mètode científic. Per exemple, Julio Cortázar, traductor al castellà de La veritat del cas del senyor Valdemar (1845), considerava aquest relat com un precedent de la ciència-ficció, que inclou l’estat hipnòtic del protagonista dins un discurs racional i científic, però acaba amb un final propi de literatura fantàstica. Si voleu aprofundir en la relació entre hipnosi i ciència a l’obra de Poe és ben recomanable l’article de Joan Ferrús a la revista electrònica …452º F, que fa referència –amb un grau més– a Fahrenheit 451, la novel·la de Ray Bradbury i de la pel·lícula de François Truffaut

www.452f.com/issue1/category/languages/catala/

…452, precisament, com Crepuscles comptam fins el dia d’avui.

· IB3 ràdio en directe ·

http://streaming01.ib3radio.com:8000/ib3radio.mp3

How adorable is this? From the Sweethearts Cafe & Bakery comes this little edible Christmas Tree Candy Cake, their contribution to the grid-wide Peace on Earth hunt. Simple but rich and tasty in its design, this decorative tree will (literally) light up any place you put it, inside or outside, and of course it comes to you on a silver platter complete with two little cakes. Clicking the tree brings up a menu which allows you to choose between star candy, a candy bulb, a tasty candy cane and an adorable mini present – all of which you can rez for further decoration or wear for those sweet cravings of the season:)

——

Photography by Rhonda Pennell (except for the official logo). To learn more about the Peace on Earth hunt, visit its blog at http://peaceonearthhunt.wordpress.com/

So it is that the time

Has come for me to be

A Dad

I have been a father, stepfather, uncle, etc

Yet now I am faced with the difficulties of being

Dad

Never have I known such fear

Staring down the barrel of a nine-millimeter

Pistol knowing death as imminent

Was easy

Holding a Rattlesnake

Without a hook knowing

Any moment could be

The last was a breeze

Yet now I see those eyes

As if looking into a mirror

Questioning me

For the answers

To love, life, & happiness

I can only cringe away like a

Beaten puppy who

Knows nothing except

That I would do anything to please

DB Designs has a very sweet hunt gift for all the POE Hunters.

A Zen Ball Fountain.

If you search for a nice accessoire for your garden or living room you should make your way to the DB Designs Mainstore where Danni Bekkers provides a very sweet fontain for all hunters of the Peace on Earth Hunt. This small fontain fits in every location. The fontain itself comes out of the top of the ball and runs down to the round “plate” like bottom where you can find a nice plant and a sweet little flower that makes this item to a great accessoire for your home.

More about the great hunt prizes you can found on the Peace on Earth blog site or you can simply click…here…;-)

Good luck for all hunters:-)..have fun by hunting the great items of the Peace on Earth Hunt (POE) from the 1st of december 2009 to the 2nd of january2010

Wow.  Amazing.  Awesome.  Gotta have it.  Don’t miss this.  These are the words and phrases that came to my mind as I donned the beautiful Let it Snow necklace and earrings set.  To top it off, it’s a FREE GIFT from Rhiamon’s Realm in the Peace On Earth Hunt.

My picture doesn’t do it justice and can’t!  There’s a special surprise with this set…it’s actually animated as if it were really snowing!  You just have to see it to believe how cute it is.  Even if you’re not a fan of winter, you’ll love these delicate snowflakes falling softly on this set.

Don’t miss the Peace On Earth hunt and look for this awesome gift only at Rhiamon’s Realm!

Heads Up Hunters! Dubrovna’s POE Gift 2009! Perfect for Christmas Evening
Today I am allwed to show you the great Peace on Earth Hunt prize of Dubrovna’s Fashion!A sweet dress perfect for the evening of christmas. The colors green , white and black give the dress an feeling of standing in front of the christmas tree and singing songs with your family.

If you look  alittle closer you can see that the plain black skirt is matches with a nice texture detailed “corsage”. Green and white lace parts break the plain black in sweet way and for the the definatly highlight is the amazing ribbon that let your self look like the christmas present for your sweet heart

Merry Christmas

So go check out the Dubrovna’s Fashion Store or check the Peath on Earth Hunt blog site at http://peaceonearthhunt.wordpress.com/

Details:

Dress: Dubrovna’s Fashion – POE Hunt gift 2009

Model & Photographer: Wicca Merlin

Cuando queda poco para que termine el 2009, año en el que se ha celebrado el bicentenario del nacimiento de Edgar Allan Poe, los homenajes a la figura de este maestro de lo gótico siguen muy presentes. Uno de los últimos autores que ha decidido profundizar en la vida y obra del creador de El cuervo ha sido Jordi Sierra i Fabra. El escritor catalán le dedica una especial biografía en Poe (Libros del zorro rojo). La obra, con ilustraciones de Alberto Vázquez, repasa los acontecimientos más importantes del escritor estadounidense.

2009 ha sido, sin duda, el año de Edgar Allan Poe. Cuidadas reediciones de sus cuentos fantásticos y homenajes dentro y fuera de EEUU han recordado que el maestro de autores como Kafka, Lovecraft, Borges o Cortázar nacía en Boston doscientos años atrás. A punto de cerrarse el año del bicentenario, Jordi Sierra i Fabra rinde su personal homenaje al genio de lo oscuro con una biografía ilustrada por Alberto Vázquez y publicada por Libros del zorro rojo, una editorial de referencia en el campo de la literatura ilustrada.

Maestro del relato corto, renovador de la novela gótica y precursor de la literatura policíaca, Poe tuvo una vida difícil en la que Sierra i Fabra se ha adentrado para escribir este libro, publicado recientemente y con el que el autor pretende poner su granito de arena en este año de homenajes.

Para el autor catalán, la valía de Poe como autor es innegable, pero como persona fue un hombre de luces y sombras, y de la lectura de este libro se desprende que el autor del poema El cuervo y de relatos como El gato negro o El corazón delator, era “más kafkiano que el propio Kafka”. Uno de los grandes aciertos de este libro, unido a las ilustraciones de Alberto Vázquez – considerado uno de los artistas de más talento de los últimos años -, es que no es una biografía al uso. Sierra i Fabra saca a la luz el lado menos popular de Poe empleando una novela biográfica, en la que sentimientos y, sobre todo diálogos, comparten espacio con ilustraciones en blanco y negro.

Sierra i Fabra incluye fragmentos de algunos de sus relatos más conocidos, y cada capítulo de la vida del escritor estadounidense viene precedido de un fragmento del aplaudido poema El cuervo.

Por literario que pueda sonar, la vida del maestro de lo oscuro fue tan tétrica como muchos de sus relatos. Marcado por las penurias económicas, Poe era un adicto a la bebida y a las drogas y acabó sus días en la más absoluta miseria. Tenía sólo 40 años cuando murió. Muchos críticos apuntan que su alma estaba atormentada por el dolor y que tenía un carácter depresivo. La atmósfera asfixiante de sus relatos estaría, por tanto, más que justificada si se tiene en cuenta su carácter sombrío.

Pero como todos los grandes autores de la literatura, la obra de Poe supo sobreponerse a su vida y renacer con el tiempo hasta ser valorada en todo el mundo. Poco importa hoy que Poe fuera un alcohólico que no pasó de la cuarentena, porque lo que el mundo sigue celebrando es que a pesar de su corta vida nos dejó una extensa obra literaria que aún influye a cientos de autores.

Con más de trescientas obras, Jordi Sierra i Fabra es uno de los autores más importantes de la narrativa actual. Premio Nacional de Literatura Infantil y Juvenil en el año 2007 y candidato al Premio Andersen, su obra ha sido traducida a más de veinte idiomas, y es de las más leídas en colegios y bibliotecas.

Poe está ilustrado por el joven artista Alberto Vázquez (La Coruña, 1980), licenciado en Bellas Artes, y colaborador habitual del diario El País. Su enigmática obra ha sido distinguida, entre otros, con el Premio Injuve de Cómic e Ilustración y el Premio al Mejor Dibujo en el Salón Internacional del Cómic de Barcelona. Vázquez ha ilustrado numerosas antologías literarias y ha también ha puesto su arte al servicio de proyectos publicitarios.

Capítulo 1 de “Poe” de Jordi Sierra i Fabra.

(25 de noviembre de 1811)

“Los artistas siempre son pobres. Los artistas siempre son únicos, diferentes. Y solidarios. Ah, los artistas…

Para los puritanos eran gente de mal vivir, bohemios, de licenciosas costumbres, y sin embargo necesarios en su esparcimiento. Una ventana al mundo de las sensaciones. Para sí mismos en cambio, envenenados por el influjo de la escena, castigados por penurias económicas, destrozados por giras a través de carreteras infames, mal pagados… El nuevo siglo no había cambiado nada. Sólo un dígito. ¿Qué más daba que la primera década del XIX se hallase ya cumplida y anduvieran por la segunda? Ser artista significaba vivir el peligroso perfume de la libertad al precio de la vida. Un par de horas dominadas por la intensidad todas las noches para borrar las veintidós restantes tal vez infames. Eso suponiendo que en esas dos horas hubiera un público, unos aplausos.

Artistas. Artistas. Artistas.

Las dos damas contemplaban los carteles de la función en el pequeño teatro, con su reclamo humilde. Las personas pasaban y los leían. O no. Hacía demasiado frío para detenerse. A su espalda, la pensión era todavía más lóbrega. Un nido de ratas. Ratas que, cada noche, sonreían, tomaban sus hábitos escénicos y cumplían con su misión de entretener al mundo.

Las dos damas reflejaban consternación en sus rostros.

— Ella no actuará esta noche, ¿verdad?
— Tal vez quiera hacerlo, aunque sea arrastrándose.
— ¡No puede, en su estado! ¡Se está muriendo!
— Es tan tercamente joven, veinticuatro años…—¡Pero tiene los pulmones destrozados!

La señora Allan miró a la señora Mackenzie. Pareció no saber qué decir.

— ¿Qué será de esos pequeños?
— ¿El padre sigue sin dar señales de vida?
— Ni lo hará. Es probable que jamás vuelva a saberse de él. Hace ya más de un año que se fue.

La sensación de pesar las dominó. Ellas, mujeres de la buena sociedad de Richmond, sentían mucho más que lástima por Elizabeth Arnold, la joven perla de la compañía, tan hermosa, tan indefensa, tan especial.

Betty había enviudado de su primer marido para casarse casi de inmediato con David Poe, un actor de segunda, hombre de buena familia que le dio la espalda al preferir él la farándula a una vida digna. Habían tenido un primer hijo, William Henry Leonard, un segundo, Edgar, y un tercero, una niña, Rosalie, apenas un año antes. La función de la noche, demostrando el espíritu solidario de los compañeros, siempre ellos, era benéfica. El señor Placide, el director, así lo anunciaba en el periódico, solicitando la asistencia de un público generoso.

Esta noche no llovía, pero lo había hecho tanto que la malaria, emergiendo de la crecida del río James, causaba estragos en la población.

La peor noche para un milagro.

— ¡Oh, Dios! —suspiró la señora Mackenzie.
— Sí, Dios, ya ves —hizo lo propio la señora Allan—. Esa pobrecilla con tres hijos mientras que otras…
— Quieres al pequeño Edgar, ¿no es cierto? —puso una mano sobre las de su compañera.

Frances Allan, de soltera Frances Velentine, sonrió con ternura.
Cuando no se tienen hijos, todos parecen hermosos.
Pero aquel ángel…

— Vamos a ver a Betty —propuso—. Quizás podamos ayudarla, procurarle consuelo”.

You’re washing dishes one evening after work, when you look out the window to see a man allow his two Great Danes to squat on your lawn. While the dogs hover over the grass, the man looks up and sees you. Without changing his expression, he glances away to study the coniferous something or other by your driveway. You watch as the dogs poop and he gathers up their leashes, continuing down the sidewalk. You think, “What the hell?”

But then, it’s time to sit at your computer for your allotted two hours to work on your novel. Yes, look at you, balancing writing with your job, or rather, making this relatively tiny concession after an eight-hour day at the office. Except that you’re too numb from sitting at a desk all day to write. After your two hours are up, you think, foggily, “What the hell?” and go to bed.

The most frequent advice I hear about writing might be summed up as follows: “Evaluate what you’re willing to do and don’t compromise unless absolutely necessary.”  Basically, to have any kind of success as a writer, one must make it a major, if not her main, priority. The fact that this is difficult to do with an ordinary person’s schedule means that many choose to leave writing behind for the stronger allure of regular pay and health benefits.

The tortured poet of our collective imagination leans back from his typewriter, takes a pull from one of the bottles weighing down stacks of papers, and begins to read aloud from the page he just typed. As he speaks, his lips reveal jagged, grey teeth, and we feel certain that the hard alcohol must burn on his gingivitis. No matter how romantic writing may seem, at the end of the day, dental and vision coverage will always be sexier. Maybe you’re not willing to give those things up, and there’s no reason you should have to.

You can be a healthier, happier writer with a few lifestyle changes.

I’ve had the opportunity to speak with a diverse group of writers over the past three months, including Billings journalist Anna Paige, and Danell Jones, author of The Virginia Woolf Writers’ Workshop: Seven Lessons to Inspire Great Writing.  In the process of restructuring my life for writing, I found their experiences inspiring and helpful. Though their work has taken them in different directions, most of the people I spoke with discussed a few main points:

1. Look at your job. If it’s getting in the way of your writing, consider reducing your hours or trying a completely different workplace. For instance, if your desk job is killing your back and your writing work ethic, switch things up with a new position that requires you to be physically active so that you can come home ready to put in those long hours at your own desk.

2. Revise your lifestyle. Stress, too little exercise, watching an excessive amount of TV– these are all things that can drain you of creative energy and deaden you to the sense of awareness that you probably need if you want to write well, if at all. By taking care of yourself, you should enjoy a boost to both your writing and your overall quality of life.

3. Recharge your batteries by returning to school. Many graduate schools in the West offer a small environment where your work is more likely to stand out, and great funding packages that enable you to devote your entire energy to writing rather than agonizing over how you’re going to pay for it. Also, an MFA program will give you a chance to focus on your writing for two to three years at at time.

4. Support writers whose work you respect. Watch them on Facebook. Attend their readings. Help spread the word by recommending them to friends. Developing a strong, personal connection with your writing community is a great way to make contacts, stay motivated, and advance your own professional writing career while helping others succeed.

Whatever you do, find a way to make that time at your word processor count. Because one morning you’ll be late for work, cutting across the lawn to your car, when your foot sinks into a massive, glistening turd, and your automatic response will be that weary blend of confusion and despair, the “What the hell?” that might as well be “I give up”–and even a first-class set of teeth can’t make up for that vague sense of having come so close to something better, and it doesn’t have anything to do with the crap on your shoe.

Se eu fosse virtual

Flávio Nickel

Imagem copiada de http://smeira.blog.terra.com.br/

“Chegou o tempo em que ou você é alguém@onde.oque ou você não é ninguém”

Se pudesse ser uma coisa, uma outra coisa, eu queria ser um software, digital, virtual. Não seria muito exigente. Bastava ser virtual. Se eu assim fosse, eu dominaria as dimensões do tempo e do espaço e viajaria pelo planeta digital e me deliciaria congestionando o tráfego na Trafalgar Square. Literalmente passearia pelos sites literários e num dia de sol enviaria um e-mail a Castro Alves e num navio negreiro, navegaríamos por mares nunca dantes navegados em companhia de Camões e Robinson Crusoe. Também por e-mail, convidaria Helena e Capitu para ir à Espanha assistir a uma tourada e mais tarde, em casa de Almodóvar, descansaríamos numa cama para três. Nas terras da Rainha, pesquisaria na Enciclopédia e com pontualidade Britânica iria ao chá das cinco com Shakespeare e Sherlock. Convidaria Rimbaud para um bate papo na Gallerie La Fayette e numa sexta à tarde me conectaria com Belo Horizonte, aonde iria ao clube da esquina, tomar um café com bytes em companhia de Milton e Lô Borges.

Ah, se eu fosse virtual! Se eu fosse virtual, teria memória sem limites e poderia guardar tudo do passado e do presente. Então, me presentearia com um álbum dos Mutantes. Seria amigo de Vinícius, de Chico e de Janis Joplin. Com Lennon e McCartney, Pena Branca e Xavantinho, formaria uma banda larga inusitada e tocaríamos juntos em MP3.. Seria virtual, mas com sentimentos e, com Noel e Adoniram, choraria melosas canções de amor numa rádio digital. Mesclaria Pixinguinha e Marisa Monte em uníssono, cantando Rosa, em poesia não em prosa, para fazer alguém feliz. Se eu fosse virtual, Bach me ensinaria que na música, a nota codifica o som, e eu o explicaria que na informática, o bit codifica a ação. Se eu fosse virtual e cometesse crimes, Dostoievski seria meu advogado e meus castigos minimizados. Poderia até ser processado, mas por processadores, que me mandariam pra Alcatraz. Lá eu escreveria minhas memórias do cárcere e um postal eletrônico para Marco Polo. Planejaria uma fuga lá para o reino de Khan, a quem eu contaria de minhas andanças pelas terras do sem fim. Depois, criaria um portal de games para jogar Dama com as Camélias e enviaria flores virtuais para Madame Bovary. Digitalizaria o amor, para que minha musa não guardasse de mim apenas impressões digitais e fundaria com Gullar a Academia Brasileira de Bytes. Não seria um Highlander, mas seria imortal. Se eu fosse virtual, simularia o meu Taj Mahal, onde leria As mil e uma noites em uma só, deitado confortavelmente em minha rede. Iria ao Louvre e admiraria cada píxel da Mona Lisa. Materializaria-me junto ao túmulo de Salvador e o tiraria dali para meu alívio e para a persistência de sua memória. Gravaria em placas homenagens a Sebastião Salgado, Picasso e Caetano constatando que a Guernica é aqui. Aprenderia com Freud sobre Édipo e o Ego num site de psicologia e entenderia que quando os sonhos assumem forma concreta, surge a beleza. Seria menino e correria Brasil afora em busca de pica-paus amarelos ou de uirapurus cantantes. Pularia carniça nas pinceladas de Portinari em companhia de Bardi e me deixaria deslizar nas curvas generosas de Niemeyer. Imprimiria elogios de louvor á brasilidade de Macunaíma e Mário de Andrade me convidaria para um banquete antropofágico em casa de Tarsila, numa mensagem com a Muiraquitã em anexo.

Se eu fosse virtual, conversaria com Da Vinci em código e compilaria com Einstein o quântico dos contos . Instalaria-me com Clarice em uma rede e a ouviria explicar sobre como (d)escrever o amor. Entenderia grego, português, inglês e outras línguas porque armazenaria todas as línguas na memória. Entraria nos arquivos do FBI, do DOPS, do SNI e da CIA, de onde hackearia informações sigilosas e as compartilharia com Henfil e Betinho. Criaria uma comunidade alternativa no Orkut e Raul Seixas seria o síndico. Em uma página de poesia, jogaria conversa fora com Drummond, depois andaríamos por uma rua qualquer de Itabira, e no meio do caminho, nos assentaríamos em um banco de dados também qualquer para escrever às crianças. Se eu fosse virtual, programaria com Júlio Verne, dez voltas ao redor da Terra, à velocidade de um download, num Led Zeppelin amarelo. Buscaria no Google, um trabalho para Marx e trocaríamos informações sobre workgroups. Após o almoço, Newton me ofereceria uma maçã e eu o convidaria a ensinar física aos engenheiros da Apple por videoconferência. Se eu fosse virtual, ao envelhecer, não me preocuparia com a forma física e nem sofreria cirurgias plásticas ou lipoaspiração. No máximo, Ivo Pitangui me atenderia em uma clínica de upgrades e eu sendo velho, não morreria. Bastaria um update, um download, e eu me renovaria como a Fênix.Tudo isso seria possível se Deus, o criador, fosse programador e, se no ato de me criar, tivesse feito um software, não um escritor. Ah, se eu fosse virtual.

Registrado e publicado também em Anjos de Prata

For all those latex lovers out there, Simply Seraph’s brings you a very Matrix-y full outfit for POE gift #2.

The set comes generously packed full of options/items, my favorite of which is the nicely textured latex jacket.  The jacket is provided in a light and dark version and also a light and dark version that includes a festive snow flake graphic.

The rest of the set includes a great pair of patent leather boots, two pair of jeans (one with snowflake graphic, one without), and a latex look belted skirt.

The grid wide Peace on Earth hunt runs now through January 2, so get out there, spread some love, and hunt your hearts out!!

For all of you following these fantastic Peace On Earth Hunt gifts, I can now reveal another – the very sexy Ambrosia Minidress from Silk Dreams Fashions.  This cute and sexy dress is designed using a slightly sheer texture guaranteed to get you noticed but for anyone not quite so daring you can add some lingerie to create a more sophisticated look.

The Ambrosia minidress also comes with an added belt to finish off the design and is perfect to mix and match with other outfits, as is the tasty black mini skirt.  Ambrosia is quite simply a very cute and fun dress just perfect to wear for many occasions.

So to get your hands on this super sexy little number then follow the link below for more info on the Peace on Earth Hunt starting on 1 December 2009.  Have fun!!

Peace on Earth Hunt

What follows is a trip through my notebook pages from this year’s World Fantasy Convention — things I wanted to remember, many of which are authors and the titles of their books and stories, some of which may be misspelled. [I think I've noted the spellings I'm not sure of.] The stuff is in no particular order — it’s like a junk drawer dumped out onto the tabletop. It’s a starting point: the place to begin intriguing searches and maybe discussions. Feel free to jump in with corrections, information, comments, or further queries.

It’s from such soup that great ideas might come. (Artist Guest of Honor Lisa Snellings said “You can’t go wrong with a soup analogy. It’s all in there.”)

Poe . . . Stephen King . . . background in poetry.

The Last Unicorn poses a riddle that is never answered in the book: “Why is a raven like a writing desk?” One panelist, frustrated for years, eventually caught up with Peter S. Beagle and asked him for the answer. He allegedly said, “The answer is either ‘Poe wrote on both’ or ‘Both have inky quills.’” Someone in the audience chimed in and suggested a third answer: “Both produce notes that are generally not musical.”

There’s a folkloric connection between ravens and the Tower of London — if ravens cease living in and around the Tower, England’s monarchy will fail; the royal line will break. So even now, there are special attendants who look after the ravens and make sure they’re happy living there.

There’s a curious relationship between wolves and ravens in the real world. They play together. Ravens will swoop down and pull wolves’ tails, and the wolves will snap and chase the ravens. (I’m not at all sure the wolves are “playing”. . . .) They also hunt together, helping each other for mutual benefit. Ravens will scout out likely-looking prey and call the wolves’ attention to it. Wolves will leave leftovers that ravens can eat. Ravens follow wolf packs, and wolf packs follow ravens.

The panelists were somewhat divided on whether the raven is more often a wise, instructive friend to humankind or a treacherous opportunist who is not at all our friend. In The Hobbit, the ravens living on and around the Lonely Mountain are long-term noble friends of the Dwarves. The raven who sits on the bust of Pallas in Poe’s “The Raven” may just be making mindless noise; it may be leading the narrator to consider his situation; or it may be mocking him and/or actively trying to push him over the edge. The panelists talked about the raven who leaves Noah’s ark and doesn’t come back, because it finds what it wants and needs elsewhere; they didn’t mention the ravens that bring Elijah food. (Have I got that right?) I keep coming back to the “Twa Corbies,” who will be making a sweet dinner of the dead knight — feeding on his heart, feeding on his “bonny blue eye,” and using his hair to weave into their nests. One panelist had a very good feeling about ravens she’s actually met; one always felt coldness from their eyes, and the sense that, if she died, they would gladly eat her. At Niigata University, there are abundant black birds — I’m not sure if they’re ravens or big crows — who come and hunt through the garbage and glare at passersby. I often get a very unfriendly feeling from them. There was, however, one early summer a couple years ago when I would often give little pieces of my lunch to a big one who would find me regularly and watch and hop as close as he dared. Of course I don’t think he was my “friend.”

Robert Chambers [I think], The King in Yellow

L to R: Jay Lake, Lisa Snellings, Garth Nix, Michael Swanwick, Donald Sidney-Fryer, Richard A. Lupoff, Zoran Zivkovic, Ann VanderMeer, Jeff VanderMeer: World Fantasy Convention 2009, San Jose, California

E.F. Benson, “Negotium Perambulans” (I may have read this years ago, and that’s what inspired me to include that inscription in Dragonfly, above the shaft where the Thanatops lives. It’s a quote from the Psalm, “Negotium perambulans in tenebris” — “The pestilence that walks in darkness.”)

“A Voice in the Night,” by William Hope Hodgson –  one panelist said a teacher read this out loud to them in gradeschool, and the room was utterly silent, and the kids were totally freaked out and never forgot it.

Same group, same caption

The Sun Bird, by Wilbur Smith (an excellent lost race novel) 

The Moon Pool, by A. Merritt — Lovecraft loved the novelette but condemned the novelization — which is probably the one I have on my shelf here.

David Hartwell’s The Dark Descent (I gather this is some kind of an overview of weird/horror fiction. Very intriguing.)

These next are all from Lisa Snellings:

It’s best not to write some stuff down. Sometimes when we do, when we capture the idea and put it down on paper, that satisfies us, and we’re done with it. Don’t worry: Good ideas persist. If it keeps coming back to you, it’s probably a good one. [This thought really made me nod in recognition. I agree.]

She says Ray Bradbury told her: “A general direction is better than a plan, because plans rarely work out. Keep working.”

The best ideas ring like a bell. The best ideas make you sweat. You just want to work, and don’t care if your shirt is on inside out. [Again, I recognize the truth of this. I've been there, now and then!]

In general, people who are successful work very, very hard.

Lisa Snellings says: “Why I’m never blocked: because I go to work every single day. It’s your job.” [Stephen King says pretty much the same thing in On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft.]

When you’re working or doing some kind of playing that you’re totally into and the rest of the world disappears, you’re in the Zone. For our well-being, our brains need to be in the Zone. It’s like a shower for our brains. She’s in the Zone often when she’s playing video games. But you can get there when you’re working, too — on art, music, writing, etc.

Moving back to general notes:

Garth Nix: “Some books are good enough to survive the most horrendous authors and constant exposure to them.”

He says “Sabriel” with a long a, as in saber.

Ellen Kushner: “Real life is a great impediment to grace and elegance.”

Tim Powers doesn’t read his contemporaries at all. He has a horror of ever being in a writer’s group, because he’d be expected to read the other group members’ manuscripts. (He says not to tell anyone about this; he hopes no one will post it on-line.)

When Ellen Kushner was a little girl and realized some other people didn’t like her, her father said, “Do you like everyone you meet? No? Then why should they all like you?” And she never worried about that again.

Something Garth Nix said that I really identified with: He’s a “story-driven character writer.” He knows very little about the characters as he begins writing. He learns about them as they go through the story, as they face the events and act. So he doesn’t try to figure out all that about the characters before he starts. I find this to be amazingly comforting, because I go at it the same way and always wondered if there was something wrong with my approach. This seems so much more real to me than filling out all those character sheets, writing profiles for them, pretending to walk around talking with them for months before you write your book, etc. I’m so relieved!

Someone asked if the panel was supposed to be 55 minutes or exactly an hour. Ellen Kushner said, “It’s 55 minutes. It’s a therapy hour.”

Ellen Kushner: “We live in an age that devalues the imagination.”

Some writer said: “I am all my characters, but none of them are me.”

Michael Swanwick pointed out how in Lud-in-the-Mist, the conflict is between magic (Faery) and the law. [True! In Lud, the modern people are in denial of the existence of magic, and to say "fairy" is like saying the worst swear-word, and their legal language has euphemisms for magical things.]

Swanwick: “At the heart of fantasy is mystery. The universe is unknowable. In sf, it’s the other way around — the universe is knowable and follows noble rules.”

Swanwick related how William Blake saw ghosts all the time. Blake drew a picture of the ghost of a flea to show people what he was looking at. [And this is me: still one of my favorite Blake-related quotes was from his wife: "I seldom enjoy Mr. Blake's company. He's always in Paradise." Blake was in the Zone!]

Swanwick: The weakness of the “deal with the devil” story is that the very existence of the devil offering the deal proves the existence of the afterlife, testifies to eternal consequences, etc. — so who would take such a deal? [An old first-grade classmate of mine, no longer with us in this world, was a fine writer who actually took that into account in writing a "deal with the devil" story.]

Swanwick: “If it’s said in front of a writer, it belongs to him.” [Fred: By this point, most of my friends know this to be true!]

Guy Gavriel Kay: “If almost anything is done well, it can work.” [Isn't that also extremely comforting? Your idea doesn't have to be Earth-shaking. Just tell the tale well. Eight centuries ago, the Japanese poet Fujiwara no Teika (1162-1241) told his writing students: "Do not strain for novelty."]

Guy Gavriel Kay liked the Emma Thompson film Sense and Sensibility — very good film overall — but he intensely disliked how the filmmakers played the manners of the time for laughs from a modern audience. They pandered to a modern audience. It was almost bad enough to kill his enjoyment of the movie. [At my first-ever writers' conference -- I was in high school -- Paul Darcy Boles told me that a good thing about my writing was that I didn't poke fun at my characters. If we write about people in a different time or culture, we have to let them be who they would be in that time and place.]

Modern readers are very averse to dialect. In the 19th century they loved it when characters spoke in dialect on the page, but not now.

Ellen Kushner made the point that, to represent the language of another era or place, you can use the rhythms of that culture’s language. One skillful writer she cited, to give French characters the “flavor” of speaking French in her English-language books, consciously employed the beats of standard French poetry. And the English lines do somehow give the illusion of being French!

Avoid trendiness in speech patterns. [Note to self: Do not have characters in an epic fantasy say, "Tuh. As if!"]

Deanna Hoak: “Copyediting is like bathing. No one notices it unless you don’t do it.”

Guy Gavriel Kay (on writing dialogue that sounds authentic): “There’s no formula for success, but there are avenues for authenticity. It depends on maintaining a consistent tone.”

[In my Hokkaido days, I was the D.M. for a small group that played Dungeons & Dragons in the parsonage of Asahikawa Lutheran Church. As a non-native speaker of Japanese, I spoke -- and still speak -- the language at one level of politeness: the standard, safe-in-all-situations level that foreigners are taught in classrooms. But Japanese has a huge range in levels of politeness, each appropriate in a different situation depending on the speaker's relationship to the listener, their relative ages, genders, statuses, etc. Sometimes my D&D group would burst out laughing because my orcs spoke so politely: "Please drop your weapons. If you do not, this will turn into a fight! -- Grrr! Aargh!"]

Everyone says read Mythago Wood, by Robert Holdstock. The direct sequel is Avilion. [I'm not sure about any of those three spellings.]

Lavinia, by Ursula LeGuin, is absolutely amazing.

Little, Big is evidently a great book.

Alice Henderson [sp?] has a really good-sounding horror novel set in Glacier National Park.

The Weirdstone of Brisingamen, by Alan Garner — apparently really excellent — one panelist whom I respected re-reads it every year.

In Cold Blood by Capote is really disturbing, really scary.

Final note: It would be a very good idea to read the World Fantasy Award-winning novels and runners-up each year. The ones that win seem to be highly original, hard to categorize.

And there we have it!

Let us go forth and read, write, love, and live!

The Donnas – Drive My Car (Beatles cover)

All-girl rock band The Donnas covered the Beatles’ “Drive My Car” (McCartney, Lennon) for Razor and Tie’s 2005 tribute album This Bird Has Flown – A 40th Anniversary Tribute to the Beatles’ Rubber Soul.

In late 1999, I found their ragtag little POS website (oh, those halcyon early internet days of crummy block-text and midi’s on Angelfire and Tripod!). Intrigued that they were all the same age as me and hailed out of Palo Alto, I actually went ahead and bought the album The Donnas Get Skintight, my first over-the-internet music purchase. Some stupid fucker stole it out of my car in 2003, along with the original soundtrack to the Chita Rivera cast of Kiss of the Spiderwoman and Poe’s album Haunted, among several other albums in my little CD binder. I hope that dickhead is still enjoying them, but most likely he or she threw them away.

Oh, my god, they were BABIES! By extension, if they were all born when I was, then I was a baby too. Man. This brings back memories. I most definitely necked to this album.

I rebought Poe (actually am on my fourth copy now because I play it so much in my car while speeding over bumpy country roads and chainsmoking and screaming that it gets scratched up) and the musical, but, with the advent of mp3’s and suchlike, I have never felt the need to repurchase The Donnas. Sorry, girls! Hope this unpaid and unprovoked publicity makes up for my lackage!

Brett Anderson

Asked a girl what she wanted to be
She said baby, can’t you see
I wanna be famous, a star of the screen
But you can do something in between

Baby you can drive my car
Yes I’m gonna be a star
Baby you can drive my car
And maybe I’ll love you

Allison Robertson

I told that girl that my prospects were good
she said baby, it’s understood
Working for peanuts is all very fine
But I can show you a better time

Baby you can drive my car
Yes I’m gonna be a star
Baby you can drive my car
And maybe I’ll love you

Beep beep’m beep beep yeah

Maya Ford

Baby you can drive my car
Yes I’m gonna be a star
Baby you can drive my car
And maybe I’ll love you

I told that girl I can start right away
When she said listen babe I got something to say
I got no car and it’s breaking my heart
But I’ve found a driver and that’s a start

Torry Castellano

Baby you can drive my car
Yes I’m gonna be a star
Baby you can drive my car
And maybe I’ll love you

Beep beep’m beep beep yeah
Beep beep’m beep beep yeah
Beep beep’m beep beep yeah
Beep beep’m beep beep yeah

Yeah, so just in case you were wondering, that is what motherfuckin’ rock stars look like! Man, I need to go buy another one of their albums.

I moved to the unknown, and for some strange reason, my fears were heightened and then were quelled.

I split up with what I thought was the love of my life after week one. Yes, it happened, the boyfriend I’d mentioned, the one that pestered me to write on this thing turned out to be a bastard, and I’m thankful for that.

I’ve met someone new. A boy who’s turned my confidence and my life round. He’s given me everything and I in return have given it back. Two months ago he was a stranger, and now he’s the most important person in my future. Strange, isn’t it, how life turns around.

The course is interesting, bus challenging. I’m currently writing about Marxist literary theory, alongside Austen, Blake and Poe. Referencing turned out to be a bugger, but now it’s the matter of reading and immersing yourself in what seems an alternate reality. English somehow does that to you..

London is a beautiful place, my life is where I want it to be, my fears have been quelled, and the future looks bright.

The Man of the Crowd

by Edgar Allan Poe
(published 1845)

This was an amazing story. From beginning to end, the story seems a bit pointless. But after some thought and analysis the brilliance of Poe sets in. He writes about a mysterious old man with a diamond dagger beneath his quote and of another man following him. This relentless persueing never has a satisfactory ending. The man just remains a part of the crowd. However, Poe ends this short story with: “here is a man too troubled by his own thoughts as to be able to be left alone, troubling thoughts that would nonetheless be interesting, if we base our assumptions on what he hides under his cloak.” Isn’t this incredibly true? People seem these days to always crave attention and stimulation by other means. Most want to be surrounded by people and have a fear of loneliness. I, myself have this fear except mine is based off of past abandonments. I am perfectly happy swimming in my own thoughts, no matter how disturbing they are. Remaining in your own thoughts instead of being a “man of the crowd” to drown them out helps discover who you are. Why are some of the most intelligent people those who are isolators, stuck in their own mind, embracing the thoughts that cause them the most pain? Humans are always fleeing unpleasant feelings by using different means (drugs, exercise, building walls). Being surrounded by the root of your life, your innermost thoughts is scary, and being a part of a crowd can provide distraction, or companionship to face the thoughts. The old man that was being followed had an evil presence within him. It seemed that throughout the story, he was planning something spectacularly sinister. This man was perhaps the other side of the narrator. The evil thoughts that he was always trying to escape, but now was trying desperately to seek them, among a crowd.

Impressions of New York from a literary émigré.

Excerpt from: Christopher ISHERWOOD, Christopher and His Kind, 1929-1939 (1976)

[At the end of Christopher's brief visit in 1938, he had felt absolutely confident of one thing, at least. If he did decide to settle in America - and, by America, he meant New York - he would be able to make himself at home there. This, he said to himself, was a setting in which his public personality would function more freely, more successfully than it could ever have functioned in London. Oh, he'd talk faster and louder than any of the natives. He'd pick up their slang and their accent. He'd learn all their tricks. Someone had repeated to him a saying about the city: "Here you'll find sympathy in the dictionary and everything else at the nearest drugstore." This delighted him. He had accepted it as a challenge to be tough.

But now New York, on that bitter winter morning, appeared totally, shockingly transformed from the place he had waved goodbye to, the previous July. Christopher experienced a sudden panicky loss of confidence.

There they stood in the driving snow - the made-in-France Giantess with her liberty torch, which now seemed to threaten, not welcome, the newcomer; and the Red Indian island with its appalling towers. There was the Citadel–stark, vertical, gigantic, crammed with the millions who had already managed to struggle ashore and find a foothold. You would have to fight your way inland from your very first step onto the pier. Already, it was threatening you with its tooting tugboats, daring you to combat.

God, what a terrifying place this suddenly seemed! You could feel it vibrating with the tension of the nervous New World, aggressively flaunting its rude steel nudity. We’re Americans here–and we keep at it, twenty-four hours a day, being Americans. We scream, we grab, we jostle. We’ve no time for what’s slow, what’s gracious, what’s nice, quiet, modest. Don’t you come snooting us with your European traditions–we know the mess they’ve got you into. Do things our way or take the next boat back–back to your Europe that’s falling apart at the seams. Well, make up your mind. Are you quitting or staying? It’s no skin off our nose. We promise nothing. Here, you’ll be on your own.

Christopher, trying hard to think positive thoughts, declared that he was staying. But the Giantess wasn’t impressed. The towers didn’t care. Okay, Buster, suit yourself.]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I came across my first copy of Christopher Isherwood’s combined narrative, The Berlin Stories, in what had been Muddy Waters, on Valencia at twenty-fourth. I grabbed it because it was extremely weathered; much of the binding was crumbling apart, the pages were well worn, and mysterious greenish blue splotches had soaked across various surfaces of the book—the New Directions first edition paperback. I was living in the Mission studio at the time, and it sat on my bookshelf for a long time. Many books tend to get picked up, many go on the shelf, and they are slowly read. Isherwood’s name surely appeared on some list somewhere, in the words of some critic elsewhere, or off the lips of some teaching assistant or professor wherefrom my notion of having him on the long list of works to be read originated in the first place. My friend Laura had occasion to be at the studio, pick up the book, and read enough to tell me about some alternative sex mentioned in the text, bringing an immediate peak in interest. Starting The Berlin Stories, I quickly felt engaged with the first of the composite narratives, Mr. Norris Changes Trains. Isherwood’s self-proclaimed parlour socialism, characters, and charming prose fed this initial enthusiasm. Not long after this, I put the book down in a waiting room and forgot to pick it back up, perhaps appropriately. Upon returning the next week, it was gone. Desperate to press on, I turned to the public library. Finishing The Berlin Stories, I have since read my way down the shelf of Isherwood’s books, and found his works to be delightful to read, well-written, and inspiring ever since.

Having long thought about Isherwood’s writings, and my own journey as a writer, I have noticed clear rousers of this predilection for Christopher Isherwood. He is often noted and celebrated as a prominent gay writer. He was a student of languages; travelling frequently and with relish, Isherwood eventually lived more of his life out of his home country than in it. His political tones tinged perfectly in my aspirant leftist ears. He blends the autobiographical details and moments with fictional storytelling in his prose, creating a sense of intimacy as you grow familiar with him as mere vessel for his cast of misfit characters. I find myself having much affinity for Isherwood himself, and his model as writer. His autobiographies are excellent too, and he had many interesting peers whom I have grown to appreciate as well.

Reading Christopher and His Kind was a great experience, as my love for Isherwood’s work had long since developed. Upon visiting friends in New York and walking through Manhattan, I came upon a $4.55 first edition hardcover copy of Christopher and His Kind at Housing Works. Snatching it up, I burned through it over the course of the long weekend, and came upon the excerpt above en route back to San Francisco. What can I say; I love New York as only one raised in the northern suburban sprawl of Los Angeles can do. New York is noise while the sprawl is silence. I love Isherwood’s quick image of New York: one that begins with confidence, but fades in the face of the city. I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge for the first time on the same trip, and felt for the first time that I saw the city, in that grand visual where the city is unfathomably large and seething with action, regardless of you, your thoughts, your intentions or needs. His description becomes cold and alarming, just as the stark wall of the city is cold and alarming in its sheer scale and rigidness. Sometimes I feel similar feelings, to a lesser degree, passing from either the Bay Bridge or Golden Gate Bridge into San Francisco. But New York feels alive, whereas San Francisco feels quaint once over that bridge. (To qualify, San Francisco does have a very special place in my heart.) I love when Isherwood says,

“You could feel it vibrating with the tension of the nervous New World…”

as I enjoy the pulse and energy of the denser urban center, and identify with these words in particular.  The subways of New York, while sometimes decrepit and rotting, convey a time and usage to me that speaks to its value as space and art in itself. When you are walking the tunnels (so delightfully reminiscent of the passages in subway systems like the Parisian Métro) or waiting at the platform, you can sense the city humming, feel the heat from the metropolis radiating over you in the yellowish subterranean electric light.

In the end, it turns out Isherwood ended up choosing the coast of southern California, and not New York, as his home in this country. He lived, taught writing, and wrote many of his later works while living in that Los Angeles sprawl mentioned above—including most notably the poetic representations of mid-century Los Angeles in A Single Man.* I have thought myself confident and bold enough to pick my life up and continue it in New York. I too would throw myself into the throng, elbow into the stream of the city’s life, and be present for all that the city could throw me. However, against the reality of moving to a new place that possesses much harsher weather and a frightful cost of living, my own confidence ebbs as well. At this point, I certainly hope that I myself do not live out my days in Los Angeles, merely because I have already spent eighteen years worth of them in that one place. As Isherwood was born and lived his early life in England but moved west to finish it in Los Angeles, maybe I can do the opposite and work my way gradually eastward from a childhood spent in outer Los Angeles, through San Francisco and onto New York, and eventually to London?

Jarrod Armour (11/20/2009)

*A novel dedicated to the spectacular Gore Vidal, another writer whose work I admire highly. Vidal is also the author of a particularly good essay on Christopher and His Kind, in his collection: Sexually Speaking: Collected Sex Writings.

I am a late starter when it comes to Stephanie Meyer’s renowned vampire themed Twilight series. First discovering the phenomenon when I saw a trailer for the film, I wasn’t interested, thinking it was something I would absolutely hate, and so avoided it, and the books.

Being a lover of classic gothic fiction and horror, I thought Meyer’s creations would rub harshly against my favourites Edgar Allan Poe, Daphne du Maurier, Stoker and Straub, so stayed away from anything Twilight related. And anyway, it’s not cool to be into anything mainstream, right?

Running late for a train a couple of months later and hastily looking for something to read in the station shop, I crumbled, picking up Twilight from the shelf (the cover looked good)

I didn’t stop reading until it was finished. I absolutely loved it, completely taken aback by Meyer’s amazing ability to tell a story and seize concentration. I loved the desire, the relatable characters, forbidden love, and so on.

I understand the books are no literary masterpieces, the dialogue isn’t great,  and of course there are flaws, particularly Bella’s dependency on Edward and her brattish behaviour but really, does it matter? When the stories are loved by people of all ages, and re-read over and over.

The books are certainly more of a girly thing, I appreciate that men may find it a bit offensive to their taste, but Twilight contains a lot of features and characters that gothic fiction classically holds, villains, Byronic Heroes, werewolves (shape shifters are close enough), femmes fatales, supernatural, gothic scenery.

Perhaps the success of these novels will draw readers, to try other works in the gothic genre, and more people will come to appreciate the classics.

A Guardian article earlier in the year showed fans of the Twilight series have been buying copies of Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights in huge numbers. A new edition released in May this year had sold over 10,000 by August, sending it to the top of the classics bestseller lists.

And a note on that Byronic Hero, Meyer’s creation Edward Cullen, the handsome, heroic, charming modern day Rochester or Darcy. Much has been written criticising Meyer for giving women false hopes for their own relationships, suggesting that Edward Cullen is the perfect gentleman and a real man would never replicate his behaviour in real life. Edward’s devotion and infidelity don’t ring true to many, but doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist.

I urge the vampire snobs like me to give it a go!

The closest thing to a novel that Poe ever wrote is notable for number of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that is has no conclusion.  It was originally written as a serial, and the form of the document definitely reflects that.  There is no narrative arc to speak of.  One event happens, and then another and then another, with the only common theme being that each occurrence is more macabre and stranger than the last.  The “climax” is when the narrator and his sidekick are approaching Poe’s version of the South Pole (Open tropical water dotted by cannibal infested islands) he sees a giant ivory humiform statue in the center of a circular waterfall and…the story ends.  A brief afterword mentions the manuscript mysteriously appearing and being prepared for publication by Mr. Poe.

I have poked around the web and found many high-minded literary explanations of this.  But I find these reasons unconvincing.  I think a more pedestrian explanation is far more convincing.  As I said, Pym was originally a serial.  Often Poe writes as if he were being paid by the word, listing the various flora and fauna species which occupy his fanciful islands.  It has been proven that Poe drew on the theories of John Cleves Symmes, a hollow earth theorist and the journals of several explorers.  Much of the work is just a restatement of the explorers writing along with Symmes own half-baked theories.  The rest of the writing follows the form of a penny dreadful, emphasis on dreadful.  Even for Poe the story here is blood-soaked, with the narrator surviving multiple shipwrecks, mutinies, and acts of cannibalism. I think poor Edgar just got sick of the story and figure the enigmatic image of the statue was as good a place as any to call it quits.  I’m sure he had somewhere in the back of his head an idea for Pym’s further adventures inside the hollow globe.  Perhaps he would have his protagonists spewed forth by a volcano in a precursor to Verne’s Journey to the Centre of the Earth.  But at some point he grew bored, or frustrated or the economics of the agreement no longer made sense and he quit.  And so when he died some years later the solution to the riddle of the statue was buried with him.