Another Publication Forthcoming!

I have a piece in here on discovering medieval magic texts, like the Anglo-Saxon charms and the Leechbook.

Women and the Divine

Another conference acceptance: best of all, it's in England! It was about time I had an excuse to go back. The conference is Women and the Divine. It's sponsored by the Institute of Feminist Theory and Research, co-hosted by Liverpool University and Liverpool Hope University College, and features heavy hitters like Luce Irigaray. Wow! And they're looking for non-traditional presentations, so I am really excited (and terrified!). My mini-workshop is entitled "Casting the Circle: Ritual and The Body of the Goddess" and will be interactive. Now all I have to do is write it...

Sin City: Brutal

Robert Rodgriguez continues his outlaw ways and we all benefit. It seems cruel to say I enjoyed Sin City; it's a brutal film with no winners and a whole lot of losers, but that's part of the ride. You don't tend to look for heroes among hookers and hoods. Like the best movies, though, it's true to the source -- in this case, Frank Miller's cruel and unflinching ride through the underbelly of a vaguely noirish hell drawn in jagged black and white, punctuated elliptically with splashes of garish color when that world is ripped open with bullets or blades.

The gore and grimness are lightened only by the black humor; sometimes when it's coming down so heavy you gotta wear a hat, what can you do but laugh? Fleeting moments of recognizable "good" -- like Bruce Willis' grizzled cop struggling against the odds to save one innocent girl -- get ground under the relentless heel of this corrupt dead-end town. Everyone in Basin City is suspect, from the top to the bottom, and that's a bottom that seems to keep receding farther and farther into the murkiness. So you take sides, latch onto the merest glimmer of "right" whether it's the tough crook out for revenge on behalf of the hooker who was kind to him once, or the stripper who realizes the fragile power she's carved out among the worst of the worst is about to collapse.

Willis is good, Rourke (!), too. Owen -- yeah. Rosario Dawson -- awesome. Miller's own cameo is cool.

There are grisly (and inventive) beheadings, flying bullets, lots of pointy knives and the tawdriest behavior imaginable. Images that will float up to the top of your mind in the wee hours like bloated corpses quickly become the norm. It's a travelogue of the perverse and cruel, and not for everyone -- but artistry in blood, and black and white. Go, throw back a quick scotch first if you need it, but go.

Two (Very Different) Acceptances

Two bits of good news in my email box yesterday: first, the big academic coup -- an acceptance for a paper at MLA. The Modern Language Association holds the premier conference in literature and language studies (that's why all the job interviews are done there). An acceptance there is a ticket to the big leagues! Better yet, my paper on gendering the conversion narrative in medieval Iceland was selected for the one and only panel on Old Norse Literature at MLA. Tough competition, so I am thrilled to have been selected.

The other acceptance, while less prestigious, could be even more fun: The Witching Hour is a multifaceted conference that sprang up around the Harry Potter books. I'll be talking about real medieval magic but aiming it toward a more general audience, trying to convince them that medieval studies is as fun as the HP books. We'll see if I can pull that off! Better yet, it also features people like Charles de Lint and MaryAnn Harris, who are so wonderful and were so much fun at Mythic Journeys last June. Other guests so far include editor Ellen Datlow, writers Holly Black and Nancy Farmer. Best of all -- it will be held in Salem, MA in October. Ahhhhh. I can't wait!

Beantown Rendezvous

I always leap at the chance to return to Boston, so I ended up giving a paper at the NEMLA conference (on Clive Barker and queer theory) this past weekend. I was smiling before I got out of Logan because it felt like home, as always. Riding on the T--not the most exciting thing, I know, but I really miss public transportation. And changing to the red line at Park St, I went downstairs to find a busker playing "Brown Eyed Girl" and everybody singing along. Ah, Boston.

After getting settled into the hotel, I set out for Cambridge and Somerville. My main target was McIntyre and Moore, still the best bookstore in the greater Boston area. Some interesting finds: medieval theatre of cruelty, early percussion, and a collection of Carnival plays by Hans Sachs. Of course as good as the shopping is the eavesdropping on the way there--riding the T provides a lot of interesting and hilarious conversations. I forgot what it was like to be surrounded by BU students nattering on about dorm hijinks. I have not missed backwards baseball caps!

My CT pals arrived amidst the terrible downpour (that I later found out had flooded the house my brother lives in on the banks of the Hudson), soaked to the skin and a little cranky -- who could blame them. But I was so cheered to see them all that I couldn't let my spirits be dampened: The Queen of Everything and Johnny 10X, and the Boojums: Perilous Cheryl and the Joey Zone. A great lunch at India Quality in Kenmore and soon everybody was in a much better frame of mind. A stop by Nuggets helped too--even though, for once, I didn't actually buy anything. We headed out to Simmons, where Cheryl will be starting her MLS soon, then back to the hotel for me to deliver my paper (seemed to go well, people asked for copies). Then off to Cambridge to rummage through the Coop before the cocktail hour beckoned. Not as much shopping as we could have done, but the conversations over lunch, drinks and dinner were the best part for me (even if two conferences in the space of a week left me exhausted rather earlier than usual).

I could have taken the shuttle Sunday morning, but that would mean giving up one more walk along the Charles, It's sad when the idea of being able to walk outside without collapsing from heat and humidity is so precious (still not adjusting to Houston weather). I had an early lunch at Legal Seafoods (lobster and crab ravioli and a big pot of Earl Grey) and bid Boston a wistful goodbye. Much too short a visit! Especially with friends--and I really thank them for making their way up to MA in that horrible rain to see me. Really. Thanks.

Best. Compliment. Ever.

We made our annual pilgrimage to the Popular Culture Association Conference last weekend. This year it was in San Diego, sometimes mistaken for a suburb of Los Angeles; but after Houston's first stifling signs of spring, it proved a welcome respite. Of course the best part of PCA is seeing lots of friends and we spent a lot of time talking, arguing and chasing flights of imagination in or around DW's Pub. I gave a paper this year in the comics area (yeah, even though I chair the medieval area--call me perverse). Well, not so much a paper, as a performance; I had said last year, when some one suggested an Alan Moore panel, that I would give a ritual performance in the style of Moore's workings. People thought I was kidding. I never kid (it's like that Somerset Maugham story where a woman is known as a great wit, simply because she always tells the truth, but I digress).

So I gave my presentation, "The City as the Body of the Poet: William Blake's London in Alan Moore & Tim Perkins' Angel Passage." I worked on the text, to get the rhythm right, not only of the words but of the PP slides with images of arcane diagrams, an unexpected non sequitur, and of course Blake's art. It was about ritual (one of my obsessions) but it also was ritual. I had said I would invoke the spirit of Moore and of course, eveyone thought I was joking. I wasn't. I savor the picture of Moore's body slumped in a chair somewhere in Northampton Friday afternoon.

I was a bit nervous that day. Not only was I trying something new, something the audience at an academic conference might be resistant to experiencing; but I was also on the panel with our VIP guest, Danny Fingeroth, author of Superman on the Couch and I had to go first.

I plunged into the piece, catching the rhythm and finding the right voice. People laughed in the right places, looked puzzled at the right times, and the room seemed to hum with electricity--or maybe it was just me. The last half of the performance was half Moore and half me, and I felt I had matched his eloquence reasonably well and more importantly, that the piece was rising to its climax, the final words of Moore's narration, "William Blake, amazed and unafraid." For that moment, I felt akin to the image flashed up on the screen, Blake's Red Dragon, wings spread, shoulders thrown back as he towers over the woman clothed in sun. The audience seemed to share the feeling and their applause seemed genuine. I felt the glow of success, raising an academic paper from a piacular rite to -- dare I say it -- art.

You don't get that kind of feedback writing prose alone in the wee hours, or even from one careful reader. It's the spectacle, the crowd, the feeling of response, give and take: performance, drama, ritual. And then it got even better: We turned to Danny who said (and this is burned on my brain) "it's going to be like following Frank Sinatra with 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.'" :-) What can I say? I was lifted far above the fourth floor and had to wait for my feet to again touch solid ground sometime later.

Thanks, Danny (who turns out to be the kind of guy who shares his fries, so you know he's all right).

UHD Dateline: Hunter S. Thompson Remembered

[This appeared in the March 4-24 2005 edition of the Dateline Downtown]

Hunter S. Thompson, R.I.P.
K. A. Laity

This past weekend, gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson shot himself in his Colorado home, which he often referred to as his “well-armed compound,” although he also claimed that his reputation was enough to keep people away. We may never know if it was terminal disgust with the direction of this country or the simple attrition of age. After all, he was 67, had a hip replacement and recently broke a leg. Pain might be the one drug he decided to do without. But as an outspoken critic of the “W” vision of America and the precipitous decline of civil rights, he may at last have given into despair.

Thompson will be remembered best for his self-proclaimed "gonzo" journalism, the notion that not only was objectivity not possible, but it was probably not all that desirable. To inhabit the world you studied—whether it was the Kentucky Derby, the Nixon presidential campaign, or the Hell's Angels—came with risks as well as rewards.

In a culture where paid mouthpieces help push the current administration's agenda in secret, Thompson has long been admired for being up front about his own beliefs and prejudices. While he was lionized by the 60s counterculture for the drug-fueled odyssey of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, his own views were distinctly libertarian. A lifetime member of the NRA, he was unabashedly proud of his guns as well as his notorious drug habits. Thompson has said, "I do not advocate the use of dangerous drugs, wild amounts of alcohol and violence and weirdness... but they've always worked for me."

Thompson understood the inevitability of remaining the outsider if you want to tell the truth. Yet it was this outsider status that made many celebrate him. He was immortalized as Uncle Duke in Gary Trudeau's comic strip Doonesbury. His thinly veiled alter-ego Raoul Duke has inspired two cinematic portraits; first, in the lamentable Where the Buffalo Roam (1980), a toothless party piece that had a lot more to do with Animal House than with the man himself, starring Bill Murray before he really became an actor. More successfully, the spirit of Fear and Loathing (1998) was captured in the film by Terry Gilliam, himself no slouch in the gonzo approach to creation. Ably supported by a stellar supporting cast including Benicio Del Toro and Christina Ricci, Johnny Depp eerily conjured the spirit of Thompson down to his bow-legged walk, a mimicry that the man himself admired. Gilliam’s film proved successful not just because he captured the drug-fueled chaos, but because he also caught Thompson’s despair at the death of the American Dream.

In more recent times, Thompson spoke out against what he saw as the descent toward fascism taken by the current administration since 9/11. Two years ago, in an interview with Salon, he characterized the Bush government caustically: “I believe the Republicans have seen what they've believed all along, which is that this democracy stuff is bull, and that people don't want to be burdened by political affairs. That people would rather just be taken care of. The oligarchy doesn't need an educated public. And maybe the nation does prefer tyranny. I think that's what worries me. It goes back to Fourth Amendment issues. How much do you value your freedom? Would you trade your freedom for some illusion of security? Freedom is something that dies unless it's used.”

Thompson always sought that freedom, even from his own caricatured fame, refusing to be a hero to those who sought to idolize him. A journalist to the end, information was always the key. "I've found you can deal with the system a lot easier if you use their rules—by understanding their rules, by using their rules against them." He never underestimated the brutality of the system, but he may have finally grown tired of the fight.

See the entire 2003 Salon interview at: http://www.salon.com/news/feature/2003/02/03/thompson/index1.html

Reviews

When you first get pubished, you feel euphoric -- until you realize the work has just begun. Getting the word out! In this information-bombarding culture, how do you get the word out without getting it lost in the shuffle? Well, blogs are one way. Reviews are another. Here's a review site that has already begun collecting reviews on Sword and Sorceress XXI. Feel free to add yours!

http://www.allfantasyreviews.com/books/bookdetail.php?bid=768

A Tale of the Bodhisattva

An ancient tale (or is it new?) of the Bodhisattva* relates how students once gathered to question the enlightened one. They all wanted to reach enlightenment too, and asked how to do so. The bodhisattva said "Enlightenment is like a thousand petal lotus. It is easy to get caught in one of the petals and dwell forever, but one should seek the center of the bud." Upon hearing this analogy, one student achieved enlightenment.

Another asked "How can one achieve enlightenment?" and the bodhisattva answered, "Enlightenment is like a lamp that always burns, yet ever must we re-light it." That student instantly received enlightenment.

A third student remained stubbornly silent. The bodhisattva picked up a tree limb and whacked the student on the head. The student fell face down in the mud and at once achieved enlightenment.

What is the aim of this story? That some must be hit over the head to achieve enlightenment? Or that a teacher must use all tools available?

*Bodhisattva--an enlightened being who has put off transcendence the better to help others reach enlightenment.

Hunter S. Thompson, R.I.P.

From an interview at Salon.com:

"I've found you can deal with the system a lot easier if you use their rules -- by understanding their rules, by using their rules against them."

Of course, he also said: ""I do not advocate the use of dangerous drugs, wild amounts of alcohol and violence and weirdness... but they've always worked for me."

He changed the idea of what reporting could mean and he took responsibility for his actions: "I consider myself a road man for the lords of karma." He understood the inevitability of remaining the outsider if you want to tell the truth.

On tour!

Tori in Tejas!

An Acceptance

Today I got word that my story "On Buffalo Bayou" has been accepted by New Texas, a literary magazine at West Texas A&M Univerisity. A literary magazine is the kind of prestige that matters more to my academic collagues (of course, that means no money, like most academic publishing).

The story is the first (and so far only) of mine to be set in Texas. Of course, it's a horror story -- just kidding! It's a tribute to Ray Bradbury's "The Jar" as well as a mythic fantasy. It's wonderful to pay homage to Bradbury and that fantastic collection The October Country, the place I really live. I'll never forget reading those stories. It was like finally finding that low door in the wall...

New Harp!

I purchased a new lap harp over the winter break. Her name is Ceili and she looks like this:



She has 22 strings and lovely handcrafting by Dwayne Glanton, including this lovely pyrography of flowers:



It's a bit different from playing the kanteles (a whole different plain of action -- vertical rather than horizontal) so it's a bit of an adjustment. I am learning through Sylvia Woods' Teach Yourself to Play Folk Harp. She has a beautiful sound (which I really ought to record).

Eureka!

Wow -- I got a fantastic birthday present Friday: a phone call to say I had won a Eureka! Fellowship. This means a whole month of just writing. What luxury! I can hardly believe it. The Writer's Colony at Dairy Hollow looks like a real treat; the area seems quite interesting too, featuring a lot of Victorian architecture and actual nature (I seem to remember the color "green" vaguely).

Thanks to Pat and Diane for writing me such glowing letters!

I'll be working on the Unikirja stories, so I'll have my Kalevala and one or two kanteles with me. Yippee!

Happy Birthday, William Blake!

Today is a day to celebrate the birth of William Blake - visionary, revolutionary, artist. He saw the world in a grain of sand and saw angels and spirits in his garden. His was a remarkable vision, one to be savored and treasured. There's a great exhibit still on line at the Tate, or visit the Blake Archive. He believed that All Religions Are One and that imagination was the most important faculty.

Here's a piece courtesy of the Blake Digital Text Project:

Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold, 
But the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm;
Besides I can tell where I am use'd well,  
Such usage in heaven makes all go to hell.

A Memory

When I was living in Los Angeles in the eighties and working in the Chemistry department, I was invited to a party by one of the post-docs, Stephen Rogers. I wasn't sure why I was invited. I knew him slightly, but he seemed so much more hip and downtown, but I went anyway, because then I lived in hope that my life was about to be magically transformed. I also thought the guy I liked might be there--he said he would be, but as eventually became clear to me, he was usually lying, or to be perhaps more fairly accurate, he always hoped to be telling the truth, but generally was not.

I got there--there being a downtown loft that screamed artist. Do I remember right, that there was his art on the walls, and the surprise of finding a chemist an artist, too? I was deeply envious of the space, having come from my little studio apartment. I didn't know many people when I walked in and I was ready to make a quick turn and walk out, but steeled myself for the always difficult social situation. They all seemed so much more chic, and I felt gigantic and awkward--as always--in my funky Hollywood tat. But I tried to feel as if I were enjoying myself, while I mainly edged toward corners and watched. The moment that really stands out is everyone (except, of course, me) dancing in tiny controlled movements to the Cure's "Close to You." People who do not mark their memories with music cannot understand how indelibly that moment is etched in that song; hearing it even now makes me wistful as I see the skinny girls in their black dresses dance, feet flashing.

But later, about the time I was thinking of going (so, not much later) he told me why he had invited me. Ironically, I guess he didn't expect an artist in the staff of the Chemistry department. And I remember always what he said, "I loved watching you watching the audience watch your play." It made me feel terribly self-conscious but it also pleased me--it always pleases me to be noticed in a good way (I'm still, after all these years, the Invisible Girl) but more than that, I suppose I felt like he got it. That writing, all art, is an attempt to have an impact, to change--if not the world--then the lives of a few people. It was one of those little moments to treasure. I kept it like a trinket, one that could be kept in my pocket and occasionally pulled out to observe, smile, and secret away again. Perhaps I harbored hopes that I would fit into this artsy crowd and belong, not feel terminally awkward. But a short time later, Rog killed himself.

I recall the chair of our department coming in, haggard--he had to call the parents back in Pennsylvania. We were all stunned. I felt a sense of loss disproportionate to my slight friendship because I had that little trinket tucked in my pocket, that memory of kindness and recognition. I named a character after him in the novel I wrote at the time; the character tries to save the main character from hurtling toward madness and dissolution. But he can't quite do it. It's not much--an unrepresentative character in an unpublished novel. Perhaps the little trinket is a more fitting legacy; how rare to be seen and understood. Such a rare treasure, this little trinket. Thank you, Rog. Requiescat in pace.

(written in Roanoke VA 6.37am after waking from a disturbing dream)

And, yes, the third publication this month!

Gene has prompted me to post this one too, although I suspect few will rush out to buy this expensive and weighty tome (and er -- I have a pretty good number of offprints for friends :-)

Viator, the esteemed journal of Medieval and Renaissance Studies: this year's volume features one of my dissertation chapters (revised) --

"Translating Saint as (Vi)King: St. Olaf in the Heimskringla"

This is quite the proverbial feather in the cap for my academic publishing. I owe immense thanks to Tom Hall, my committee member from U Illinois-Chicago (yes, he came all the way to UConn for my defence), for suggesting I send Olaf here.





Here's a picture of Olaf from the Catholic Information Network, which has a short essay on him here.

Another New Publication!

The Horror in Film and Literature group is now forever immortalized in print! Here's the new collection from University Press of Mississippi:



Horror Film: Creating and Marketing (and, Gene would add, Consuming) Fear
ed. Steffen Hantke

Hey! My name's even on the cover -- swank. My essay is "From SBIGs to Mildred's Inverse Law of Trailers: Skewing the Narrative of Horror Fan Consumption" and details the impact of the HFL on-line discussion list, a rather venerable group as internet lists go as it's been around for fifteen years. I'm a relative newbie, having been on it only 9 or 10 years.

No reviews yet on Amazon! Perhaps someone will leave one soon...

MZB Sword & Sorceress XXI

Now available from Amazon:

Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword & Sorceress XXI, which features my short story "Sun Thief."



If you want to order it from your local independent book store: ISBN 075640195X.

See DAW books page for the collection http://www.dawbooks.com/Book/BookFrame/0,,,00.html?id=075640195X>here.

They describe it as: "The best-selling Sword & The Sorceress series continues with this thrilling 21st edition of all-original stories of action-packed adventure, ultimate magic, and fearsome, sword-wielding women by some of the best names in fantasy today."

I'm flattered to be in their company.

So....America chooses.

In this election, choices were clear. Americans have apparently chosen fear over hope; hatred over tolerance; war over peace. So be it. Our choices make the world we live in. I weep for this country. Once we stood for hope and freedom--now intolerant Christian fundamentalists have imposed their leader upon us, and he is one who seems hell-bent on hurtling us toward an Armageddon of his own making.

I will never cease working for peace, tolerance and understanding. It is my mission as an educator. This election is the primary evidence of the failure of education in this country.