It's more than just weird new words and space vatos with gringo names on Chicanonautica, at La Bloga.
On the location of an ancient, advanced civilization:
Chicano sci-fi is alive and wild:
Going mano a mano with the new reality:
In a struggle for a future:
As the world gets more dangerous every day, I wonder about what makes stories dangerous? Ideas can certainly be dangerous. Without some kind of disturbance to the status quo, you don’t have a story. I guess it depends on how way-out it is . . .
THE TIME OF THE SKIN by A.E. Van Vogt
Alfred Elton Van Vogt is unknown to younger generations of sci-fi consumers, though his status as a SFWA Grandmaster has kept some of his works in print and on library shelves. I met him a few times and heard him speak at science fiction conventions back in the Seventies. Some background about him is in order.
He was shy and socially awkward like a lot of science fiction people. Definitely not “hip,” but called himself a “way-out writer.” He was a big influence on Philip K. Dick. George Clayton Johnson called him the greatest science fiction writer because of the originality of his ideas. He was one of the writers who created the “hard science” subgenre in the Golden Age of John W. Campbell’s Astounding Stories. I once heard him give a talk about bad LSD trips of young friends and his theories about where they came from.
Though Alien is considered to be inspired by his story “Black Destroyer” part of his novel Voyage of the Space Beagle--20th Century Fox paid him a $50,000 out-of-court settlement--the media hasn’t discovered him, yet. (Emily reminded me that another Space Beagle story "Discord in Scarlet" also inspired Alien and was part of the lawsuit.)
Using a technique developed for churning out pulp fiction, he wrote in 800 word blocks, and would free-associate to decide what would happen next, and how the story would end. He also used an “industrial timer” to wake himself up during his dream cycle to access his subconscious and incorporate it into his writing. This nice, clean-cut, old-fashioned, rational man backed himself into surrealism.
His stories get quite “way-out.”
Which brings us to “The Time of the Skin.” Harlan told him to “Write whatever you want.” It takes place in a spaceport, that’s very much like an airport (which have always been futuristic, and still are, and always will be). These are places where worlds come together, which is a dangerous situation. There are aliens, of course. The security men (no women, Van Vogt has some peculiar ideas about the differences between the sexes) have to deal with their vampiric existence and their predatory relationship with humans and can’t tell the aliens from their victims. Sounds like a set-up for a sci-fi/horror thriller, but we see things from the aliens’ point of view, and it takes some odd turns. The heroes are not triumphant, but the ending isn’t one of those where the monsters win or are shown to be available for a sequel. A kind of symbiosis is revealed. A spaceport is shown to be like an organ through which we and others flow, and mix.
I was a little disappointed at first. But I found myself thinking about it. Which is probably what Van Vogt intended.
There are parallels with the current concerns about immigration, but it was written decades ago . . .
Once again, the encounter with the other has transformative effects.
I’m seeing some recurring themes.
Chicanonautica helps announce the cover of Xicanx Futurism: Gritos for Tomorrow at La Bloga.
So grito like a mariachi:
For tomorrow:
All the way to Mars:
Because today’s satire is tomorrow’s business plan:
Meanwhile, news from the White House sounds like dangerous visions. If they were written up as stories back in the day, would Harlan have bought them or rejected them as too bugfuck? Where could I get a hold of a time machine cheap? Do Trump’s executive orders deserve a special Hugo award?
But I digress . . .
THE GREAT FOREST LAWN CLEARANCE SALE–HURRY, LAST DAYS! Stephen Dedman
Besides aesthetic terrorism, I also believe in creative blasphemy. It’s the closest I come to having a religion, and the only path to enlightenment that makes sense to me. This story is chock full of the stuff. A way is found to bring back the dead, do they resurrect Jesus (not Chuy next door, that Jesus) and it goes horribly, and hilariously, wrong. And it’s not just an unbeliever putting down one of the world’s popular religions, trying hard not do a spoiler, the ending turns things around . . . Uh oh, what if it’s not a simple anti-religious tract? Too bad we don’t see more stuff like this. It’s fun. Why does religion have to be such a sacred cow?
INTERMEZZO 3: EVEN BEYOND OLYMPUS D.M. Rowles
Another one of these quickies. We used to call them short-shorts, but now they’re referred to as flash fiction. This one’s a fable about creation and oblivion. It could get heavy if you think too much about it.
AFTER TASTE - Cecil Castellucci
Eating is a dangerous subject. Getting moralistic about the always violent act of assimilating living matter into yourself so you can survive gets touchy. The Aztecs considered plant and animal flesh to be the same substance. Life is all there is to eat, and we can’t not do it. The story starts like a space opera about a galactic food critic and goes beyond the expected light humor. Then there’s a take on sexual reproduction possible between different species—and it’s not consensual. Every contact leaves a residue. Experiencing the unknown changes you. A galactic civilization—and the coming together of different worlds—would not be like in commercial space operas where humans in the far future behave just like us, except in fresh costumes. We are what we eat. The universe is stranger that we can imagine. Cultural fusion, like nuclear, releases a lot of energy. Bravo Castellucci!
Gets me thinking about conceptual mayhem for my great science fiction bullfighting novel, but that’s a whole other chingadera . . .
LEVELED BEST Steve Herbst
A variation on Vonnegut’s “Harrison Bergeron” without the humor. This time it’s intellectual equality that’s being enforced. The destruction of the narrator’s mind and ability to use language is truly horrific. And we now live in a society that the thinks being smart is an abomination, and dystopias and considered proper amusements for teenage girls. Maybe some humor would help.
Meanwhile, the news from Washington D.C. is dystopian with a strong chance of getting apocalyptic. Funny in a blasphemous, alien way.
And there’s a lot more to come . . .
Chicanonautica is all about global transmogrification, at La Bloga.
It’s because of some kind of emergency (or two or three):
So maps are being redrawn:
Guerrilla worldbuilding is in order:
Because powerful people have visions of their own:
Doing things the “right” way, the way everybody tells me it’s supposed to be done, often doesn’t work for me. But of course, I have to try it, just to make sure.
Over a year ago, I finished Zyx; Or, Bring Me the Brain of Victor Theremin, and figured I needed to shop it around the big, New York publishers. Well, it’s taken this long for a couple of agents to decide it wasn’t their kind of thing and wish me luck in finding someone who could work with me. I figure if I keep sending it around for another decade or two I might find one.
The problem is, I ain’t getting any younger and I’m close to 70. I’m in great health, but who knows how many decades I have left? And my patience has been running low lately.
So, I’m giving up on New York, the big time, Zyx being a bestseller, and making me rich enough to retire from my day job to write all my bucket list novels.
Whenever I mention that I’ve finished another novel to a small press, they ask me to consider them. I’ve decided to give them a try, so I’m making a list, and scanning the horizon.
I’ve also revised my proposal for Zyx, this time, ditching all the advice about being “commercial” and about considering the concerns of the corporate world.
As a treat for your loyal readers, I’m presenting it here:
*******************
ZYX; Or, Bring Me the Brain of Victor Theremin is like a cross between Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas–several simultaneous cross country chases taking place in an apocalyptic time, and oh yeah, there’s an alien invasion. The Singularity is happening but collapsing under its own weight. AIs are trying to take over but are confused by the chaotic nature of humans and civilization. Access to technology has caused governments, big business, and crime syndicates to overlap in alarming and unpredictable ways. Search engines are ready to go to war with each other the way nations used to. Automated kaiju are evolving their own agendas, far different than what was intended by the entertainment industry that created them. Victor Theremin, down-and-out Chicano science fiction writer who has spent his life cultivating chaos as a means of adapting to change, has suddenly become a commodity – or at least his brain has. And now he’s on the run.
Fortunately, Victor is not without his allies, though many of them are more like frenemies – writers, artists, scientists, anarchists— and his female African American “intern.” A powerful network of AIs partnered with him years earlier, dazzling him with their graphene nanotechnology, hoping to adapt his philosophy of life into their strategies for creative problem-solving. Multiple ex-wives and ex-girlfriends are still invested in his survival, even while they’re trying to avoid entanglement in his schemes. When he’s kidnapped then kicks his way out of the prison and goes on the run, it’s a mad dash across the Southwest to see which colliding agendas will produce the biggest explosion. There’s UFOs, sasquatches, chupacabras, ayahuasca, secret black and Chicano space programs, Nazis, neohippies, and a lot of buffaloes. The very thing that Victor is trying to avoid may be the solution – and the salvation of the world.
TRIGGER WARNING: THE ALIENS DO UNNATURAL THINGS TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES!
How is this book similar to other novels? It’s in the spirit of Harlan Ellison and Dangerous Visions Besides Douglas Adams and Hunter S. Thompson, readers may be reminded of Philip K. Dick, Kurt Vonnegut, and Ishmael Reed. Its On-the-Road qualities may inspire some comparisons to Jack Kerouac and Tom Robbins, and the more psychedelic passages could be compared with William S. Burroughs.
How is this book different? Unlike Dune and Harry Potter, which take the King Arthur approach to story: a Chosen One suffers through travails, learns lessons, and then saves the day, this novel has more of a Don Quixote approach. Characters stumble around, tilting at windmills and misunderstanding the events unfolding around them, arriving at the solution only after they muster the wit to interpret their failures. The result is funnier than Neuromancer. Hubris is celebrated and chaos gives birth to new possibilities.
Chicanonautica announces my next teaching gig, over at La Bloga.
Everybody wants to be a writer:
Even all kinds of Chicanoids:
In a world going stark, raving sci-fi:
Making dystopia while out wait:
And now, the stories, the visions. The other stuff is fun, but they’re what it’s all about.
But first, what is a dangerous vision?
The first volume was an attempt to break down the taboos of the American science fiction magazines and their pulp traditions. By the time the second volume came out, a revolution in the genre was well on its way. The world was changing, too.
Just what is a dangerous vision all these decades later—in another century?
I could write a long essay on the subject, but this is about TLDV, so let’s put my opinions aside and get to the stories–the visions themselves . . .
ASSIGNMENT NO.1 Stephen Robinett:
The AngloAmerican taboo of death and what we do when the old folks get old and nonfunctional gets addressed. Not bad, but after all these decades, it seems like typical fare. Or maybe I’ve just gotten too intimate with the Angel of Death in the last few years . . .
HUNGER Max Brooks:
I sneered at first. Mel’s kid–who writes those zombie books? But what do I know? It gets a WOW! Turns out Max is a senior fellow at the Modern War Institute at West Point, New York, knows a lot of stuff and inherited some talent from his parents. A near future war that ain’t the usual “military” sci-fi stuff where it’s all playing soldier with new toys. This time it affects the food industry. The next war always has an element of the unexpected, and usually changes civilization as we know it. And no zombies.
INTERMEZZO 1: BROKEN, BEAUTIFUL BODY ON BEACH - D.M. Rowels
A short poetic piece with images like an early Dalà painting, questioning the idea of what is beautiful. Short, bittersweet, and to the point. What I like to call aesthetic terrorism.
NONE SO DEAF Richard E. Peck
PTSD deafness triggered by grief. Interesting display of what it’s like to live without sound. I would have liked it more if it had gone more badass sci-fi than literary depression.
INTRODUCTION TO ED BRYANT’S “WAR STORIES” Harlan Ellison
The only one of the intros he managed to write, so deserves to be reviewed. It’s a fun, witty blast of Harlan being Harlan. I enjoyed it, but despite the pleasure, he’s avoiding the subject at hand. Probably a taste of why he couldn’t write the others.
WAR STORIES Ed Bryant
Another winner! A truly dangerous vision. What science/speculative fiction should be. Can our society survive a shark's-eye view of itself? Hey, transhumanists! Read this before going on with your foolish fantasies about leaving our magnificent animal and biological heritage behind. The hot, wet, sticky mess is a lot of fun, and we need it even with the newfangled cybernetics.
Also: Ed Bryant was one of the great writers of the New Wave and he is largely forgotten today. Godfuckndamnit! Wonder if I can find any of his books? He deserved a lot better.
INTERMEZZO 2: BEDTIME STORY D.M. Rowles
This one capsulizes the whole idea of science fiction—and dangerous visions—in a few paragraphs. Like a nonvisual Gahan Willson cartoon.
So far we have death and aging, war and starvation, beauty, the sense of hearing, war (again) and our bizarre species, and science fiction itself called into question. The inner punk kid in me is amused, and my contemporary jaded adult was actually impressed a few times.
More to come . . .
See it in Chicanonautica, over at La Bloga.
Just in time for the mass deportations:
It’s Xicanx:
And futurism:
Who knows here it could go?
It’s not a preface or an introduction. Exegesis works. An explanation. The Last Dangerous Visions and Harlan Ellison need explaining. The book and what happened to it, and the man, are sources of controversy. “Ellison Exegesis” helps.
It’s also an excellent essay, worthy of Ellison himself. Straczynski deserves praise.
Funny how we often can’t fully understand people until they’re gone.
Here it is, a simple explanation for his superhuman creativity and energy, and what happened to it as he got older. Bipolar disorder. Manic depression. Suddenly, the strange life and career of Harlan Ellison becomes clear, but maybe it’s not so simple. It could also be the most dangerous vision of them all.
There’s a disturbing relationship between creativity and mental health. (I was going to say “mental illness,” but that sends the wrong message.) I’ve known dazzling, creative people who turned out to be bipolar. Once, at a science fiction convention, my friend, the late Rick Cook asked a room full of writers, “Who in this room has depressive condition?”
Nearly everyone raised a hand.
Me included.
It gets worse as they get older.
The fantastic energy isn’t there. They need to be alone. Writing and other creative work becomes difficult.
If they are diagnosed, they acknowledge the depressive part, but the manic, that’s part of what drives them to be creative–isn’t it? They are afraid that medication will kill their creativity. They ask if there’s a drug that would get rid of the downs and keep the ups . . .
But, of course, the manic is part of the problem.
Creativity, the wonderful thing that drives civilization and makes us truly human, depends on getting close to the Edge, and as Hunter S. Thompson said: “There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.”
Writing the above was scary. It kept sounding like I was describing myself.
After I couldn’t sell my third book, Smoking Mirror Blues–my agent eventually told me that no one in New York would publish it–I became severely depressed. Once on the phone, I told someone it was a few months, my wife gave me a serious look and said, “Three years.” I thought it over and told her if it ever seemed to be happening again, make me get help.
There have always been times when I’m feeling so good, and it all flows through me like magic . . . and I lose control.
I don't think I have the extreme mood swings I’ve seen in others, but it’s hard to see it when it’s happening to you.
A lot of wonderful, talented people come to tragic ends because of this. Damn. Our society needs to get real about mental health.
Chicanonautica covers the inaugration, at La Bloga.
Here's some mood music:
Just change Vietnam to Canada, Panama, Greenland, or Mars . . .
Dangerous Visions (I’m including Again, Dangerous Visions) changed my life. Thank you, Harlan. Now that The Last Dangerous Visions is upon us, I need to say some things. Not just a few. This is going to be a Mondo Ernesto series. This first episode is another how the first two books affected me.
In the early Seventies, I was entering high school, and trying to figure out what to do with myself. I seemed to be a budding cartoonist. A documentary about Ray Bradbury made me think I could be a science fiction writer. Discovering that a science fiction magazine was being published a block and a half from where I lived only encouraged me and introduced me to fandom. Then I found Harlan’s (he called me on the phone a few times, so I think I can get away with the informality) The Beast That Shouted Love At the Heart of the World at the local public library.
I couldn’t get enough. Soon I was reading The Glass Teat column in the library L.A. Free Press and everything else of his I could get my hands on.
I bought the paperback of Dangerous Visions at a signing at Change of Hobbit. I bought Again, Dangerous Visions at LACon, the 1972 WorldCon. The books, the stories, the introductions sent my life on a different path. Before, I was a shy, quiet kid who just wanted to hide in a room somewhere putting his fantasies on paper. Suddenly I realized this crazy world was full of all kinds of possibilities that I have never dreamed of. Yeah, I could be a writer, an artist, a “creative” (I hate that pretentious term) and, more importantly, live an amazing life. I could take on . . . everything.
In my senior year, I carried my autographed copy of A, DV to all my classes, often forcing fellow students to read selected passages, taking particular delight in the reactions of sweet girls who were shocked to discover that there were more things on heaven and earth than their West Covina upbringing—albeit augmented by pot and acid—had prepared them for. Aesthetic terrorism became a way of life for me. And it still is.
I waited for The Last Dangerous Visions, and eventually gave up hope and got distracted–my life did go on . . .
Now, with much thanks to J. Michael Straczynski, a version of it is finally here. I approach it with feelings of twisted nostalgia (it really has been a long, strange trip, my g-generation), and confused expectations. I will not rush through it. A book like this is a construction of many parts, all of which must be taken into consideration. And even deranged times such as these–who am I kidding?--especially in these deranged times, we need dangerous visions to knock us out of the cozy ruts we’ve settled into, because we need to be ready to deal with the Next Great Disruption that lurks just around the corner.
Instead of one review, I’m doing a series. It will take a while. I will be interrupted and distracted, but it'll be a wild, weird ride.
