September 11, 2009

Outside eight years ago, I steeped in sudden silence. Within that stillness, fear and uncertainty festered, infecting many with suspicion and mistrust. To soothe unquiet minds, we sculpted fresh heroes, saints and demons, breathing life into them before the dust had settled from the air. Now, once-shining avatars weather into golems whose crumbling structures reveal the rubble, dirt and ash still trapped deep within.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Dragon*Con 2009: Dancing in the Dragon's Lair

How can you know up without down? High without low? Beauty creates ugliness; there is no shadow without the light.

One percent of our year has come and gone in Atlanta. We have seen the Dragon, danced within its lair. But at the end of that encounter, I am uncertain whether we are the slayer or the slain.

The year was marked by good and bad in equal measure. Nothing catastrophic, but not quite the heights we scaled in years before. The line at registration, the six panels we left early, the hike down twelve flights of stairs with suitcases, the mild food poisoning (if those three words ever go together), the three missed concerts, the war game I wanted that disappeared, those were lows. The highs were the record number of panels and concerts we attended, the nine CD's by six groups we brought back home, the short-story I sketched out on the plane, the photographer from Twitter we touched base with again this year, and the lead singer of the Cruxshadows remembering Karen. A full and busy weekend marked by marginal frustrations.

This year was typified by our trips to the dealers' room. I saw a used SPI war game from the 70's called Musket and Pike that intrigued me, though it was expensive so I wanted to think about it. The more I thought, the more I decided I would buy it. By the time I went back, it was one of the few that was gone. That's how this year felt, promising but disappointing.

Some changes we noted from previous years: fewer Goths, fewer kids, less skin, more people, more costumes, more sponsors, more folk and Celtic music.

I'm sure people wonder what we do for five days in Atlanta. How much science fiction can occupy our time? Panels for us tend to divide into four basic food groups, the inspiring, the thought provoking, the entertaining and the complete waste of time. I'll give the highlights and teasers from each day.

Thursday started with two and a half hours in line at registration. I'm not sure we'll use Ticket Master again. It's always understaffed. This year, I heard the convention website crashed so a LOT of people went to Ticket Master. And they sent 2 people to handle them all. After that we met another couple at an Indian restaurant for dinner and a great chicken curry. We topped the night with a concert by the Spider Lilies, a band formed by the former guitarist of the Cruxshadows. Decent music poorly mixed.

Friday started on a hot streak. William Shatner and Leonard Nimoy on DCTV in the hotel. No lines, no crowds, great seats, fun interaction between them. Our first panel was a talk on the I Ching, complete with a handout, by a bio-anthropologist who had no trouble resolving his science and his personal (not professional) use of it. Next was a great presentation on biophages, viruses that infect bacteria sometimes killing them in the process, perhaps the solution to antibiotic resistant strains of disease. A contribution we've ignored from the former Soviet Union. The day peaked with two hours of instruction by a director and editor on lighting and framing in film which we translated into still photography. They went over a standard three light arrangement, the law of thirds and crossing the line. Then, a discussion of an unexplained gravity anomaly discovered in the data from the Pioneer probes as they exit the solar system. After that, the evening fell apart with two aborted panels, one a no-show by the primary speaker. We used the opportunity to peruse the music tables and pick up the first load of CDs. We opted to forego the 1:30 a.m. performance by Abney Park, a band we'd seen before, to start fresh the following day.

Saturday dawned promisingly enough with a thought provoking panel about viewing art on the Internet called the Low-cut Blouse Phenomenon by the photographer who did the Myth of Photographic Truth last year. How do you entice people to examine or contemplate art in 100 x 120 pixels? After that, Karen and I briefly parted ways with her sitting in on a so-so instruction on how to draw monsters and aliens while I sat through an ok authors panel on what women want in science fiction. Then a panel on pandemics with two authors and a scientist from the CDC that was informative and not much more. The day started to degraded with another two aborted panels, though we used the time to crawl the dealer's room the first time, hit the music tables again and get some dinner (bad choice, my friend). It briefly peaked right after with a fascinating discussion of synesthesia, the cross-talk between senses from the same input ("Fours are red, sevens are green, and green tastes funny") by a neuroscience clinician, a doctor of cognitive psychology and a doctor of psychology and neurobiology. That was followed by yet another aborted discussion where two authors confused economics with social engineering. We salvaged the night with the Cruxshadows concert which was eminently danceable until almost 2 a.m. Once again, we got in easily by waiting until the line had passed.

Sunday we slept in. About noon I realized someone had slipped a little something extra into the our salad the night before, which left me at about half power through the remainder of the weekend. If you starve a cold and feed a fever, what do you do when you feel dizzy and flushed? Apparently, sit in panels until it clears on the flight home thirty-six hours later. Or maybe the two lemon wedges I ate in the airport did the trick.

First that day, we hit a great demonstration on how to draw wings complete with a handout and website references wing exhibits in museums. Next was an entertaining presentation of how much longer humanity will have the resources needed to support our current lifestyle. Turns out 25-100 years for things like aluminum, copper, lead, oil, gold and silver and platinum, not to mention those nice little exotics that run your laptop and cell phone. Followed by a solid discussion of military attitudes and personal interactions by a retired USAF officer. After a short break, there was a good presentation on decomposition of bodies by a forensic anthropologist, though perhaps the slides weren't dinner fare. Then an interactive life art drawing panel modeled by three local dancers. Karen did really well. I played to my strengths and focused on one of the model's eyes which were striking with their makeup and the strands of hair crossing them. The day ended on a sour note with a writing panel hijacked by five authors who chose to waste our time with war-stories rather than discuss the topic listed. We opted out of the Faith and the Muse, and Ayria concerts that night in favor of sleep and early panels the next morning. Listening to the CDs, I'm sorry with missed the first but perhaps not the second.

By Monday morning I felt a little better. Just in time for perhaps the best presentation of the convention on Darwinian dating: the biological basis of beauty, or what we look for and gauge in prospective mates based solely on appearance. Did you know women can smell not only good genetics but symmetry in men? Cologne doesn't help guys, it only annoys them. This one was delivered by the anthropologist from Sunday (who had ditched out on two of our aborted panels). We checked out of our room and followed up with an illustration demo that was more of a discussion by two artists, one digital, one traditional, but still fascinating as I could apply many of their observations from painting to writing. We rounded out the day with an overview of digital forensics and anti-forensics by a Georgia lawyer and an electronic investigation consultant. Is everyone out there is practicing safe wifi on their iPhones? Probably not judging by the number of passwords they picked off in the room. After a quick run through the dealers' rooms and the art show, we crawled for the airport and headed home. It's good Monday was short as I was lucky to be standing by the time we got on the plane.

If I had to pick the three most outstanding or inspiring panels this year, the would be Lighting and Framing, Darwinian Dating and a tie between Biophages and Synesthia. So the Science track wins out again this year even for the two we walked out of. Art put in a solid, consistent performance again with notables in Film, Writing and Silk Road, though the latter two had more losers than winners.

The business cards disappeared regularly from tables, transparencies first even though they were interleaved with the paper ones. Unfortunately, several stacks got cleared out by the cleaning crews in a game of mouse and mouser before it became apparent where they would and wouldn't allow information to linger. About 200 went into people's pockets, with some still disappearing on the last day. We'll see if anything comes of them.

A reasonable trip, though it didn't quite live up to the anticipation. This year felt a lot like being on the outside looking in. In a month, we'll reserve a room or two for next year, and decide next summer whether it has moved beyond us, we have moved beyond it or we just had an off year. The Marriott is definitely the place to be for us, on a low floor where we can use the stair. Karen is trying to convince her boss to provide a USGS presence next year with a panel or two, which I think would be good for him and his book, the Survey and the convention. We'll let you know if that works out.

Until then, we'll be listening to CDs, writing e-mails, checking websites, compiling a list of good and bad speakers, and trying to digest what we learned. And enjoying Nyala and Mara's affection now that we are home.

© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Anticipation

Anticipation - a reading (on YouTube)

Waiting, waiting, always waiting. 360 days of waiting and still we wait some more.

If you look for me over Labor Day, you'll find me in Atlanta. As we crawl through the unending days until Dragon*Con, we are like teenagers on the night before the first day of school, restless with thoughts of old friends, new teachers and new classes. We meet up to compare schedules and lockers, check out who's new and who's missing, who’s changed and who is just the same. We revel in that moment of endless promise and possibility before the first bell rings and notes are made on our permanent records. Excitement. Anticipation. An adventure.

Only geeks, right?

We arrive early to review our battle plan, our timetable gridded out with spreadsheet-like precision, knowing it will be shredded by the first encounter wandering down the hall. We reconnoiter the terrain, though after more than half a decade, we know it like the inside of our home at night. We note any rearrangement in the landscape, new tracks, new traps, new ambush sites.

We map out each encounter space, ruins, lairs, abandoned towers, any new source of potential treasure. Like sailors on a circumnavigation, we review our upcoming ports of call, Savannah, Cairo, Singapore, Manila. Like starship troopers, we learn the alien runes designating our assigned compartments, A703, M105, L504. For the next four days, we will be minotaurs wandering through this maze, vampires who fear the slightest kiss of sun. When Monday comes, we will be like clockwork toys whose springs are in need of winding.

Right now, our springs are fully wound, tight with anticipation. We are like children craving sugar the eve of Halloween, college students preparing for half a week of Mardi Gras rolled in with New Year's Eve. Our giddiness only intensifies as we stand in line waiting to get badged and cleared for entry. Like the alarms on our watches and cameras and cell phones, we slowly count down until D-Day, H-Hour, the second when the ball drops, the panels open and we let the games begin.

On the eve of this invasion, we roam the empty halls embracing the tingling, contented silence before they burst to overflowing. We stand watch on a balcony overlooking an impending anachronistic battle where the deaths are only temporary and the violence make-believe. We can almost hear the previous year echoing through the hotel lobbies and atriums and interconnecting hallways. Though a few old veterans are missing, we feel their presence like kindly spirits moving through the haze below, friendly ghosts drawn back to the self-described best weekend of their year.

When the gates finally creak open in the morning, we abandon all our cares in a pile by the door. Our days turn into bivouacs on a wilderness adventure. We carry rations in our backpacks, sling waterskins to be filled in this land of many springs. We become a recon team for the odd and the offbeat, slipping unnoticed into the strangest panels on the strangest tracks in the smallest, sometimes most crowded rooms. The quirky ones that surface then disappear. The ones that send archetypes and ingénues stalking through our collective subconscious, or settle in our minds like weird states of matter that shouldn't quite exist. Or dance before our eyes like symbols in the formulas defining interstellar combat. Or tickle our reasoning with the myth of photographic truth. The ones that fire our imaginations. The ones that make us think

For now, we read the intel reports to choose our encounters wisely. Occasionally, we reference the topo maps to find alternate routes around blocking actions and the inevitable pitched battle between the Miss Klingon Empire contestants and the Imperial 501st that spills into the hall. We are men and women on a mission; no one can bar our way. We fight through a phalanx of Kentucky-Fried 300, their creamy white beer-bellies blinding our eyes and sending our minds reeling with thoughts that loincloths are a privilege, not a right. Armies of angels and demons and faeries hover and flit around us, attempting to distract us with their plunging necklines before battering us with their underwired wings. We claw our way through hordes of synchronized Jacksonian undead, then dice with the blunderbuss-toting ranks of Victorian steam-punk explorers who stumbled into our melee, wagering for a map to guide them home.

We stockpile provisions in our night camp, content to live off the land and our rations until we return each day to rest. We hold vigils in the drum circle each night, dancing with the shadows in the concert halls, crawling back to our bedrolls with the False Dawn Brigade to catch enough sleep to stay on track tomorrow, whatever track that is, Art or Science, Space or Writing. In the morning we might wander the Silk Road or roam the Electronic Frontier until we are consumed by an Apocalypse Rising against the horizon.

We sprinkle business cards on the tables, hoping to seed some new readers, hoping at least a few will grow. We exchange coded contacts with fellow adventurers in casual meetings over coffee or in the lull of empty rooms. When the adventure is over, we will gather virtually or face-to-face to recount our tales, exchange our lies and compare our notes and treasure as we quietly sip our coffee. Very, very quietly.

Before we break camp on Monday, we will load up with parti-colored trinkets, baubles, books and music that we haggle from dealers and artisans in the booths of the bazaar. By then, we will have become like children's tops that have wound almost completely down, wobbling before we topple over on the plane.

But now, our strings are tightly wrapped, ready for the pull that spins us into the four dizzying days we crave to create sufficient memories to see us through the remainder of the year. Until then, we wait like children impatient to open our presents on this alternative Christmas Eve, sleeplessly wondering what surprises our secret Santa has in store for us this year.

If you look for me over Labor Day, you'll find me in Atlanta. I'll be the tall, dark-haired, geeky looking guy with glasses staying in the Marriott Marquis, the one carrying the khaki shoulder pack, the one with a leather notebook always in hand. That should narrow it down to one of several thousand. If you’re truly brave or interested, find the needle in the haystack called Smoke or Nodda Imaginings. If you get close enough to read my badge, perhaps I'll see you there.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Lughnasa 2009

Lughnasa 2009 - a reading (on YouTube)

Lughnasa. English Lammas. The sun slowly fades from its solstice peak. Its journey is like a river; the water constant in its swirling, only the landscape changing as it slides by and day follows day.

The first day of harvest dawns with soft, shadowless, silver light creeping through the windows. By the river, a low furnace burns among the trees whose leaves dance a pantomime against the silver-orange light that forges another smoky dawn.

The spirits of the neighborhood gather to accept the offering of Lammas bread I lay before them, a small sacrifice to the guardians of this suburban demesne. With fluttering wings and fanned tails, young blues dance a ritual challenge against the reds, duns and grays for control of the unending seed. A red-shouldered juvenile frolics in the morning sun, chasing fallen pine needles before clutching one as a prize as it ascends to an oaken perch.

As I turn toward the water's edge, the summer sun embraces me like a lover long away, the humidity crushing all the breath from my chest. Nestled among the sage in this sere and shattered season, a lone purple blossom recalls an ancient rain song with an echo of storms to come.

The river is a still, black mirror marred only by a patchwork stain of lily pads, reflecting the cypress knees that tremble from supporting a dark green canopy of sky. Islands of tall, straight pines scattered across a green sea of pasture form the only topography along this stretch of watery highway.

Lightning skitters and shies along the horizon as cloud bottoms blur, merging sky with sea. Closer now, the lightning dances among the clouds, flashing their petticoats as distant elders grumble their disapproval at the provocative display. As the rain sheets down, the voice of the river rises from a hoarse whisper to a thunderous roar proclaiming its rebirth.

The edges of the world become as sharp as shattered crystal in the sterling twilight that follows the landscape cleansing rain. As night descends, the moon plays hide and seek among the clouds, its light occasionally spilling onto the water like heavy cream overflowing a large pewter pitcher.

By the equinox, thousands of migratory birds will form intricate line drawings of shallow waves cresting upon the river's wide and sandy shores. On a bluff overlooking the water, a mound of stones creates a low, dark chamber with a narrow passage leading in from outside, a cold womb where the dead are reborn from within. Towering trees guard these ancient ruins where gods once wept. Only blind men dwell there now, unscathed by its fallen beauty.

Each year wends along its own journey. Some happily burble while others crash and tumble over cataracts. A few become silent mirrors upon which we can reflect, with no two images looking exactly the same. Enjoy the journey, wherever it may take you. The river might not pass this way again.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Free Fall and 55 Fiction

New Times 55 Fiction

This morning one of my entries into the New Times 55 Fiction competition was published. It is titled "Free Fall."

So I thought I would share all the entries and the winner. They all started with lines I’ve been posting on Twitter.

Check out the other stories at the link above. There are some good ones. Enjoy.

No Surrender

In response to his enemy’s request, he raised the white flag high above the watchtower, where both armies could plainly see it. Its corners snapped in the breeze, disrupting the sudden silence that embraced the walls. Once it had drawn everyone’s attention, he set fire to the pole and watched it burn as his reply.

Regret

Alone outside an hour after the argument, he felt a sting of regret followed by an ache deep within his chest. By the time he thought to look down at the dampness pooling on his shirt, the belated crack of the rifle caught up to him and his lifeblood was already spent.

The Question

Would she or wouldn’t she? The question hung between them like a perfect smoke ring, constantly circling inward on itself. Then her sharp sigh tore it open and it dissipated, unanswered, leaving only the bittersweet memory of an unexplored future lingering in the air. He knew in that moment he would have to find another.

Free Fall

His world became summer bright outside, winter dark inside, with no spring to bridge the two. Only tumbling in a perpetual fall. His life narrowed to a series of breaths floating in free fall, as peaceful as he'd ever been, until the rope snapped taut and his feet came up just short of the ground.

Summer Solstice 2009

Summer Solstice 2009 - a reading (on YouTube)

Shadows slant from north to south as the sun continues its annual progress, a celestial pilgrimage through this sublunary realm.

The morning whispers in pearl white velvet as shadow cardinals dance behind the blinds. Outside, a knot of butterflies chase through the grass like a cloud of mischievous faeries playing tag on the wing. From ground level the lawn looks like a jungle, the ants a distant tribe of hunters pursuing their quarry high into the canopy. Elite arachnids in bright green and orange uniforms parachute down upon unsuspecting prey. Tiny wrens twitter warnings against each intruder lurking behind the morning leaves.

Suddenly, a gray stillness descends as though the world outside has paused for breath. Thunderheads obscure the horizon. Stormbound light casts long, double shadows directly south. The sky grumbles in strobed slow-motion with unheralded flashes of freeze-frame anger that capture the world in thunderously burning violet. Raindrops ripple and shatter the world's reflection in the mirror of an ancient pond.

Green leaves glow against a slate of purple clouds as the downpour trickles away into torrents of slanted sunshine. An indigo silhouette swoops in below the rooftops, an iridescent shadow with an offering of bread rinds it sacrifices at the hanging pool. At the bottom of that restless, rippled basin, in a spot of sunlight no larger than a silver dollar, a thousand summer dreams swim free.

As the sun melts and runs into an orange lake, a lavender sky oozes through the trees as evening slowly slips toward night. Beyond the field of twinkling, midsummer lights, the voices of the dead call as whippoorwills, a reminder that this time is brief and must not be forgotten.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Beltane 2009

Beltane 2009 - a reading (on YouTube)

In darkness there is memory. In shadows, a witness to our reflections. At moonrise the shadows coalesce into the shapes of trees disguised as men, hungry and threatening, their sylvan fingers scratching at the window. In the forest, gathered green men turn their faces eastward to catch a glimpse of the sun king reborn.

The wind whispers colors across the morning sky, telling tales of all the places it has been. A golden fanfare of allamanda echoes off a slate gray ceiling. The sun peers through a fine leaden veil as the wind traces the shadows of her face with a delicate lover's touch. When the veil parts and the morning brightens, new leaves perch upon the branches like hundreds of yellow-green butterflies drying their wings, poised to take flight. Near the moss cloaked statuary, fallen flames of honeysuckle litter the grass like discarded votives at an unnamed shrine.

The morning air has the cool edge of a little used knife scraping slowly against a pale blue stone as the seasons prepare for battle. Summer and winter have once again entered the lists to settle their annual dispute, this time to the death. Two men, one armored in multicolored ribbons with a willow wand, the other armed with only a shield and blackthorn switch. Like ancient rivals at a watering hole, each circles in silence, cautiously waiting for the other to respond. Between the need-fires their melee erupts, and none too swiftly ends. The green man claims the victor's cup, quenching his thirst with honey mead, sweet water from a holy well. The straw man has been scattered, at least for a time. From winter's corpse we sow the embryonic seeds from which the barley king will rise so we may sacrifice him later in the year.

In the west, the sun peers shyly around a pale purple curtain, her face half concealed. She retreats demurely, divergent rays shining outward from radiant eyes behind a gold-lined mask. As we bow to the antlered king, she sets the sky afire in his name, burning a rainbow of amber to apricot, lavender to ash. The last a reminder that deep within the thicket, a wicker man is born, stalking among the roses, and all too soon will be coming home.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III