For your Halloween enjoyment

Howl! Howl, wolves! Ow-woooooooo!

Connections

If you are of a certain age, you may remember a British television series called Connections, hosted by James Burke. It was all about the odd chains of events and improbable linkages that have led us — technologically, socially, geographically — to where we are. And it was absolutely fantastic. (If, perhaps, a bit unfashionably leisurely in its narrative pacing.)

O joy, O rapture! A friend has alerted me to the fact that you can now watch them ALL, ALL the episodes, on YouTube: here's the link. What a wonderful thing for the writer of speculative fiction! You want to learn how to write gripping plots that no-one could ever have predicted? Look at our intensely improbable world to find out how! (Just in time for NaNoWriMo, too.)

The next project — OPERA, my friends, OPERA!

I mentioned here in passing, while I was still recovering from the breathlessly marvellous adventure of getting The Death of Albatross produced in Sydney, that the next thing coming up was the premiere of two short operas on which my husband Houston and I have collaborated: "The Box" and "The Second Chance". They are tales of whimsy, regret, redemption, bittersweet humor, and magic (yes, actual magic, not just the "Oh, it was a magical afternoon of music and drama" — although we're hoping you'll think it's that, too). Observant friends will notice that there is another piece scheduled as part of the day's offerings, "Passione Appassionata", which will include poems by me! Moreover, there will be a meet-the-artists thing before each performance in which Houston and I (among others) will discuss the pieces and how they came to be. All for very small amounts of money!

Here's the information (click to biggify):



And here's Opera Prometheus's Facebook page. And here's their web site. If you're in or near Sydney that weekend, please attend!

Brain food? Or something even better?

Today my geeky husband, my geeky child, and I went to the entirely fabulous Art Gallery of New South Wales to see an exhibition about German art from the beginning of WWI to the rise of Nazism. It was intense: art that reflected profound distress and dislocation as entire centuries' habits of thought broke down — to be replaced by...what? Absurdity? Rigidity? Wild gushes of emotion? Moral and social license? It was a terrifying time, but also exhilarating: you were artistically free, for all intents and purposes. (Any wonder the Nazis came down on these people with such brutality?)

One of my favorite images in the exhibit was a photo by T. Lux Feininger, who (I was stunned to find out) only died this year, at age 101. He took the photo below; I'm not sure who has the copyright, so I'm risking posting it, hoping that Feininger's estate won't mind.


An untitled photograph by T. Lux Feininger

I love how the utterly sterile environment is transformed by the theatricality and energy of the people, and, of course, it's got a sword. Everything is better when someone is leaping around waving a sword. To me, this photograph is about joyous defiance against dehumanization. I absolutely love it.

The whole experience of going to this exhibit raises a question in my mind: why? Why go to museums? Is it to feed my brain with new images and ideas? Is it to provide me with background material for some future piece of writing? Is it to force-feed culture to my child? (Not that she needs it: she was as keen as Houston and I were to see the exhibit.) Or is it simply because it feels amazing to be in the presence of passion and skill and courage? Not to get anything out of it, not to achieve anything by it. Just to breathe it in. Just to honor it and cherish it. Just to cheer until you're hoarse for the people who were brave enough to stare horror and bewilderment and pain in the face, and make it mean something.

What will become of bookstores?

I love bookstores.  I have always loved bookstores.  I love them as much as I love libraries, and that's saying something.  But I can foresee a day when they will

all

be

gone.

I live in Australia, where books are, for a complex series of reasons that I've had explained to me many times but still stubbornly refuse to accept, jaw-droppingly expensive.   So, yes, I confess it:  when the Aussie dollar is strong and I get a windfall (both have to happen at once), I buy up big online.  I, personally, am killing what I love.  If even I can kill bookstores, how much easier for the completely matter-of-fact and pragmatic amongst us?

It might be worth a moment to look at what, specifically, makes me love bookstores.

1. I love the endless rows of shiny new books — all those possibilities, all those adventures awaiting!  And they're shiny and new, and they could be mine!


2. I love being able to look through a book, check out the author's style, see if the index and bibliography bolster its credentials, see if the pictures are pretty.


3. I love the physical act of taking a book home to be my very own, reading it on the train (oh, yes, friends, because of the appalling paucity of bookstores in Wollongong, I must take a train to Sydney to find bookstores that offer books that intrigue me).


4. I love the community of people who love books.  I love launches, readings, author talks, all that stuff.

Numbers 1 and (now) 2 can be replicated by Amazon, with the additional fun of keywords, "you might also likes", and customer reviews.  Number 3 can be not just replaced, but actually eclipsed by the joy of getting a box of books in the mail.  (Sorry, ebook-weenie friends, a download will NEVER equal it.)  So far, bookstores are not faring so well in a competitive market.

But look at Number 4.  What distinguishes it?  Actual, real-time, real-space human interaction.

I've been a member of online communities for nearly 30 years.  I'm extraordinarily comfortable talking with, becoming friends with, and even (in one memorable instance) falling in love with someone I have not seen in person.  (The falling-in-love thing did eventually result in a wedding and a child, I state for clarity's sake.)  But it's just not as immediate, as warm, as unpredictable, as vital, as a real-life face-to-face encounter.  That's where bookstores rule.*

My question is:  how feasible is it for bookstores to ditch the things that people don't need them for (that is, buying books) and focus on providing the things that people do need them for (that is, conversation, coffee and coffee analogues, a sense of occasion, and the spark of innovation and excitement that comes when people share ideas)?  Maybe bookstores should all become readers' cafes — or, better yet, readers', writers', and artists' cafes.  Havens where people who treasure ideas and creativity can relax, eat and drink nice things, and feel loved and welcomed. 

*Note: my husband and I did not get married in a bookstore, nor am I recommending bookstores necessarily as places to, um, begin a pregnancy, as this might disturb the other patrons, who are trying to read — ugh! Honestly! Rude much?

Greetings from Conflux!

It's another busy and fun con weekend:  this time at Conflux.  So far I've run a writing workshop, helped design the ideal getaway vehicle for the well-equipped evil overlord, participated in a spirited discussion as part of Ian Nichols's presentation about the nature of literary versus genre fiction, stumbled into the paths of a lot of friends, and come back to my hotel to get ready for tonight's banquet.  (There may be a photo or two in due course; I'm not sure.)  More to come over the next two days — and then home!

In other news, the redoubtable Lee Battersby is publishing a series of posts from guest bloggers on the nature of art — which sounds weighty, but you must trust him, for this series has yielded a number of fascinating perspectives and ideas.  I am humbled that he has asked me, too, to contribute:  here's my guest post.

And, finally, if you're the sort to be interested in music neither you nor anybody you know has heard before, please check out the Australian premiere of Houston Dunleavy's "Flying in Paradise", a piece for four euphoniums (euphonia?) and two tubas.