CHICANONAUTICA WRITES IN A MASS DEPORTATION

Chicanonautica is all about how I wrote a story about a mass deportation, over at La Bloga.

So here we are . . .

While I'm giving writing advice . . .

Time to be like Oscar Zeta Acosta . . .

And don't be afraid to be crazy . . .

DISPATCHES FROM THE LAST DANGEROUS VISIONS: A NIGHT AT THE OPERA, DAMMIT!

Almost summer. Another apocalyptic one. This book review is taking up a fat chunk of the year, but then, in this year, I need it. Now . . .

A NIGHT AT THE OPERA  by Robert Wissner

We come to the kind of story that this anthology was intended for. A truly dangerous vision! It breaks all the rules and tears society to bloody shreds. Not only are the traditional restrictions of the pulp science fiction magazine shattered, but so are the barriers of genre—is it speculative fiction? Satire? Fantasy? Horror? Could it actually be mainstream literature (something that Harlan always aspired to)? Then it gets to a bizarre place where slapstick collides with surrealism and dada. 

The weirdest thing is, it probably could happen. Some avant-garde performance art piece going out of control. If the right individuals read it . . .Talk about dangerous.

It’s like the scene in the Marx Brothers movie A Day at the Races (not A Night at the Opera) where Harpo demolishes a piano so he can play it’s guts like a harp, but it goes far beyond that—like Luis Buñuel took over, in his close-up-on-a-sliced-eyeball mood, then the mayhem popped out of the screen and attacked the audience.

Culture. Entertainment. Art. Life. Silly distinctions.

I’m deliberately not describing the story because J. Michael Straczynski is right--it’s best for the reader to be surprised by this diabolical gem.

It’s almost as if the preceding stories were meant to lull the reader into a false sense of security. Yeah, you can take all this so-called dangerous stuff—then: AIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE!

The mad genius who came up with this masterpiece only published a handful of stories in what they called “original anthologies” in the Seventies. Most of them were variations on the Dangerous Visions theme. The New Wave. Ah, kiddies! Them wuz the daze!

Googling him comes up with Robert Wissners who were (several obituaries) doctors in various states of the union. For whatever reason he has dropped off the ever more exacting radar. Maybe he was one of the doctors. Maybe he died. Maybe he just got fed up and went off to do something reasonable with his life.

I’d like to think that he’s still alive and well somewhere, and in some peculiar way, getting the last laugh.

In some high school campus, a quirky lass is slipping this story before the unprepared eyes of a quiet lad who led a sheltered life, and maybe the two of them will live outrageously, if not ever after, for one bright, shining moment. The image makes me smile . . .

Thank you, Robert Wissner, wherever you are.

 

CHICANONAUTICA CROSSED THE INTERSECTION OF XICANXFUTURISM AND GONZO SCI-FI

It's a crosscultural crosswalk crossfire in Chicanonautica at La Bloga.

Looks like some hombres ain't to bad anymore:

 And reality ain't what it used to be:

Are we sci-fi yet?

And what about Anna's Humming bird, besides mutations?

GETTING READY FOR CLASS

I better get ready. For class.

No, I haven’t gone back to school. I’m gonna be the teacher again.

Me. A teacher. Never thought that would happen, me and school never getting on so good and all . . .

Turns out I’m not too bad at it. In all these decades I’ve been a writer, I’ve learned a few things, and people are willing to pay to hear it.

Granted, it meant I had to stop and think about it. I don’t like to think about it. If I was the type to make a list of rules I’d start with “Don’t think about it–do it.” I don’t care for talking about writing, but will do it for money.

There are people for whom talking about writing is their idea of a good time. I try to avoid them and wonder if their writing is as boring as their yacking.

Same for those who want to talk about creativity, and ways to get in the mood. I’m always in the mood. My dangerously overactive imagination grinds away all day and night all the time. Why do you think I became a writer?

I have a file of notes of things to bring up, and I’m going over them, making changes and additions. People have asked me to publish these notes, but they’d make pretty lousy reading. They really are just a bunch of notes. I put them in order to give me things to talk about during each day of the class, and to use if the students (me having students . . . still sounds weird) run out of things to say.

It would be great if they were a lively bunch, and we spent the whole time throwing around ideas and experiences, inspiring each other, y’know, being creative . . .

Sometimes I change my mind about things. Rules come, and go, for reasons. I like to break them now and then to see if they still apply. I break my own rules, to keep myself on my toes, and to weed out the clichés that people say in creative writing classes because they're just are too lazy to come up with real advice.

That’s pretty good. I should put it in the notes . . .

If I go over it, and think (ugh!) about it, my confidence will cancel my imposter syndrome, and I’ll be able to seem enough like a teacher to make the students feel they got their money’s worth.

I’ve never had imposter syndrome about being a writer, or an artist. Throw me into just about any kind of creative activity–even if I’ve no training or background in it–and I’ll come up with something, even if it’s making a fool of myself.

People like it when I make a fool of myself. It's good not to take yourself too seriously. That could be a rule . . .

But I’m uncomfortable being a teacher. I’ve also felt it as a janitor, housekeeper, and a bookstore clerk, though I got good enough at that so when it came time to become a library worker (NOT a librarian, I do the grunt work) I could slip into that role. 

Maybe I’ll be doing more of this in my old age. If the price is right.

 

 

CHICANONAUTICA TAKES NOTES ON A XICANXFUTURISTIC SPRING

 

Spring has been Xicanxfuturistic for Chicanonautica, over at La Bloga.

Something really is in the air: 

And in bad taste: 

But then, there's Xicanxfuturism:

Make your own future:

DISPATCHES FROM THE LAST DANGEROUS VISIONS: DISTORTION OF THEMES

Still, the news gets more Dangerous Vision-y. It’s a struggle to keep the story I’m working on surreal/slapstick enough. What would Mack Sennett do? Or Luis Buñuel? Does it need a sliced-open eyeball or a pie in the face? Hmm . . . How about both?

RUNDOWN by John Morressy

A bit of wacky fun, a caricature of apocalyptic news. Good for a few giggles, but in the light of the way the world has been in the last few years—when you often find the word “surreal” in straight news reports—not very dangerous. Or am I just getting jaded in my old age?

INTERMEZZO 4: ELEMENTAL by D.M. Rowels

A quick splash of blood-spattered astronomical surrealism. The cosmic should never make you forget about spilled body fluids.

THE WEIGHT OF A FEATHER (THE WEIGHT OF A HEART) by Cory Doctorow  

Reads like a tribute to Harlan. The title is Ellisonian, and references Egyptian mythology even though it isn’t brought up in the story, about the effects of technology and a pet robot on a couple’s relationship. Some heavy emotions are exposed. Was probably more dangerous a couple of decades ago, these days we all have to deal with what Philip K. Dick called “artificial constructs masquerading as human” all the time, and mostly they’re annoying.

I remember reading Doctorow’s first story in Science Fiction Age way back in the day. I wrote to editor Scott Edelman about it. I was right. He’s gone places.

 

THE MALIBU FAULT by Jonathan Fast

This one really is dangerous. A New York writer living the good life writing scripts in Hollywood faces a manifestation of his liberal guilt. Harlan could relate. You hear about the void between the haves and the have nots, but no one seems to be able to do anything about it. The rich get richer—you never heard about billionaires when I was a kid, where did all this money come from?—and the homeless, excuse me, unhoused, are everywhere.

Is this why Trump won? What will happen when the people who voted for him realize they’ve been screwed? And more cities are in the peculiar situation where only the wealthy can live there and the people who cook, clean, and keep the good life coming have to commute from a dystopia slapped together, on the cheap, next door. One of these days, something’s gonna give . . .

 

THE SIZE OF THE PROBLEM by Howard Fast (Jonathan’s dad)

 

Another bit of flash fiction. A lot of super-short things in this book -- is there a reason? This one’s a swift kick in the frontal lobes about sanity, dreams and the nature of reality that may be dangerous if you think too much about it—which it demands.

Once more we’re in life, the universe, and everything. I don’t see many people contemplating the Great, Big Cosmic What-ever-ya-callit these days, maybe they’re all too busy dealing with the flaming chunks that are raining on us. But reality is dangerous. Especially is you’re wrong about it. 

And I think we’re about to see a lot of folks going through that soon . . . 

Danger! Danger!

INTERMEZZO 5: FIRST CONTACT by D.M. Rowels

Ah yes, one of the classic science fiction themes turned inside out and put in a domestic setting, in a bathroom. I suppose aliens are going to have to go to the bathroom. The cosmic mixes with body fluids again. What is a dangerous vision, but the aspirations of sci-fi colliding with yucky, dirty, smelly realism? 

Can we ever achieve a workable utopia? If we give up, does it just get more dystopian? What will the next news broadcast reveal?

And there are more stories to go!

 

CHICANONAUTICA UNLEASHES XICANXFUTURISM AT PALABRAS BILINGUAL BOOKSTORE

 

Chicanonautica covers a Xicanxfuturist event in Phoenix, at La Bloga.

The landing was successful:

Near the last drive-in movie theater in Arizona:

 At Arizona's first bilingual bookstore:

 And it has a cat:

CHERCHEZ LE WEIRD, MON AMOUR

I’m not up to my waist in sand being eaten by insects. Another weird Spring. Lots to distract me, still, my career keeps demanding my attention.

I suppose I’m lucky to have a career, maybe it keeps me sane. Is that laughter I hear?

I did a signing/reading event at Palabras Bilingual Bookstore in Phoenix with Scott Russell Duncan, editor of Xicanxfuturism: Gritos for Tomorrow, and author of Old California Strikes Back, calling ourselves Dos Space Vatos. I had copies of Guerrilla Mural of a Siren’s Song: 15 Gonzo Science Fiction Stories to sell and sign. People bought some, and there are now copies for sale at the store. I hope we stirred up  some excitement about the forthcoming Xicanxfuturism.

 

In June, the weekends of 7, 8 and 14, 15, I’ll be doing my “Gonzo Science Fiction, Chicano Style” class via Zoom as part of the Palabras del Pueblo Writing Workshop. I’m tweaking it to deal with the problems with writing as an imaginative Chicano (Xican, Latin, or even those who live at the fringes of the Global Barrio) in a time of mass deportations.

And, oh yeah, I’m still working on that mass deportation story. I’ve been watching what’s happening–not just the news–taking notes, coming up with something that will be crazy enough to cause laughter and make a few ridiculous truths self-evident.

I’ll also have stories in a couple of anthologies. “Radiation is Groovy, Kill the Pigs” will be in Seven to the Stars, and “Doula” will be in Sound Systems, a production of ASU’s Center of Science and the Imagination. No release dates, because that’s the way these things go, but I’ll pass news on as it comes to me.

I’m building up a stockpile of unpublished stories that I’m working on finding homes for. The process will probably result in some amusing adventures in a wacko new world.

Then there’s that novel, Zyx; Or, Bring Me the Brain of Victor Theremin. I’m hoping for a break in the socioeconomic turmoil to start bothering small presses about it. If not, I’ll commit some desperate acts like the professional that I am.

In the meantime, I’ll be doing what's necessary to get by, trying to have some fun amid the chaos, and being the same berserk, if aging, scifiista vato in the face of those who would disappear us all.

It turns out that down the street from the library where I work, next to the Hooters, there’s a Sri Hunamaan Vedic Temple with a sign featuring the Monkey God. I would have gotten a picture, but some unhoused people were camped out at the bus stop putting on deodorant and stuff. How’s that for a writing prompt?

CHICANONAUTICA CELEBRATES ANOTHER APOCALYPTIC SPRING

Don't worry, it just another apocalyptic Spring for Chicanonautica, at La Bloga.

Kinda poetic:

In a weird way:

Funny, too:

With cultural revelations:

 

A WRITING PROMPT

 

 

I’ll be teaching another “Gonzo Science Fiction, Chicano Style” class at Summer 2025 Palabras Del Pueblo Writing Workshop (check it out, sign up, it’s be on Zoom). One of the things I am adding more of is writing prompts.

Since I've been busy the last few decades being a writer rather than paying attention to what was going on in creative writing classes, I didn’t know what a writing prompt was. After a while, I figured it out, and am trying to incorporate it into my presentations.

I thought the idea was a bit silly at first. I see the whole world as made up of writing prompts, I go about my business, and run into all kinds of things I take note of. Sometimes they end up as part of a story, but mostly these days I put them on social media across several platforms. 

I’ll be collecting them and using them in my class.

Also, I’ll make part of it about how to create your own writing prompts. You know, that old saying about if you give a man (it’s an old saying, all genders feel included, please) a fish he eats for one day, but if you teach him to fish, he eats for a lifetime . . .

It happens to me all the time, like the other day, it had stopped raining, while making my way to my troque to go to work, I had just taken a picture of the glittering drops on a cactus when I noticed, a few door down, a young brown woman in a white bathing suit. This wouldn’t be unusual in the killing heat of the summer, but it was cold. And she was soaking herself down with a garden hose.

As I drove by, it became clear that what I had thought was a bathing suit was underwear, quite utilitarian, with exposed buckles.

Also, I had never seen her or the car at the house before.

Did she get splashed by something, ruining her dress and messing up her car, and she stopped at a random house to clean up?

Was she being pursued by assassins, stopped to change clothes, and triggered the moisture-activated paint to change colors?

Did she drive through a radioactive cloud, and needed to wash away the fallout?

This sort of thing occurs to me when I see something like this.

I can’t turn off my imagination.

The world is my raw material, and I pillage–er,I mean gather constantly.

I am never at loss for ideas, not just for stories (it usually takes about three of these things to make a story), but the little details that make a story come alive. Or maybe I just use them for my social media, or everyday conversation.

My life never gets dull.