NALO’S NEW CONCOCTIONS

 

“They,” the people who run the publishing business, keep saying that no one cares about single author short story collections. I disagree. I love them. Guess I’m nobody.

 

I kinda understand when a degenerate like me does one and it gets ignored, but you’d think the world would stop and take notice when a SFWA grandmaster has one come out. Come on, folks, where’s the social media buzz? The cultural groundswell of excitement? The dancing in the streets?

We’ve still got some time before the release, so let me tell you about Jamaica Ginger and Other Concoctions by Nalo Hopkinson and how wonderful it is.

The fifteen stories—one co-written by Nisi Shawl—were all originally published in the 21st century and are prime examples of what is, and is becoming. And if you haven’t noticed, there’s been a whole lot of becoming going on. None of the usual cornball sci-fi is here. Nalo can’t help but be different, original. This book just had to be diverse. 

She’s Caribbean-Canadian, outside of the usual boundaries of traditional English-language science fiction that are centered around New York, and sometimes goes on field expeditions to far-off London. Both the fantastic worlds she imagined and real-world elements she uses are richly textured.

Rising sea levels creates a new world with, among other things, cyborg pigs. An alien life form crossed the line between living and dead. Stereotypes become real in an unexpected way. A cruise ship is hacked into a tool for decolonization. Queer love and relationships abound. No sign of the all-white future I grew up reading about.

She’s hip to what’s happening on the cutting edges of science and technology, but delivers far more than the usual hard-science take on things. The human element is always present. Sometimes things other than human. There is anger, but also optimism.

This volatile mix often steps out of the restrictions of the science fiction genre and becomes other kinds of storytelling. Some of these are more like folklore and fables, the literature you are more likely to overhear being told into a smart phone on public transportation and in performance art than in a book. Genres are just marketing gimmicks–we need to set our imaginations free to soar beyond the temporary, artificial cultural borders.

She is a true grandmaster. This collection of marvelous, delicious concoctions is a joy to read.

Those dopes who don’t like story collections don’t know what they’re missing.

 

CHICANONAUTICA CATCHES ERNESTO IN LATINOPIA, AGAIN

 

Ernesto is on Latinopia again, and you can see it via Chicanonautica, at La Bloga.

Thanks to Jesús Salvador Treviño:

Founder of Latinopia and much more:

Listen to me stutter:

All because I saw Forbidden Planet at an East L.A. drive-in:

AN ASTOUNDING AUGUST INTERLUDE

The bureaucracy gods granted us a day off together. It started raining as we pulled out of Kiss the Cook. It had clouded over in the night. Wasn’t quite as hot in Phoenix . . . yet.

It was significantly cooler up toward Flagstaff. At first, I was doubtful about Emily’s suggestion that I wear a long-sleeved shirt, but she was right. And I was soon rolling down those sleeves.

It was still raining when we got to Walnut Canyon. The trail down to the cliff dwellings was wet and slippery, but doable. We weren’t the only people there. It seemed light-years from superheated Phoenix.

The forest smelled great. There was no need to run the car’s air-conditioner.

Lots of datura bloomed at the roadsides.

We headed down to Sedona and had the world-class Cowboy Up Burgers at the Cowboy Club.

While walking around, we passed an enlightened ape with a peeling gold paint-job in front of a “wellness cafe.” What is a wellness cafe? Did the proprietors think the whole thing was as funny as I did?

As we left Sedona, an indigenous angel with floppy wings and a horned buffalo cap blessed us.

We visited the Highway 89 elephant on the way home.

We got into a couple of traffic jams, and Phoenix was blazing, but we were feeling great.

CHICANONAUTICA UPDATES A WEIRDO SUMMER

It’s in one weird place, heading for another in Chicanonatica, over at La Bloga.

How weird is it?

Heading for education:

And judgment:

In a brave, new world:

SLICES OF A SUMMER

My wife just said: "Holy crap, the black widow got a lizard!"

The final scene of my dream was a dystopia in clay animation.

The concrete islands in the asphalt desert next to the ruins are being colonized.

Do androids run with electric bulls?

Bats and dragonflies flit about as the sun sets.

Still free to have tacos on the 4^th of July.

“Here’s some duct tape if you need some,” she said before leaving for work.

The smoke came from a parked car, its hood up, and flames leaping from the engine.

Sometimes you have to stop and smell the sunset.

CHICANONAUTICA FACES SUDDEN CHANGES, GONZO STYLE

When the going suddenly changes Chicanonautica gets gonzo, over at La Bloga.

The changes keep coming:

More than we can handle:

Some folks think they have a final solution:

You just gotta laugh:

A SINISTER URGE

 

It’s hot. And surreal. And transmogrifying into grotesque.

 

Basically, I’m an artist—a cartoonist, if you want to get persnickety—passing for a writer. I start with images, then arrange the (“compose” of you pardon the pretension) them into stories. Nobody has ever noticed this, but it may be why some folks think I’m doing it all wrong.

I never could land a lucrative art/cartooning gig. It's amazing how people want you to knock yourself out making stuff for them, then weasel their way out of paying for it. Especially if your stuff ain’t pretty.

Still get the sinister urge to draw.

It’s coming a lot in this summer of grotesque spectacle. Some folks get horrified, I get inspired.

So, I’m making an effort to stop neglecting my sketchbook and cultivate my long-lost habit of compulsive, spontaneous cartooning. What the hell, I can always post it here and on the social media.

Could be fun. Heh-heh.

Are we grotesque enough yet?

 

CHICANONAUTICA CELEBRATES AN APOCALYPTIC INDEPENDENCE DAZE

. . . on Chicanonautica, at La Bloga.

The U.S. of A is another year older:

We avoided traditional rituals:

Do we need cosmic impacts to change our society?

And the evolution goes on:

BACK TO ARTSY-FARTSY COWBOY LAND

Emily and I went out on an overnight jaunt to get away from the soaring temperatures in Phoenix and the all-night setting off of explosives that have become an Independence Day ritual in our neighborhood. Why not Artsy-Fartsy Cowboy Land, Sedona, the New Age Mecca? It was cooler than the Valley of the Sun. We could go to some of our favorite restaurants, and poke around the streets that seem more like a theme park every year. 

There were flags, but they seemed subtle in this town where surrealist Max Ernst once lived and the ghost of P.T. Barnum would feel at home.

The big night was quiet. Not a sparkler or firecracker.

What do artsy-farty cowboys do on the 4th?

We passed a place called the Vortex— not the Vortex, but a place that sold “activated” tonics, juices, smoothies, and coffees. I wondered how they activated them. I imagined a device out of Dr. Frankenstein’s lab. According to their website, “Adaptogenic herbs and superplants” are activated with a “Proprietary Hand crafted ultra high vibrational substance” that has “Rose Vibes, Shilajit, Love, Magic, and some other powerful ingredients.”

Like the Firesign Theater said, “there’s a seeker born every minute.”

After breakfast at the fabulous Coffee Pot, we cruised Oak Creek Canyon, checked out the Midgley Bridge stickers and graffiti (an interesting 21st century tradition), and stopped for iced tea at Indian Gardens. Nothing Adaptogenic, but great for the blood pressure.

Then we headed for Cottonwood. Em’s phone rang. We had left a bag of clothes at the hotel.

We groaned, but decided not to let it get to us, turned around with smiles on our faces. Turns out it wasn’t our bag—it contained swimsuits we had never seen before. The universe may have had a reason for us to go back. Maybe it was just a reminder not to take shit so seriously.

Finally, made it to Cottonwood, a genuine, hippie-dippy, artsy-fartsy cowboy town complete with an Iron Horse Hotel, a Hippie Emporium, antique stores, and much, much more. There was a meditation center next to a Mexican restaurant, but if you’ve got good Mexican food, meditation is redundant.

And there were murals!

It was a lovely drive back. Only a little bit of an end-of-the-holiday-weekend traffic jam.

We’ll return to Artsy-Fartsy Cowboy Land in the future, being seekers of a sort.

In Chicanonautica, over at La Bloga, I’ll do something about the darker, political implications of what we saw . . .

CHICANONATICA SPIES ON THE WILD, WILD BORDER

Chicanonautica, at La Bloga, is about trouble at the border.

As fantasized in an old TV show:

The proto-steampunk, Wild, Wild West:

James Bond in the Old West:

With “Hispanic” villains: