On Moving

I remember Angels in America primarily because I have changed houses so many times. After all the AIDS and the Mormonism, the bizarre sex stuff and the dramatic visitations by the celestial and the deceased in this utterly wild ride of a two-part play, what I remember is that one of the titular angels’ primary goals was to stop humans from moving around so much. I interpret this to mean that my wife and I, having moved several times within the past decade, are particularly excelsior queers.

I’m aware that this is a dumb reading of the play. I feel I’ve earned a little harmless sophomorism. For the past month, my wife and I have bent every free minute to the service of our living space. We’ve primped it, preened it, touched up the paint, and tightened the doorknobs. Now we just need Condorella to make a good impression on some lucky prince at the showing, which will probably occur in a couple weeks. We’ve been here for about two years. I can just see the angels burying their beautiful heads in their hands.

The housing market in our area is currently way, way out of control. This is one reason that we’re selling. With the likelihood of a recession lurking around 50% according to a notorious finance company, it seems like a good time to cash in. The other is that we just don’t like the town. We’re a bad fit here and we miss the place we were living before. Our main concern is that we won’t be able to leave if the market really tanks before we can close with a buyer.

The upshot of this situation is that we’ve either got to buy a new house within the thirty to ninety days after we accept an offer on our current place or we’ve got to temporarily move into a sublet. As we prepare for the possibility of renting, I’m watching John Oliver’s takedown of the current landlord ecosystem. One thing that he doesn’t discuss is why property owners seem to be such jerks to tenants these days. I’m of the school of thought that nobody is “just mean.” There’s always something under that. Sometimes this involves some internal lying or self-delusion, sometimes there’s some arrogance or insecurity in there. It goes without saying that money is the MacGuffin.

In eastern Massachusetts, people and companies are snapping up buildings like trading cards. For landlords who intend to generate income from the property long-term, this means buying high and consequently renting high. The laws of rent calculation are even stricter for people who purchase the gorgeous but rickety 200-year-old houses that make New England such a desirable setting for Halloween movies. Many, like our last landlord, have absolutely no idea what they’re in for in terms of maintenance. Think custom-sized glass for hand-crafted windows. I suspect that many of them end up swamped in houses that don’t pay for themselves, at which point they sell. For a higher price, of course. Then the cycle begins again.

For companies that intend to trade up these properties to satisfy investors, it seems to me that there’s almost no point in renting some of them. Renters will just mess up the pristine walls and toilets and incur those ever-pesky maintenance costs. If you’re just going to wait for the market to inflate even more and then sell the building like a stock, why worry about tenants? There are buildings in New York that have rearranged the whole city’s skyline, but remain completely unoccupied aside from a few highly choice clients. I wonder about that. The line can’t go up forever, and if I, a humble writer and librarian, can tell that the fun’s going to end someday, then I’m sure that the very well-educated investors building, selling, and paying for these high-end condos are already aware.

But most people would never live in luxury high-rises anyway. Their solution would be affordable housing, which is a wonderful option if you discount the NIMBYs. Today, I drove through two different communities where residents are fighting affordable housing projects. The arguments range from the environmental to the aesthetic, but none of them hold much water. (The yard signs alone were probably uglier than the proposed buildings would be.) These communities just want to remain exclusive to the wealthy. That’s something that John Oliver didn’t address.

As their rents rise beyond what they can handle, where will middle-class people in the GBA go? Small midwest towns? Vans that look great on Instagram and nowhere else? Detroit?

We don’t consider leaving the area an option just because we know exactly where we want to live. It’s expensive as hell, but if we can pull it off, we’ll get what we pay for: home. But as I browse Zillow for living spaces starting at under half a million, I realize that there’s a lot of privilege in attaching that word to a place.

We’ve been lucky. We’ve been unusually well-informed. We’ve been flexible. Let’s hope that will be enough.


The Horrible Problem Of Censorship

As a professional librarian, sometime writer, and all-the-time member of the LGBTQ community, I’m inclined to become incensed at talk of censorship. Lately Texas, Florida, and a few other places appear to have come to the conclusion that they can will queers and people of color out of existence if they can scrub their books hard enough. Out, out damn rainbow!

However, unlike the unjustly maligned Lady Macbeth (hey, she had limited options for advancement) these folks might be capable of actually rinsing racial tolerance and acceptance of diversity out of their kids’ heads. A washing of the brain, if you will. There’s probably a better word for that.

And I think that’s why I find the censorship of books so ominous. Books are made mystical by our associations with them. It’s true: they’re beautiful and lend themselves to beauty and contemplation and insight and thought. But a book is just a person who has put a bit of their soul between two pieces of cardboard. Someone decided that this was the best way to share themselves with the world.

But at the same time, they themselves don’t stop existing. They remain in the world, the original manuscript, the source, walking around and forgetting their keys and buying potatoes with the intention of making soup that they never get to. The books can be removed. They can be imprisoned in boxes, pulped and turned into pornographic magazines, burned to make s’mores, used for paper mache projects. They can be not read. But a person can’t be not read. The person who donated a bit of their soul to that book, be it a math textbook or an antiracist manifesto, can’t be not read. They can be imprisoned, sure, but someone will know they exist. They can be killed, but their skin and bodies will keep telling their story after the person’s gone. Their memory can be banned, kind of, but there’s a kind of historical Streisand effect that happens when you try too hard there – look at Akhenaten and Pope Joan.

You can’t ban the source of the book. It’s not possible. But people have tried. I think that’s the scary thing about book banning. Removal of the word is a slide toward removal of the speaker. That can start out looking like a protection of tender eyes, but that leads to the idea that the people who informed the books, the raw deal, should just as well be removed from view. This isn’t as hard as it sounds. First you don’t have to employ trans folks if you’re concerned that they’ll upset your customers. Easy peasy, they’re barely protected by law anyway. Then maybe parents have the right to remove kids from classes taught by queer people in public schools too. Maybe upstanding citizens win the right to know if a business where they might take their family is staffed with any LGBTQ people, leading to a chilling effect on hiring. I’m not saying there’s a direct path to reeducation camps and gulags here, but your society doesn’t have to be that bad to be bad. And let’s not forget that things really were like that until fairly recently.

But that’s what you’ve got to do if you ban books, because banning books isn’t enough to get the knowledge, the idea out of your hegemonic gestalt brain. If you’re going to go this far to protect the children from knowledge of queer and Black people, then you’re already in for a penny.

And that’s why it’s so obvious that the politicians pushing book censorship aren’t acting in good faith. They’re chasing this car because they want a handful of their most extreme voters to see that they’re big good guard dogs who can really show a motor vehicle what for. They’re also smart enough to know that actually catching it would be a problem for them. Where I think they’re mistaken is in how close that voter bloc wants them to get.

About 5% of all humans are queer. That’s 1 in 20 people. Intersex conditions are as common as red hair (for real!) and we’re still finding new ones. About 41% of the U.S. is made up of people who are something other than white. Banning books about these groups isn’t going to stop kids from learning about them. What it will do is allow those kids to develop the idea that you don’t have to know things that you don’t want to know. You don’t have to deal with people who aren’t like you. If something makes you uncomfortable, you can mistreat it, delete it, defeat it. It tells them that there are people who deserve to not be discussed, people who are forbiddable. People who, by simple dint of who they are, deserve to be banned.


Review! That! Book! March of the Crabs, vol. 1

When I first encountered March of the Crabs by Arthur de Pins, I thought that the title was a play on March of the Penguins, which was a 2005 documentary that was also originally published in French. But March of the Crabs Vol. 1  was a 2015 publication, and the original French title translated more precisely to “The Revolution of the Crabs.” Did someone at BOOM!’s Archaia branch think this was hilarious nonetheless? I’m not sure. But when I read the book we might more accurately call “Crab Revolution,” I try not to wonder why they didn’t choose that infinitely better title.

The story is a fairly simple one: underdogs get creative to overcome unfair obstacles. In this case, the underdogs are marbled crabs, aka Cancer simplicimus vulgaris, and their obstacle is that they can’t turn. As in, they can’t steer to the left nor the right, but keep in the middle of the road, the road, keep in the middle of the road. Their road. Their own personal road, which is a straight line that continues until they run into an obstacle they can’t crawl over. At that point, they proceed back the way they came until that also becomes impossible. It’s a lame life, and three intrepid crabs long for more. They long…to turn! Or at least to go in another direction and see the rest of the world.

I also had to look up whether Cancer simplicimus vulgaris actually existed, because despite my understanding that anything this helpless would fail to thrive in the wild, I really, really hoped that it did. But it’s not worth looking too deeply into the logic behind a creature that can’t adjust its path. In this context, the marbled crab is just a metaphor for rigidity. (Interestingly, there is an actual marbled crab in real life, but it’s capable of turning. Alas.)

To call this book deep would be a little generous. It whacks us fairly broadly over the head with its message, viz people who follow the rules too strictly are at a disadvantage. While the crabs provide the primary metaphorical vehicle for that message, the humans in the story also seem stuck. A nature videographer, tasked with making more Serengeti spaghetti docs featuring lions and gazelles, struggles to make his utterly boring documentary about little square crabs a hit. (This may actually end up working out for him. After all, he’s about to catch the crabs mid-revolution.) A ferryman and his wife seem stuck in their patterns, too, and it’s easy to imagine them having married almost by default after their life paths happened to cross.

I particularly liked the beachy setting. Beachgoers always strike me as in a rut, possibly because when I’m on vacation myself, I’m lost without a mission. If I’m ever captured by aliens who torture me to learn what human beings hate the most, they’re going to descend upon the Earth armed with beach umbrellas and mandatory sun ‘n’ sand days, certain that we’ll all cry mercy within minutes. However, I recognize that most people probably wouldn’t see the book’s vacationers as “stuck” per se. The false similarity of tourists being pointless by choice and crabs being pointless by default made for a nice contrast. It helped highlight the immense privilege that the humans enjoyed as occupants of the highest rung of power and cast the ecosystem as a hierarchical social system.

Speaking of ecosystems, there’s an environmental subplot here that I (of course) greatly enjoyed. There wasn’t really enough of it to my mind, but I’m the type of gal who feels that every story should be Blackfish City. It was enough that there were environmentalists trying to buck the pollution-causing status quo and get rid of a gosh-darned pipeline. (Which is a straight line and also plays into the metaphor!)

In some ways, I liked March of the Crabs. The art was very interesting in a Samurai Jack sort of way – you can really see the influence of Pins’s animation background.  I’m probably going to at least read the next two volumes at some point just to see how the rest of the story manifests.


Review! That! Book! DHALGREN by Samuel R. Delaney, Part 1

Reviewing Dhalgren is going to be a thing. When I say a thing, I mean that it’s going to take several posts to cover this baby. It may be the most significant and problematic piece of science fiction I’ve ever read. I’m going to address it in chunks based on its many themes. If you’re here for a graduate-level thesis on this graduate-level book, you’re in the wrong place. I am but a humble librarian/writer/book person, and these thoughts are the best that my humble librarian/writer/book person brain can produce. That said, if you are at my level, this might be useful to you. If nothing else, we can console each other now that this monster book has ripped out our egos.

A few notes first.

  1. I will not be using racial slurs. Dhalgren uses the N-word very liberally and actually expanded my vocabulary somewhat as far as other racist language goes. I’m not sure how I feel about this. On one hand, it’s good that I know. On the other, I feel uncomfortable with that knowledge. I didn’t like hearing the N-word so much and I think that was the reason that the author made that choice. I will attempt to discuss race in the context of this book, and I will do so to the best of my Italian-Irish-Plain-White-Bread-American abilites, but I won’t be using those words.
  2. Speaking of, I’m going to screw up the conversation about race. How could I not? I’ve never lived a Black life and while I can do my best to understand, I’m positive that there are things about Blackness and the Black experience that will remain beyond me no matter how much Ta-Nahesi Coates I read. That goes triple for this particular title, which was written 50 years ago by a Black man. I’m going to do my best because ignoring race in this book would be a disservice to it; as in broader American society, race in Bellona is inextricable from all of its other issues. If you feel like calling me out when I screw up, I encourage you to do so. If you’d rather not educate me, but still want to read my review, race will have its own subheading so you’ll have a heads-up to handle that section however you consider appropriate.
  3. I am not going to get this “right.” If you have opinions about DHALGREN that differ from mine, great. There’s a comments section. Have at it! But unless you’re Samuel R. Delaney, know that I don’t believe you’re going to get it “right” either. I don’t think correctness applies to this particular work. If you are Samuel R. Delaney, then I’m truly sorry for the mess I’m about to make of your incredible book.

If you haven’t read the book yet, there are also a few things you’re going to need to know about before we delve in.

  • An orchid is a type of handheld weapon unique to Bellona. Think of a flower made of metal that you wear like a mitten. Failing that, think of a cage around your hand with sharp points poking out.
  • Bellona is one of the twelve largest cities in the U.S. and is probably located somewhere in Kansas.
  • Many people in Bellona acquire and wear optical chains, which are long lengths of brass chain set with mirrors and pieces of glass. The experience of acquiring them is usually traumatic. They cannot be bought or taken by force, but can be removed from a dead body.
  • The Scorpions are a loose gang. They’re intimidating and sometimes dangerous.

That’s nowhere near all the background that you need to know, but it’s the best I can do without turning this piece into a listicle. Let’s forge ahead anyway. To Bellona!

Incredible DHALGREN art from Art By-Products

Perception

I was originally going to call this section Mental Health, but that doesn’t begin to encompass the subject. In Bellona, the division between mind and reality is perilously blurry and it is not at all clear which one affects the other more.

The Kid has a history of mental health problems, and nothing frightens him more than the possibility of a relapse. Of all the places in the world that he could have ended up, this city of shifting realities is probably the worst. And the best, maybe. There seem to be holes in time in Bellona, and when we first discover this, they’re presented as holes in the Kid’s memory. This kicks off Kid’s self-perpetuating anxiety about whether or not he is crazy or will return to a state where he has no awareness of what he’s doing.

But Kid’s mental health problems predate Bellona, so we know that they don’t proceed from there. His loss of his real name and habit of wearing one shoe are both artifacts from the wider world – the one he fit into so poorly. In Bellona, he receives validation from his girlfriend, Lanya, that he’s lost considerable chunks of time. But has he? Lanya later admits that there are hours of her own for which she can’t account. Fires that should consume the city in days continue unabated for weeks, and certain food stores appear to restock themselves as though trapped in a loop. Couple that with the episodic nature of DHALGREN and you have the makings of a place that’s profoundly unmoored in time. It begs the question of how people narrate their lives when reality itself isn’t certain.

From POV-Ray

It also suggests that nothing happening in Bellona is real. But there are things that happen there, like the appearance of the Kid’s debut poetry collection, BRASS ORCHIDS, that must have some relationship to the wider world. People come in, too, so someone must be reporting across the bridge. Bellona is tethered to reality, at least, and throughout the book, the Kid’s biggest concerns seem to revolve around maintaining that tether in at least an operative sense. He gets a job even though nobody uses money. He joins a gang even though he doesn’t need protection. He publishes a book of poetry even though he’s not sure he wants to be a poet. He can’t just be. If he resorted to that, he’d have no continuity at all and no way to mark either time or his own significance in it. He’d have no way of knowing if he really were crazy or not. Sanity is the perception of purpose, a self-delusion that’s necessary for measuring, and therefore adequately observing, life.

The way you look at something really can affect its state. Consider subatomic particles that must be waves and particles…until they’re observed. These little specks are unknowable, mutable as Bellona itself. To perceive them is to fix them in a definable space, but only as long as you are actively watching. Bellona is the same way, and to a great extent, so are the people who live there.

And you thought this wasn’t real science fiction!

Whether the Kid’s existence itself matters depends on how he agrees to perceive reality. Whether in poetry or in action, he’s always got to move. Moreover, he’s got to move in the perceptions of others or he seems to disappear, or at least move to a state where he has no self-awareness or control over his actions. His biggest, most frightening loss of time happens when he’s sleeping in the open with Lanya and not doing much. She leaves, and when she comes back, he’s gone. For the Kid’s part, he perceives himself waking up and immediately heading to a Scorpion raid, after which he’s increasingly in the company of a large crowd of fellow gang members. Their observation of him seems to prevent more large lapses, but prior to that, when he loses Lanya, she reports that he’s been active for days outside of her perception.

The critical point here is that the Kid can’t observe himself reliably, even to the extent that he can remain self-aware. He needs to see himself being observed by others, and through their eyes, know he is real. His book’s popularity in particular appears to ground him, despite his ambivalence about being a poet.

Everything in Bellona seems to be a charm against lack of perception. Otherwise pointless baubles like the optical chains and the light shields exist to alter and enhance the wearer’s presentation to the world. The Scorpions maintain their fearsome reputation by smashing stuff up, but there are no rival gangs to intimidate and they rarely accomplish anything notable. Nevertheless, Calkin’s paper (which prints a different random date every day) reports on them. It makes them famous, just as Calkin makes the Kid famous by printing his book.

From “Dhalgren Sunrise,” a multimedia adaptation, created by Mitchel K. Ahern. Image from Patch

We almost never see Calkin. Isn’t that interesting? Everyone is highly aware of him because of the paper, his mansion, his parties, his power. He is the man with all the words and the power to control what others know about their local luminaries. All Bellona seems to know what the Kid is up to all the time, presumably because they’re reading it in the paper, but the Kid himself is increasingly flummoxed by that effect as the book progresses. His self-perception comes through Lanya, Denny, the Scorpions. It’s unclear how the perception of others affects the Kid’s state of awareness. With Calkin’s publication and very wide distribution of the Kid’s book, not to mention his control of the narrative of Kid’s publicity, it would stand to reason that Calkin gains a measure of control over the Kid’s identity too. People certainly treat the Kid with more respect once he becomes a news item and artiste, even though most of them only read his poems to see if he wrote anything about them.

Like the Kid, the other Bellonans need to be perceived to be real. But not all of them are perceived. Even Lanya seems to fall into existential holes now and then.

This effect doesn’t just extend to people. Things that everyone agrees upon seem to have the strongest presence as reality. Effects like the double moon and the enormous sun are observed in concert, their details becoming hazy when reported on an individual level. The fear and wonder that they inspire may be the fuel that keeps Bellona aware. Once the second moon appears, everyone shares the experience of checking for it, naming it after George, discussing it. The giant sun inspires the universally shared experience of terror and fatalism. These are critical pins of the Bellona experience. Without them, who’s to say that the city itself would remain a distinct entity? If Bellona were a person, these would be its performances, its attempts to cling to reality by remaining remarkable.

Calkin immolates his own power when he enters the monastery near the end of the book. Immediately, Bellona experiences a spike in unpredictability. People get separated, fires worsen, and formerly powerful interpersonal ties break. Is this what happens when the person narrating the barely-real city stops holding it together with his words? Very possibly. This, too, is the moment when the Kid and some of his friends flee the city in an unplanned escape from the worsening fires and chaos.

And then, of course, the prose loops. The Kid’s exit parrots the exact dialogue from his entrance, only when he leaves, he himself takes on the role of the departing Bellonans. Makes you wonder if there will be another Calkins for the newcomer. How specific to the Kid was his experience? How much of Bellona did he personally observe into existence? His departure could be read in several different ways now, depending on how relatively unstable we think reality is in the city.

Illustration by DeathBearBrown

If the Kid’s perception influenced Bellona even a little, then his departure could be read as a state of mind, but even this leaves us with questions. Did Bellona become untenable when the Kid stopped perceiving it as a tolerable place to live, or did he finally lose sight of himself as an entity who made sense in Bellona’s context? His flight of self-preservation might have been more than an escape from fire. Without something to do in Bellona – something to be in Bellona – the Kid could very well be lost to literal obscurity. Did he lose the ability to control his awareness of the city with his art and actions? Conversely, did the city’s chaos naturally strip meaning from whatever agency the Kid ever had to alter his life with its greater shenanigans and vapidity of purpose? If our lives take on the meaning that we choose for them, then a place with yawning holes in time and physical properties that defy the laws of space and time would tend to defy our attempts to put our personal entropy in order. It’s hard to imagine anyone thriving that way for long.

Personally, I think the answer to the puzzle of perception and Bellona is intricately tied up with how Bellona’s residents relate to creativity. But it’s been 2200 words and I’m out of Dhalgren-related graphics for today. Tune in tomorrow for our next section: ART.