In Media Res: 22nd Century Fury

Sorry this was late.

Well, JP called and I answered his challenge for a 15-minute story. Took me a while though. I actually wrote this within 15 minutes last week but it took several days of revisions before I was happy enough in its present form.

Call it a meeting of Elizabeth Hand and Richard Morgan and just let it go.

To wit: Aristid, a young scion of an old Greek dynasty in the 22nd century, is experiencing the age-old problems of unrequited love, angst, jealousy... and murder.

“I know all your names.”

Aristid takes out a Ex-hilatory® cigarette, lights it with a silver Zippo that lasers the end alight. Inhales. Exhales.

He stands waiting, cigarette in one hand, the ominous-looking mag-gun in the other, staring. He takes another drag, starts speaking, changes the topic:

“Poor Alexa. My dear sweet sister. My twin.”

“I don’t suppose I’d get a reprieve by admitting my crime? No?”

He takes a drag again, looks at the figure barely visible in the horizon of the Mediterranean coastline as the sun sets behind him in the sea. But Astrid knows who it is, or what it is: goggle-eyed masked, clad in leather and cobweb, astride the black motorcyle.

“Is it you, Tisiphone, avenger of murder? Megaera the jealous? Or maybe Alecto of the constant anger? Where are your snaky hair, your bloody whips? So much has been lost about the ancient days that even mere surmise could possibly be true.”

“But I do know the names, accessed via in the Ethernet of the world, the databanks of history, scribbled down in electronic archives of mythology. You three have so many of them. Eumenides. Erinyes. The Daughters of Night. The Furies.”

He grins as he finally feels the cigarette take effect, raising his serotonin levels. He takes a drag again and raises his mag-gun and puts the figure in the horizon in his sights.

“I know the scream of your engines, you know. I hear it night after night as I try to sleep, roaring down the street in a cacophony of dust, gasoline and skid marks. The beat of your wings. And I constantly taste noxious fumes on my tongue: it’s in the food I eat, in the alcohol I drink. I can’t escape it.”

“Do you appreciate my attempts to kill you? Stab you? Shoot you? Throw acid at you? Once I even had the police go after you with lawsuits and handcuffs, you know. You ignored those attempts. You littered your contempt at me by leaving them in your dust. And then you come back to haunt me again.”

“Ah Alexa, if she only knew the trouble she put me through.”

“I remember the first time I saw you: it was the same night I killed Alexa. I was so jealous then when I found out she was going to marry that Japanese boy. But after I killed her, I felt nothing: my anger emptied out like the fleshly vessel before me.”

“I dumped her body in the sea and took the yacht back to the boathouse. At the mansion, I washed the blood on my hands and face and changed clothes.”

“Afterwards, I went to Constantin’s bar to relax. As I stood there, feeling the chumb-bom beat of the Beltane music throb through me, as I watched the psychedelic light strobe thru the empty Verdigris glass in my hand, the feel of the crowd parting around me like the Red Sea... I saw you, gunning your bike through the crowd.”

He giggles, waving his gun manically. The cigarette in his other hand burns steadily down to the filter.

So, does that count as my own writing, Jay? *wry grin*

In weird news, the painting JP used for the challenge was done by painter Zdzislaw Beksinski who was found murdered in his home in Warsaw last Tuesday, February 22. He was 75.

(Link via JP, tribute by Dinesh.)

Brain Stall

Fuck, I can't seem to get my brain to work on my writing.

I was supposed to submit a final article on the bloody Boracay Funboard Cup event after I came back but no matter what I do, I can't seem to wrap my brain around it. Considering I have a couple of press releases to write to coincide with our website's new look, I really can't let this go on any further.

But then again, I also can't seem to contribute to JP's latest challenge. Aaarrghh! (Ditto with my other writing. Sucks to be me.)

Easier to blog about it, I suppose.

In other news, SF-prodigy Charlie Stross writes about how to do a fantasy series (courtesy of Jeff Vandermeer.) I like Stross' rules on how to pimp your art without being a whore:

Rule 1: Don't steal from living authors, their ecological niche in the publishing jungle is already occupied. (Alternatively: nobody needs another Robert Jordan.)

Rule 2: Steal from the best. There's no point stealing from the worst.

Rule 3: If you steal an entire outfit from one writer's wardrobe, people will mock you for being imitative. So steal from at least two, and mix thoroughly.

Rule 4: When choosing the themes to pilfer, only pick ones that you, personally, find interesting -- if you pick something boring you'll only have yourself to blame if it's successful and you end up chained to the desk to write more of it for the next decade.

Rule 5: However much you're stealing, make sure it doesn't look stolen. Genre publishing is a beauty show, and originality wins prizes (but not too much originality).

It's true: even with an overly-active imagination, there's no such thing as an original story. It's the way you write it that matters. Good writing is all.

As I've been surfing around the net, there's a particular meme going around that kinda galls me in a self-mocking way (this particular phase of the meme taken from upcoming SF writer John Scalzi): 10 Things I've Done You Probably Haven't.

Why? Well, I've been ruminating about what I've done with my life and so far, I can't seem to think of anything to put in that list. Maybe I'm not remembering properly; either that or my life isn't all that exciting enough.

Huh. I've been blog-surfing too much. Must stop.

Say goodbye


Never let it be said I didn't enoy a place like Boracay though.

I love the water: the scintilating ripples of the waves, the relief of the cool water on a hot sunny day, and the feel of floating on the sea amidst the gentle tug of the tide.

I love the sound of nature: the stampeding rustle of the wind against the coconut and palm trees, the patter of short-lived rain showers on the sand, and waking up to the crash of the surf on the beach in the morning.

And where else can you see landscapes and colours more vivid and beautiful than any painter's palette?

Wala lang.

The ant farm


I love the way [identity-protected]'s mind works.

She was the one who took this picture of a popular night spot on the Boracay beach strip called the "Summer Place". She also called it a kind of ant farm. Heh.

And it's true: after all, you have an small, isolated place where people converge at certain times of the day (or night) without fail to socialize. If you can, you can actually just stand back and watch the proceedings with a clinical eye.

Okay, Boracay isn't technically an isolated place. After all, a number of people from the nearby islands daily take the boat out to Boracay to drink and party, especially on weekends. A number of local girls also go there to troll for lonely foreigners on business or vacation trips.

Still, a number of people (especially those who live in the metro) love the idea of living the bohemian life: water and sun all day, party and drinking all night. Who wouldn't, right?

Two words though: brain atrophy.

Playing with fire


(A few more posts about Boracay and then I'll shut up about it, I swear.)

This was one thing I wanted to talk about: the fire-dancers.

Basically, you get a pair of dog leashes, dip the leather handles in kerosene(?), light them up and then twirl them around like Chinese Olympians who swirl around those long stranded ribbons.

Except the ends of these, of course, are on fire. A pretty sight, especially when night falls and all you see are these flashing circles of light.

What's surprising is that this phenomenon is pretty recent since I don't remember anybody doing this the last time we were here the latter part of last year. Our friend who's based there told us that most of the people who do this do it for tricks but they're friendly enough to teach it to anyone who wants to learn.

Personally, I'd love to learn but I'm a bit on the hairy side so I'm afraid I might go up like a wicker man.

Reportage!

I want to read Karen Traviss' books.

Traviss, of course, is a science-fiction author with two books under her belt as well as a movie tie-in. Prior to being published, she was also a reporter, a spin-doctor and now a blogger. Because of this, she has good insights on the differences (and similarities) between the traditional and the new media. See her post here:

I love all this notion of respectability and truth. Let me break ranks and tell you that a certain proportion of what gets printed or broadcast is bollocks and not without its own partisan leanings. (I bet you're glad you were sitting down when I revealed that.) That the same is true of blogs is, to say the least, bleedin' obvious...

...As for the accusation that some bloggers are clearly mouthpieces for some organisation or other - when was the real media ever free from that taint? Most journos are pretty honest individuals, but we'd be delusional if we tried to pretend we felt that our paymasters would run any story we came up with, or that some of our colleagues would be free to attack the party their paper supports. All media outlets have their stance, subtle or otherwise.

So true.

My experience as internet editor here obviously is not as vast as hers but I can relate, especially after hearing the stories downstairs in the print department. Likewise, I still remember what a local blogging community put Joey through after he decided to introduce blogging in our rival's website.

Moreover, she says something I can absolutely relate, especially on sources for reports:

Forgive my venom about academics like Chomsky pontificating on the media, but a certain well known media academic spent a few weeks in our newsroom and found that all his theories about media bias were based on garbage. He had never actually asked journos why they did what they did. He assumed one thing, based on his own external observations and his own biases, and he was utterly wrong. We laughed ourselves sick. I wish I'd taped some of the conversations, but they were along the lines of:

Academic: "You always interview that MP. This shows a subconscious bias towards X party. Journalists tend to support party X."

Hack: "Er...no, he's the only MP who'll front up at that time of the morning at studio X. So we call him first."

And there were many more like that. He simply didn't factor in the logistics of news, which dominate the agenda. He who is available gets his word in first.

Ha! Got that right.

The bad news is that aside from the movie tie-in, Traviss' books still aren't available here. The good news is that I'm still under the book moratorium (in a silver lining way).

The British Invasion

The stuff you hear.

I picked this up via anansi girl (from Manila Times):

Cool Britannia in Manila
By Rome Jorge
Ultra-hip rock band Franz Ferdinand, ultra-cool comic book author Neil Gaiman and ultra-authentic Macbeth as done by the Scots of Theater Babel will all be in Manila, thanks to the British Council. But that’s just for starters. In celebration of its 25th year as an indie, politics-free institution, the British Council brings to our shores New Wave music, Shakespeare, fashion shows, comedy performances, designers, digital films and schools way cooler than Hogwart’s. Welcome our first British invasion of the 21st century.

As part of the celebration, the British Council (as mentioned) has coming to our shores...

April 30-May 1: Union Jack Flash featuring Scottish band Franz Ferdinand highlight the Philippine launch of the British Council’s award-winning radio program The Selector, presented by Aural Communications.

... and...

July, tentatively third week: Neil Gaiman, renowned comic book author and novelist, visits Manila as part of his Asian tour. His participation is currently under negotiations. Let the British Council know how badly you want him to come.

Interesting. Have to check out FF's CD first. But I'm not sure if the band is really coming here since the article is unclear. Anybody have any idea?

As for Gaiman, well, it's not everyday you have an author of his repute going across half the world just to visit, right? At the very least, it'll be interesting to see the local Gaiman-stalkers, er fans.

Wala lang.

An estimation of how fast...

Between kiteboarding and windsailing though, I think I prefer the former. I hate how the pictures look so small on the 'net, you can't really see how fast these guys were going. Unfortunately, kiteboarding looks more complicated.

During one of the lulls in the competition, the organizer tried to get some of us to try out windsailing. It looked easy in theory obviously but I didn't have a chance to try out as the guy showing us how it was done concentrated on the female writer of the group. Ah well, I'm more of an observer anyway.

In the meantime, I spent the days watching the races and writing up the results to email to the sports desk. And that's when more complications came in too depressing to be mentioned here. It really made me think that no matter how much you avoid office politics, you can't help put your toes in it.

So many sails

Despite the wonders on the waves, it was hard for me to enjoy the show. I was there on a job, remember: I had to report on the Boracay Funboard Cup after all. So I made sure all my bloody cares were packed in my backpack and lugged them around whenever I went to Kite Beach every morning for the six days I was there.

Still, after a time, you get bored as kites swooped one way then another and windsails zoomed in and out of your field of vision. You can only watch so many windsailing races and kiteboarding jumps, especially when you're on on your own.

Good thing I brought my writing notebooks and a book to read (Elizabeth Hand's Waking the Moon). After all, just because you're stuck doing something doesn't mean you can't have a book in hand to read while waiting, right?

It's getting crowded here...

Good thing the bay of Kite Beach had a pretty large area. Imagine, 10-15 kiteboarders ominously zooming around with a like number of windsailers doing their impression of tiny snowspeeders against the elephantine AT-AT machines in Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back.

As you can see from the pic itself, the water is nothing spectacular: a lot of seaweed though I think it was due to the season of the year. However, the bay is pretty shallow, coming up to the thigh during high tide and the knee during low tide. But it stretches pretty far. See the lighter shade of the water? That's how far the shallow part of the beach stretches and that's basically the stage being used by the kiteboarders and windsailers.

But considering how the kiteboarders have to take into account not to get themselves tangled with their fellow kiters at the same time avoiding the windsailers... well, I'm still amazed nobody crashed into anybody during the six days I was there.

Up, up and away!

However, these kites are a bitch to put up. Made up of a sail with balloon ribs, these things need a lot of space for take off and a monster to take care of.

I remember this one guy who wasn't able to control his kite while coming into the beach, which usually means jumping off your board and laying on your back in the water while hoping your kite won't get blown off. Unfortunately, the winds weren't cooperating and it blew the kite straight at the flagpoles (made of thick bamboos) flying these advertising banners nearby.

Thankfully, nobody was hurt nor was anything damaged but still, as one commenter said, at least windsurfers can jump off when there's a big wind but kiteboarders have to suffer an unruly kite else lose their kite altogether. Makes me wonder who invented these things...

Taming the wind

These guys go pretty fast, around 20 to 25 knots. Harnessed to a giant parachute kite, these guys expertly maneuver the kites via this trident-like control to where they want to go and skim the waters using surfboards.

But the difference between these guys and surfers is that they can use their kites to let themself be pulled up in the air. And it's here where they're like skateboarders as they perform flashy stunts to the adulation of the crowd.

Kiteboarding in Boracay has been around for several years but this is the first time that it was part of the Boracay Funboard Cup. And it showed: the main event was obviously the windsailing races complete with a number of heats but the kiteboarding was mainly an exhibition. But the kiteboarders still went at it with gusto.

A day at the races

Kite Beach is located just across the island from the main beach in Boracay. Despite this, it isn't that far since Boracay is really a small island. Kite Beach is small too, around five to ten steps from beach wall to sea shore depending on the tide. Likewise, the sand isn't as fine as the main beach where all the resorts and restaurants are.

But what's appealing about Kite Beach is the fact that the winds are constantly blowing 24/7 such that windsurfers and kiteboarders have set up resorts and yards favorable to their sports near this strip of sand.

For the regular beachgoer though, this can be quite a pain since it's always nippy when you're standing on the beach but it becomes quite hot once you head towards the beach area. Also, if the sand becomes tossed around, the grit gets blown by the wind and you get an inadvertant beach facial.

Cats Rule!

All bow to the power and the glory of the banzai cat.

(Or: I can't believe I've been at this blog thing for one year. Okay, more than one year but for this reincarnation anyway.)

Wala lang.

Grab Bag of Goodies

...and have deduced that whatever recommendations you could make would more than likely be worth investigating. Sitting on my bedside table at present are Jonathan Strange, Douglas Coupland, Rushdie, Connie Willis and Alistair Reynolds.....so not really limited to anything.

Okay, forgottenmachine asked me to give some speculative fiction recommendations and since he didn't put any limitations, here's some off the top of my head. Of course I'm going to forgo the usual big names both in modern and classic fantasy and try to cite lesser-known ones. (Unless I really want to...)

A look at the right side of my blog would produce a list of names under the category of Authors: Lucius Shepard, Graham Joyce, Elizabeth Hand, and Sean Stewart. These are the authors who I truly admire for their great writing. These four combine a good story, scintillating prose and an insightful read in all their books. A ten-times-ten recommendation on my-- or in any-- reading list.

For a sampling of the above (except for Stewart) check out this site for a directory of their short stories on the web. For books, Joyce's Smoking Poppy is a haunting tale about fathers while Stewart's new book, Perfect Circle, is a funny yet sentimental horror story on what to do when you see ghosts. For Shepard, try out his short-story collection, The Jaguar Hunter, especially "Nights at White Bhairab", "The End of Life as We Know It" (a riff on Ernest Hemingway, I think), and "How the Wind Spoke at Madaket".

Three authors I would also give two-thumbs up are Michael Swanwick (whose inventiveness in turning ideas upside down are fascinating), Tim Powers (whose secret histories are an orgiasmic pleasure) and China Mieville (the man is a veritable font of fantastic ideas). I've presently read and can recommend Swanwick's The Iron Dragon's Daughter while Powers, On Stranger Tides, Declare and The Anubis Gates. Likewise with Mieville's Perdido Street Station, The Scar and Iron Council.

Others I would also cite are Argentina's own Angelica Gorodischer and her first English-translated work, Kalpa Imperial, Neil Gaiman's American Gods (though his comic book work is still better), and Matt Stover's hard-hitting (both physically and philosophically) Heroes Die and Blade of Tyshalle.

If you like something light-hearted, try Jasper Fforde's look at a literary-conscious world, The Eyre Affair. Terry Pratchett is also good (said the late convert) though I'm partial to his Night Watch books: Men at Arms and Night Watch. Pratchett's collaboration with Gaiman in Good Omens is also fun. (Though it's mostly British humor, mind.)

In science-fiction, there's Dan Simmons' grand-scale space-opera Hyperion that riffs on Chaucer, John Keats, and Raymond Chandler. On the other hand, there's also Peter Watts' excellent Starfish, which takes the reader down into the deeps of the sea and the depths of the human soul.

*huffpuffpuff*

I think this post is getting way too long (for something from the top of my head) so I'll stop here. Anyone who would want to give recommendations, fire away!

In Media Res: The Lost Art of Cartography

I blame JP for this.

Though really, I'm just answering his challenge for a 15-minute story (based on a painting by Vermeer) as proposed by gabe .

So: a nameless narrator sits at the corner table of a pub in 17th century Amsterdam and is telling a young man about a mysterious map. The young man may or may not be a thief. The narrator may or may not be a sorcerer.

Who knows? Reality is such a tenuous thing anyway...

The most powerful object in the world, the old man said, can be found in the house of the Vandermeer family gathering dust.

You know them, of course. The Vandermeers are one of the richest merchant families in Amsterdam. Every one knows the Vandermeers: even the King of England does business with the Vandermeers and you know what a tight-fisted crown sits on their throne.

But I tell you this: the fools don't know what has been hanging on their wall.

What is it? Why it's a map of course.

Given as a gift to the beautiful daughter of the Vandermeers', the map had been drawn by Maladorno when he was still a young man prone to heart-felt declarations of love. Of course, no one knew what it really was. But then again, nobody knew who Maladorno really was.

You don't know who Maladorno is also? Ah, let me tell you. After all, the art of cartography had been lost for almost a decade now and the young Italian had been the last of the great cartographers.

No, cartography then was more than what the sketchers and scribblers do today. Now, cartographers are mere map-makers, map-drawers: listening to accounts of ship captains about misty far-off lands, malevolent sea-monsters, demon-infested jungles, cannibal islands and ruins of ancient empires that had once ruled during the time of the Christ.

And most importantly, the old man emphasized, the trade-routes to these fantastic places.

But a long time ago, cartography was a puissant art. If a powerful cartographer were to detail these accounts on a piece of parchment, the map itself would become a link to that fantastic land. There would be no need for travelers to go on arduous journeys on months on end. One touch on the map and you would be there!

Of course there would be no way to come back except through sail, mount or pathway. But ah, the riches overwhelmed the risks. And what glory could be reaped by the returning traveler.

But: Maladorno. He was a young man then and susceptible to the charms of a young maiden named Adrienne Vandermeer. In keeping with all young men who think they had first discovered love, the Italian had crafted a map from the accounts of several ship masters and gave it as a gift to the young woman.

But the Vandermeer spurned the luckless youth and turned the suitor out on his ear. The gift, of course, they kept. They never knew what it was they hung on their wall.

You say: what use is an old map? I agree: a number of trade routes have been drawn and re-drawn based on accounts of merchanteers seeking trade with new lands. Maladorno's map was old, probably out-dated as well.

But the art of cartography is such a powerful thing. It bends reality; it places you not-here but there. And any fool of who would tinker with reality knows that the first rule of the sorcery is that belief is all.

So imagine that. New lands, not of this earth. And all ripe for the taking, if one were bold enough to snatch an old, dusty map hanging on the wall of the Vandermeer house.

Imagine that, said the old man lost in his reverie.

Hmm... this first draft really needs fleshing out. Maybe more clarification. I also went past the 15-minute limit.

But what the hell, it's only for practice anyway.

(Edited to add: the devil in the details)

I Haven't Stopped Blogging Yet...

(Sung to the tune, "I haven't stopped dancing yet"...)

Here's another regular in all blog/ livejournals/ xangas what-nots, the inimitable link dump. This time it's "interesting quotes" for a hundred dollars.

1. A great article by John Barth on the parallels on Italo Calvino and Jorge Luis Borge:

Both Jorge Luis Borges and Italo Calvino managed marvelously to combine in their fiction the values that I call Algebra and Fire (I'm borrowing those terms here, as I have done elsewhere, from Borges's First Encyclopedia of Tlon, a realm complete, he reports, "with its emperors and its seas, with its minerals and its birds and its fish, with its algebra and its fire.") Let "algebra" stand for formal ingenuity and "fire" for what touches our emotions (it's tempting to borrow instead Calvino's alternative values of "crystal" and "flame," from his lecture on exactitude, but he happens not to mean by those terms what I'm referring to here).

2. An interesting interview on Holly Philips by the inestimable Matt Cheney (I haven't read her stories yet but they're alluring enough):

I've always read widely, not just in fantasy, but there is something about the joy fantasists take in purely imaginative work, and something about the way that imagery and metaphor are made literal, concrete, in fantasy and all the speculative genres, that has always fired my own imagination. I think Sean (Stewart) once called it "opening a window on the numinous," which I think is a beautiful phrase.

3. Jeff Vandermeer (again) points out an interesting thing about writers: the "I write because I have to" syndrome (and curiously enough, the whole post seems strangely Lovecraftian to me).

It begins to become the mantra of the indoctrinated, the litany of the rosary-bead-counting priest, the tick-tock of some literary clock. I-write-be-cause-I-have-to. And the gears lament their way through another mechanical rotation of the inevitable. (I sure didn't write that sentence because I had to. Unfortunately, you had to read it.)

4. I'm sure this has been spread over the internet but this was the first time I saw this: three French graduate students' tribute to Jim Henson, lord and master of all muppets. An intense, sad yet creepy film. (Might take time to download.)

5. I missed this one but Neil Gaiman responded to a local girl about being spotted here in Manila. He also says he wants to see the Philippines thanks to the fans. (Courtesy of Anansi girl.)

Hi Neil,There's a rumor going around town that you were at a bar in Manila a few years back. A friend mentioned this to me because we were talking about the possibility of you coming to Manila for a book signing, as you mentioned in your blog a few days ago. I was wondering, have you ever been to the Philippines? Regards,Tania

Nope, never been to Manila. Never been to the Philippines either. That's why I was interested in coming (also because of the enormous numbers of people who come in to this blog from the Philippines, and the people from the Philippines who seem to show up at almost every signing to let me know that I really ought to visit the Philippines).

(As a general rule, established over years of doing this blog: if ever you meet someone in a bar or on a bus or hitchhiking or in an internet chat place who claims to be me, it's not me. Really it's not. I still can't figure out why people like pretending to be me, or why the people they are telling this to don't ever ask them to produce some kind of ID. But it's not been me so far. I don't do chat rooms, and if I'm actually in a bar I'll probably be in the corner with a notebook.)

6. And one of the best sites EVAAH. (Sorry, couldn't resist. Check out the other pics.)

Wala lang.

9 to 5 in Paradise

I've come to a realization that I don't think I'd want to live in Boracay.

[Identity-protected] and I once had this conversation in which I asked her if she would want to live there. She said she wouldn't mind trying it out but added that she would probably get bored.

Well, this point was emphasized our last trip out wherein I had to cover that Funboard cup two weeks ago.

Two reasons:

1. If you're not rich, you have to work. It's simple, really. You go to an island paradise like Boracay to relax. But if you live there and your surname isn't Elizalde or Ayala or Yuchengco or any of those belonging to rich families, then you have to earn a living.

This point was reinforced for me since I had to walk all the way from the Boracay main beach to where the windsailing competition was being held at wind-swept Kite Beach. The beach was across their main road (main being an exaggeration) and just 10-minutes away. But-- for one who's used to walking-- the travel was tiresome, done under the hot island sun. Can you believe I got my recent tan just by walking around? Eh.

Likewise, since you're working all day, you only have time to relax by early-to-late afternoon, which would preclude most of the fun-in-the-sun type of activities.

A lot of people living there do so via sports: beach volleyball, beach pingpong/ tennis (a combination of both), beach frisbee. Some pull out their skimboards (?) or their windsailing boards while others take the last few banana boards or jetski trips out. A lot just dip in the water a bit.

(Unfortunately, while we were there, the seasonal winds-- the hangin habagat-- was still around so it was quite nippy during the late afternoons. Double unfortunate was that due to the season, the waters were always cold. Brrr!)

Anyway, because of this, late afternoons the beach can get pretty crowded.

So: you're not the active type. What else can you do in Boracay?

Why drink, of course.

Boracay is also loaded with bars and restaurant, some of them like the world-famous Cocomangas bar and their "15 (shots) and still standing" drinking bouts. Some people from Imperial Manila actually go to Boracay not for the beaches but to party all night.

Unfortunately, Boracay as a vacation place also gets you into this mindset that it's okay to start drinking around 2 or 3 o'clock in the afternoon on the beach. This is such that by 7 o'clock, you've actually recovered from your first binge of drunkenness and ready to start your second.

And this brings me to the second reason:

2. It's boring there. If you're in Boracay and you've been working all day, chances are you want to relax. Now, in Manila, you go out on gimmicks: hit the bars to drink or go watch a movie. But in Boracay, there are no moviehouses. So you go and drink.

On the first night, after dinner, we went out to get a drink. On the second night, we went out to get a drink. On the third night, we went out to get a drink. On the fourth night... well, you get my point?

And it's all one place: there is really nothing new to try once you're gone around the Boracay bar circuit from station 1 (at one end of the island) to station 3 (the other end). After all, drinking with your feet in the sand can get ordinary after the first three times.

You know the saying, that it's all the same faces in the same places? In Boracay moreso: it's such a small place almost everyone knows each other there. (And some of the vacationers also.) And one thing I discovered is that despite Boracay's rather large population of expatriates, it still has the same small-town views and hierarchies of the locals.

It got so bad that after our fifth night, I was craving for a traffic jam on their main road. (Of course that's because the largest vehicle allowed around were tricycles or hybrid small jeepney/ trucks.) I was that bored.

I'm not slamming Boracay, mind. It's a beautiful island paradise, there's no denying it. It's just that after seven days and six nights in such a small place, paradise can get really tiring.

That and there were no bookshops around. Now that was unforgiveable.

Moratorium

I think I have too many books.

I think I'm writing too much about books.

Well, I don't know about dealing with the last statement (hey, what will I write about if not that?) but at least I can do something about the first.

I thought about this after picking up a few books this past week. These books were ones that were hard-to-find, mind, so I was rather hesitant to let them go.

But still...

A couple of days ago, I picked up the oddly exquisite Dictionary of Khazars by Milorad Pavic, a book the New York Times called 'one of the best books of the year' in Aeon Bookshop in Katipunan. I got the 'male' version though there's supposedly a 'female' edition that differs slightly. Also, it was a bit pricey but... hey, it was really a good find.

*sigh*

Then today I picked up a book I ordered, James Morrow's Blameless in Abaddon about the trial of God, as well as second-hand copies of Philip Jose Farmer's Riverworld saga To Your Scattered Bodies Go and The Fabulous Riverboat in Booktopia in Libis. (I also got Hotel Transylvania by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, the first book about the vampire Comte Saint-Germain, for [identity-protected] as a gift but that's different.)

So, you think I have too many books?

Right now, I'm guessing I have 500++ books I haven't read yet on my bookshelves and cabinets. And all of them I really want to read, dammit.

Anyway, because of this, I'm thinking of going on a book moratorium. Nothing fancy, nothing serious. Just a month-long (starting today) ban on getting more books. And if this works, if I'm able to hold off getting that one last-- ooooh! oooh! Jeffery Ford! Kelly Link! Robert E. Howard! Fritz Leiber!-- maybe I can extend the moratorium.

You know, a test case of will power. Me against the books.

Hopefully, by the time this is over, I've managed to make a dent on the books I have.

Hopefully.

Wala lang.

Whiling Away the Time

Well, while I'm waiting for news to come, here's a few interesting points on the 'net.

First, check out Jeff Vandermeer's interesting comment on Haruki Murakami's new book, Kafka on the Shore:

The idea of dreaming well or dreaming poorly, the idea that the imagination--its fruition or deformity--is the core of our (moral and ethical?) being begins to show the lie of frivolous interpretations of the imagination. In the world I like to think I inhabit--whether it is the real world or not--imaginative play is not something whimsical (in the derogatory sense of that word) but something vital--a part of humane interaction and communication, even a springboard for or practice for the part of us in which the serious and the silly are indistinguishable, and one may rise out of the other with ease. The imagination is, in some sense, and quite simply, the world. (Am I sure I'm saying this correctly? No. Am I sure I'm investing it with melodrama? Yes.)

...and...

Are there books we under-appreciate through no fault of the author's, but because our own imaginations as readers are not up to the task? And are there books we admire in part because we are not imaginative enough to see them for what they are?

Makes me want to mix metaphor and point out that axiom about power, in this case the power of imagination: its ability lies in being used and not just the potentiality.

Likewise, Fantasy Grandmaster Michael Moorcock tells it like it is for wannabe-writers (from the IROSF):

In my view unless you've been bankrupted as a writer or gone to prison at least once you haven't really been a writer...I would advise them not to try to avoid bankruptcy and prison. These are necessary credentials, amongst others. If they want to write fantasy I always advise them to stop reading fantasy and read modern realists. If they want to write autobiographical realism, I advise them to read some of the best visionary writers of our day. But if you're not risking bankruptcy and prison you're probably not taking enough risks in your work, either...

We should all maintain areas of risk, I think, however cautious we are by nature. The danger to a writer is to get too set in their ways, too comfortable, even if it's in their own misery.

First they tell me that writers are a poor lot. Now they expect us to go to jail? I don't know-- to paraphrase Billy Crystal in "Analyze That", I'd probably be much-liked in jail. Eck.

For those who are keeping an eye out for speculative short fiction, here's a nice site: Free Speculative Fiction Online, a catalogue of all speculative short fiction online. (Courtesy of the Slush God.)

Lastly, a book reviewed in SFSite gave me the shivers when I found out it had three concepts similar to a book I'm putting together. That damn common well of imaginative ideas again...

The Battle Between Good and Evil Continues...

... also known as, "How to give a cat a bath." (Found here. Also here.)

Instructions on cat grooming product, simplified for your convenience:

1. wet cat thoroughly

2. apply product and comb through cat’s wet coat.

3. keep cat from grooming for 10 minutes.

4. rinse product thoroughly off of cat.

5. dry cat to make sure (product) is completely off cat.

Actual sequence of events:

0. cat senses you’re up to no good, hides under table.

0.2 cat runs under couch.

0.4 cat resists being picked up.

0.6 cat realizes it is being brought towards the sink.

0.8 mortal komcat!

1. wet cat thoroughly

1.2 put cat back in water and get another 1% of cat wet before cat gets out again.

1.4 amazingly, cat has managed to writhe into a position where she’s holding herself away from the faucet with all four legs, her head, and her tail.

1.6 reassure kitty that everything’s okay, yank head back to avoid claw in eye.

1.8 wet cat the rest of the way.

2. apply product and comb through cat’s wet coat.

2.2 apply product with one hand while holding cat with the other.

2.4 cat lunges for freedom, hides in bedroom.

2.6 find cat in box, continue grooming.

2.8 box falls to shreds, cat’s coat is fully combed through.

3. keep soaking wet cat from grooming for 10 minutes(no, really. these people are insane.)

4. rinse product thoroughly off cat.

4.2 carry festival of whirling sharp claws back to bathroom.

4.4 put cat near stream of water.

4.6 every movable object in the bathroom falls to the floor as cat struggles in matrixesque bullet-time and attempts to propel herself through ceiling.

4.8 cat gets washed.

5. dry cat thoroughly.

5.2 chase cat around apartment with towel.

5.4 wrap cat in towel, fluff dry.

5.6 cat gets out of towel.

5.8 see 5.4

6. cat stares balefully from the top of a bookshelf.

6.2 cat stares balefully from the top of a bookshelf.

6.4 cat stares balefully from the top of a bookshelf.

6.6 cat stares balefully from the top of a bookshelf.

6.8 cat stares balefully from the top of a bookshelf

Ex Libris: Whistling in the Dark

Jack Cady's The Off Season is such an odd duck.

Described as ".... a curious pastiche that echoes unequal parts of The Divine Comedy, Alice in Wonderland, Pilgrim's Progress and Don Quixote", I'd personally describe it as something that Elmore Leonard would write if he had decided to write a gothic novel. Or a better version of what Christopher Moore was doing when he wrote Practical Demonkeeping.

And that oddity, I think, is what makes this a hidden gem of a good read.

I first heard this book via Terry Windling's fantasy summary (always a good source of what great books to look for) for the year 1995 in The Year's Best of Fantasy and Horror: Ninth Annual Collection. Serendipitiously, I found a copy of this book at the second-hand table of a local bookstore a few months later and picked it up. Such good luck.

In The Off-Season, Cady relates a tale about a northwestern coastal town called Point Vestal. A tourist-draw of a place, it's a haven for visitors because it's... well, Point Vestal has a unique history of being haunted. As in ghosts walk its streets in broad daylight. Fortunately enough for everyone, these are amiable ghosts. Most of them anyway.

As to why we write: every town has an official history. In Point Vestal, an official history is easy come by, but a true history is not. Around here history is not over just because an activity passes. We write an absolutely true history, one uncloyed with romance. We include our own awful mistakes because each of us played a part. The book reveals pretty horid events which happened some years ago...

Our problem in writing a true history is: at some time or other, strange forces got loose in this town. They probably arrived early on. When the first whites moved here, they asked the Indians where to settle. The Indians pointed to the site of Point Vestal and said, "Take that. We don't want it. It is cursed."

Such an auspicious beginning.

Of course, Point Vestal also refuses to be fixed in time such that people from its Victorian past may actually be just ghosts in the present. But who can tell, right? There's also a Parsonage with its own distinct personality and an all-seeing watchtower wandering all over the place but the building is really harmless.

Now, is the book strange enough for you?

So: this story is a history of the cursed town as told through the viewpoint of five residents. However, this is also a story about a wandering preacher and violinist named Joel-Andrew and his dancing-and-singing multilingual cat, Obed, who arrives one day during the off-season.

And it is his arrival that sets off a cataclysmic, apocalyptic battle as Joel-Andrew and August Starling, a late-19th-century crime baron and the local incarnation of evil, face off in the town square for the souls of the people-- past and present-- of Point Vestal.

In The Off Season, Cady has written what I would term a 'sentimental horror novel': it's about hypocrisy and ignorance, vengeance and redemption, and ultimately, how we look at ourselves.

Cady himself described his own book best when he said, ""I wanted to write a book that would gladden the hearts of readers, but also a book that, if possible from the land of wit and poetry where all great writers surely go, my hero, Mark Twain, would enjoy reading."

Jack Cady died on January 14, 2004 at the age of 71. I'm sure that somewhere in Writer's Heaven, Cady and Twain are talking about this book.

In Media Res: The Air Gondola

Finally, the internet is back to normal again (after a slow couple days).

Anyway, here's another vignette for your perusal while I try to jump-start my brain for... well, just to get my brain started.

Nothing as weird as the first. This had been cooking for a long time but came out looking like this when I added a little fairy dust. Likewise, here's where I first coin the term "alternate secret history". Okay, more like trying out different story styles.

To wit: There is War in 16th century Europa and the human race is caught between two powerful forces. The British Invasion has come but the Italian Renaissance is also on the rise. Unfortunately, history is coming for our poor young protagonist, an Italian named Nicolo...

In the wooden glades of Italy, the Wild Hunt chased Nicolo.

On the evening of the third day, Nicolo tried to escape his pursuers into the hills but haunt-hounds harried him back into the forest.

Nicolo tried again that night and it was only due to luck that the young Florentine managed to slip past the tree line. Managing to gain the heights, Nicolo turned to look behind him and choked on despair. Fairy lights glowed throughout the dark woods dimly, all coursing toward his direction like vengeful fireflies.

He spat a curse and continued running the ridgeline. Behind him he heard the bloodcurdling baying of the pale hounds once more and could not help but freeze in terror. He forced himself to continue. As he did so, he tasted his own fear and found that he had bitten his tongue, filling his mouth with the sharp, copper taste of blood.

The red caps finally caught up with Nicolo on the mountain road.

As he heard the thunder of hoofs in the distance and otherworldly horns braying awoooo, he knew that the red caps’ masters, the Daoine Sidhe, were almost upon him. But then the first red cap leaped from a boulder from where it was hiding as Nicolo came jogging down the path.

At first look, Nicolo thought it was a feral child, a wildling or a Lost Boy. However, when he saw its face, Nicolo knew he faced a red cap or a goblin: foot-soldiers for the Sidhe host that followed the hounds.

Nicolo’s reaction was instinctive: he quickly drew the musket and shot an iron ball into the red cap’s chest. The goblin screeched in dreadful agony as the ball impacted, blowing a hole through its chest.

As if on signal, a dozen red caps jumped up from the rocks and bushes that crowded the trail. Nicolo’s cursing became more fervent as he unsheathed the iron knife that hung from his hip and upended the musket for a club.

Too many, he thought as he ran the gauntlet, slamming a booted foot on the neck of a fallen goblin and cutting off a sneaking green claw. His breath was now coming in stitches as he skirted a fallen log and jumped a boulder on the path.

Two more red caps jumped from behind a briar patch and brought him down. Nicolo screamed, tasting dirt as he felt them tear at his pack to shreds and bloody his shoulders with tiny daggers. He tried to roll on to his back but the weight of the two red caps had him firmly pinned on the ground.

Suddenly, he felt something slam on his back and he was free, pushing against the unmoving bodies of the goblins.

As he booted off another crawling red cap, he saw small sand bags on top the bodies of his attackers. Feeling something on the top of his head, he swung his knife only to see it was a rope.

“Grab hold, fool!” he heard someone shout above him.

He looked up and saw a gigantic shadow ponderously moving through the cold mountain air. As the bright full moon cleared a cloud bank, he saw an improbable sight: like a jelly-fish he once saw in the Mediterranean, a large gray balloon floated above him with ropes a-hanging in imitation of stingers.

“Grab the rope!”

So he did. Dropping the empty musket, he almost had his arm wrenched from his socket as he was tugged into the air from the red caps’ frenzied graspings.

Turning helplessly on the rope, Nicolo cried out in pain as he crashed against something hard. He was quickly past it as he was roughly pulled up, tumbling onto a wooden floor. Shaking his head, he tried to collect himself.

The ship—for Nicolo recognized it as a gondola transplanted from the canals of Venice—was strangely accoutered. Thick shanks of rope were slung from the balloon above (itself made of sewn strips of dark leather-hide) to hold up the long wooden boat. Boxes and barrels were scattered everywhere on the long, narrow deck as its crew loaded muskets and adjusted tied sandbags on the side of the boat.

The man who had held the other end of rope dropped the line once Nicolo was on board and started shouting orders at the others, striding forward to the prow. When he looked back, he saw Nicolo gaping like a dead fish.

“It’s a balloon-ship.”

Nicolo gasped and jumped up, instinctively tightening his grip on his blade when he gained a clear look at the man.

The man was a vampire! And around him were more of them, the whole crew—he saw their faces teeth-sharp snarling in the light cast by the full moon—as they fired musket-shot iron balls below at the milling fairy.

“A good job leading these fucking bloodsuckers to us, sheep,” the black-clad imposing figure said in a distinct Venetian accent, “My name is Count Leonardo d'Vinci, captain of the air gondola Bellisima, and currently in the service of d'Medici Family.”

A vampire crew-man screamed, elf-shot, and turned into dust with only a small wooden arrow left to clatter on the wooden floor.

“I didn’t…” stuttered Nicolo.

The grey-faced Count snorted and said, “Of course you didn’t, sheep. But it did the job in bringing this hunting party here. Now tell me your name. It’s impolite not to introduce yourself.”

“Nicolo,” he replied with reluctance, “Nicolo Machiveli…”

Huh. Anyone with an eye for historical inaccuracies, pretty pleeaase shout 'em out so I can correct the above.

Now I'm going back to work again...

I'm Back!

And I'm dog-tired.

Pending further posts, here's an interesting poem I found in Elizabeth Hand's Waking the Moon:

The City

You said, "I will go to another land, I will go to another sea.
Another city will be found, a better one than this.
Every effort of mine is a condemnation of fate;
and my heart is — like a corpse — buried.
How long will my mind remain in this wasteland.
Wherever I turn my eyes, wherever I may look
I see black ruins of my life here,
where I spent so many years destroying and wasting."

You will find no new lands, you will find no other seas.
The city will follow you. You will roam the same
streets. And you will age in the same neighborhoods;
and you will grow gray in these same houses.
Always you will arrive in this city. Do not hope for any other—
There is no ship for you, there is no road.
As you have destroyed your life here
in this little corner, you have ruined it in the entire world.

Constantine Cavafy (trans. by Rae Dalven)