Wednesday, November 11, 2015


Autumn continues, unnaturally warm. Greenhouse Effect, anyone? The trees in the park are almost leafless. There may be a few flowers hanging on. At the moment it's sunny, but rain in predicted in the afternoon. I'm a bit sad about that. Originally it looked as it we going to have an all-day rain. I would love a long, steady rain.

I am currently proofreading the manuscript for the hwarhath story collection, plus two essays. The collection is set to come out next spring. After that, most likely, I will move on to putting together a collection of Lydia Duluth stories.

I'm still trying to come to terms with Kathe's death. I wrote a fairly long post about K and old age, sickness and death today. But I decided to delete most of it.

My hwarhath collection includes three stories about the hwarhath actor Dapple, one set when she is a baby, one when she is 20 and one when she is 40. I have a fourth story set when she is 60 and beginning to worry about old age. (The hwarhath live longer than humans do at present, but Dapple's profession is highly physical. Hwarhath actors do a lot of dancing and tumbling.) The story is also about the death of the Ettin matriarch, Ettin Taiin's mother, and about Taiin growing old. I should finish it. I think I need to write about old age and mortality.

It started to rain between three and four and still coming down heavily, with flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder. Patrick has a cold and has gone to bed. I think I'll retire and read a book on paleontology. Long-extinct life forms always cheer me when I am depressed by mortality. It's way too late to worry about them. Instead, I can reflect on evolution and the splendid progression of always-changing life.

Wednesday, November 04, 2015


This is a facebook comment on other writers discussing how much they enjoy writing:
I am not sure I love writing. Mostly I notice how hard it is and how the end result is never what I imagined and wanted. I think I spent too much time around avant garde artists as a child. I seem to believe an artist must suffer for his or her art, which is almost certainly BS. I grant that sometimes stories flow out as if they came from somewhere else. The muse, maybe. And sometimes the ideas are so neat and funny that I hug myself. But mostly it's work. The payback is great, however: bringing a story to my workshop and having the other members like it, sending it out and having it accepted.


I had a dream about packing. I was traveling with several people in several cars and it was time to go. We had an amazing amount of baggage. I had maybe ten bags and was trying to get everything into them. When I was almost done, and part of my baggage was already stuffed into a car, I realized some of my bags were mostly empty. I was going to have to repack. And I realized that some of the things I was going to need -- I think for a one night stay somewhere on the road --were in the bags already in the car and unreachable.

I think I was permanently scarred by traveling across Asia when I was 16. Eight countries in three months. I was always packing and unpacking and hauling baggage. It was worth it, but I don't like baggage or flying.

A Freudian would focus on the word 'baggage.' Do I feel I have too much emotional baggage? Yes. I have a lifetime's worth of memories, feelings and thoughts. That's a lot to haul around. Good material for writing, though.

Friday, October 16, 2015

Kathe Kelly

My friend Kathe Kelly died sometime in the past week, alone in her apartment. She had been increasingly frail and seemed to me to be failing mentally, so I am not surprised. But it's a huge loss.

I first met her when we were both 17 and freshmen in college. My dorm at an expensive, elite college had cockroaches -- the big American ones that called water bugs. The first time I saw one, I freaked out. I had never seen a roach before and had no idea what to do. I went down the dorm hall looking for help and found Kathe. She put on a pair of cowboy boots, came to my room and stomped the roach. I don't think she had ever seen a cockroach before -- she was from Darien, Connecticut, an expensive suburb of New York -- but she was tougher than I was.

I remember her as a slim young woman, dressed all in black like a beatnik, and with the cowboy boots, of course. She was the oldest child of Walt Kelly, who drew Pogo, a very famous comic strip at the time. Like her father, she was a writer and artist.

We became friends, both of us becoming involved with the Student Peace Union and the political activists around the SPU. She dropped out of the college after two years, moved to Philly and got a job with the American Friends Service Committee. We stayed in touch while I plugged on at school.

This was in the early 1960s, when the country was about to catch fire. Kathe was involved with Civil Rights as well as the peace movement, and she got arrested and thrown in jail during a demonstration against the House UnAmerican Activities Committee. That was in Chicago. I was living in the Twin Cities by then, having moved back after college. Kathe and I stayed in touch.

In 1967, I moved to New York. Kathe was there. We roomed together in Brooklyn. After the 1967 Rebellion in Detroit, we moved to the Motor City. Kathe knew some people there, and the city sounded interesting to me. We roomed together in Detroit for several years. There was one point, after we stopped rooming together, when we had separate apartments in the same building, so we could run down the hall to talk.

At another point, Kathe was living in a house with two other women. I moved in, after spending a month putting up paneling and painting, in an attempt to make the attic look something like a bedroom. The first night I slept there, I woke to the sound of screaming. The house was a side-by-side duplex, and I thought the screaming was coming from next door. I came down the stairs to get Kathe, so we could figure out what to do. As I came down, I heard footsteps going down to the first floor. It turned out the screaming was Kathe. She had a hook and eye lock on her bedroom door, so our roommates' cats couldn't get in. She woke when the lock clicked. Someone was trying to get in. She began screaming at once. She was alway good in an emergency.

We found a window on the ground floor open and called the police. They arrived with drawn guns -- you have no idea how big and bright a nickel-plated revolver seems, when it's shining in the light -- and decided that we had dreamed the whole thing. There was no intruder. When our roommates came home, they couldn't understand the need for better security. They had left the ground floor window unlocked, because one of them had lost her keys. Kathe and I talked about the need for better locks on all the windows, plus the need to make sure no one was home alone. They were busy working on prisoners' rights for the inmates of Jackson State Prison. They simply didn't get the idea of working to protect women.

Kathe and I moved out. I got a new apartment, and Kathe stayed there until she left for California, driving her big Dodge van. A week after we moved out, a woman down the block from our old house was raped at knife point in her bedroom. The cops then wanted to talk to Kathe, but she was about go to California and didn't want any distractions.

There was a period in the late 1960s when alienated young middle class people decided to join the working class. Kathe and I both did this. But Kathe did a more complete job. I worked as a clerk in offices. Kathe worked in warehouses and was even a tool and die maker for a while. The guys she worked with were sexist pigs, but she managed to handle their hassling with relative calm.

Kathe was still writing. The two of us (and our friend Ruth Berman) published stories in the same issue of New Worlds in the early 1970s. This was a late version of the magazine, which came out as a paperback book. It didn't last long.

Neither of us could drive when we arrived in Detroit. I continued to not learn. But Kathe took driving classes, bought a big Dodge van and then took more classes, so she could do all the ordinary maintenance herself.

I met my life partner, Patrick, in Detroit. In 1974 Patrick and I moved to Minneapolis. I wanted to be in a city that was safer than Detroit, but was still affordable. I knew I wanted to write and was going to continue working office jobs and never have much money. Safe and affordable seemed like a good idea. The Twin Cities, which I knew well, fit the bill. Kathe stayed in Detroit. As usual we kept in touch. She wrote wonderful letters, sometimes with illustrations. I still have them, though she asked me to destroy them. I will have to do this now.

The car plants began to move out of the city, and Detroit became a harder place to live. Kathe said there came a time when no one in the community had jobs or was getting unemployment. There was no one to ask for a loan. The city got really tough then. This is where my memory fails me, and Kathe is no longer around to ask. I know she was in Boston for several years, but I don't remember if she first moved to the Twin Cities, then to Boston, then back to the Twin Cities, or if she went first to Boston and then here.

We both stayed in the Twin Cities. Kathe moved from working blue collar jobs to office jobs. She lost interest in politics for the most part and studied Zen Buddhism, becoming a Zen nun. I stayed interested in politics, but not especially active. I was involved in the National Writers Union in the 1980s, but that was about it-- except for my writing which is almost always political. I was a fairly serious writer by this time, though still working office jobs to make a living. Kathe continued to write, mostly poetry, but made no effort to place the poems anywhere. She and I were in the same poetry writing group, which put out an anthology: Lady Poetesses from Hell. The group does reading at science fiction conventions and sells copies of the book. Kathe's best poetry is really fine.

Somewhere along the line Kathe became interested in alternative health. She was on a brown rice macrobiotic diet for a long time and took up traditional Chinese medicine. She refused to have anything to do with Western medicine, instead relying on a traditional Chinese doc here in Minneapolis. Over time, she developed the worst case of osteoporosis I have ever seen. She ended bent double, walking with a staff. It seemed to me I was watching her crumble.

I believe in Western med, and I think she could have gotten help. But it was never possible to argue with Kathe.

We met roughly twice a month -- at the poetry group and for lunch at a local Chinese restaurant, which I didn't like. Kathe could eat the food there. She had odd (to me) dietary needs, due to the advice of her Chinese doctor. I subscribe to New Scientist and I always kept copies to give her, because she was interested in science. I just looked at my magazine and catalog pile and realized I no longer need to keep the copies.

This year we stopped meeting for lunch, and Kathe missed a lot of meetings of the writing group. I think it was simply too hard to get around. She was obviously in pain. I saw her last about three months ago at a meeting of the poetry group. After that, I called her several times to tell her where the next meeting of the group was and to ask her if she wanted to go out to lunch. She said yes about lunch, but not now.

Then she died.

In the last few years, I found it increasingly hard to deal with Kathe. She had always been eccentric, a bohemian, a free spirit. As she aged, she became more and more eccentric and rigid. I don't think the Chinese medicine helped. If she had gotten treatment for the osteoporosis and her pain, she might have done better. But that is only my opinion. For a long, long time we had wonderful conversations. She read a lot. She was observant. She was bright as hell. Then the conversations became less and less interesting, as she became less and less well. I don't think she should have died at 72. However, she lived life as she wanted do and died the way she wanted to, at home. She was terrified of ending in a hospital or nursing home.

She always had a touch of paranoia, which came from being an activist in the 1960s. The police in Detroit were clearly an army of occupation. It was perfectly reasonable to think they might frame you or kill you. But the paranoia remained after there was less reason for it. Maybe this came -- at least in part -- from growing old and living alone. As you age, you become vulnerable, and if you are alone, you are likely to feel very vulnerable.

As fragile as she seemed to me, she was also stoic and fiercely independent and very private. My mother was a New Englander like Kathe. These traits were very familiar to me.

Sometime along the way, she had her name legally changed from Kathe Kelly to Cassandra O'Malley. I didn't understand why, and I don't know how the bright, gifted, energetic young woman I met in college turned into the prickly, paranoid, fragile old woman I knew at the end. This society wears people down.

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

I Have To Do Some 'Splaining

First of all, Marc... I wasn't trying to argue that Germany was responsible for US postwar behavior, either in reality or in Captain America 2. We apparently see the movie very differently. To me, when Cap discovers that Hydra has taken over SHIELD and the entire US government, he is discovering that there is no moral difference between the US and the enemy he fought in Cap 1. For a patriot like Cap, a guy of superhuman moral purity, this is one hell of a discovery. The scene between Cap and the crazed Nazi scientist in the mainframe is based on reality. The US did recruit Nazis at the end of WWII, and some of these guys were very nasty. Recruiting them does not say good things about the US government.

Cap 1 is about a struggle between good Yanks and bad Germans, and it has much of appearance and feeling of American movies made during the war. Even the colors -- sepia brown, black and white and gray -- look like a 1940s B&W movie. But the moral divisions didn't run cleanly along national boundaries, as I am sure you know. There were collaborators in all the occupied countries, and there were people in the US and UK who had no problem recruiting Nazis for postwar work at the same time that Allied troops were going into the death camps and finding bodies stacked like cordwood.

Before the war, there were people in the US and Europe who liked the fascists, because they saw them as allies against the USSR, communism, socialism and the labor movement. And before the war ended, the US and UK were moving to a confrontation with their wartime ally the USSR and with the European communists who had been a lot of the resistance against fascism. (See the history of Greece right after WWII.)

(I am not saying that the USSR was a socialist or communist society. I think it was a state capitalist society and a nasty police state. But it had dangerous rhetoric.)

So this is the way I see the two Captain Americas. Cap 1 is the popular history: good Yanks and bad Germans. Cap 2 is a much more ambiguous reality. Cap realizes that the US government is the same as Hydra. In fact, the US government is Hydra. Everything he has believed in and stood for is untrue.

I may give the Marvel movies too much credit, because I enjoy them. They cost a mint to make, which means they have to please the people with the money to fund them and a gigantic, diverse audience. So they need story lines that everyone likes, and that is not likely to be an honest story line.

Now, Foxessa... I can't justify my dislike of the American professional middle class and fiction about them. I clearly suffer from a prejudice. I'm not sure where it comes from. (Though the period of my childhood, when professional people were falling over each other to denounce their neighbors as communists may have something to do with my prejudice. I can remember that period just a little. It was a time of fear and cowardice, and I think it has left deep marks on American society and culture.) In addition, speaking as an artist, I am much less interested in personal problems than in social problems. Many of my stories -- possibly most -- are about people in conflict with their social roles.

More on Diversity

An article in The Guardian on whether one should represent marginalized people in fiction.

I am of several minds re this. I do agree that all art has an agenda. You learn this in art history. But I also support the romantic (I think it is) idea of self-expression and truth to oneself. A very 19th and early 20th century idea. Finally, I am uncomfortable with the stories I have written in an effort to be multicultural. Not the future stories where I make human society non-racist and a mix of cultures, not the future stories where I make everyone black. Those are fun. But the stories where I try to write an existing nonwhite culture from the inside. I am not drawing on my own experience and I worry about treating other cultures dishonestly or disrespectfully. It's not worth the psychic wear and tear for me.

Friday, October 02, 2015

The Psychological Problems of the Comfortably Well Off

I have been reading Jonathan McCalmont's blog. It's called Ruthless Culture, and I keep misremembering the name as Cruel Culture. Anyway, a bright and thoughtful guy. He has almost convinced me that everything I have written in defense of science fiction and popular culture is wrong. However, his most recent post is about a movie titled 45 Years, which he very much liked. It's about a couple about to celebrate their 45th wedding anniversary. In the course of the movie the wife discovers that her husband has been mourning for -- and obsessed by -- a former girl friend who fell into a glacial crevasse and died. This calls into question her entire married life and her life. I haven't seen the movie and don't intend to, but it sounds like a New Yorker short story from 50 years ago, back when I read The New Yorker. My question is, why should I care about these people and their problems? Why should the emotional problems of the educated upper middle class interest me at all? If I want nuanced exploration of personal lives I can read Henry James, and I have. I realize I sound like a philistine. But Captain America is dealing with the changes in America since WWII and with the realization that his beloved country has been infiltrated by Nazis, who are running the government. I'd call these real and serious problems.

When I was a kid, the real issues -- the ones under the Father Knows Best surface -- were McCarthyism and the threat of nuclear holocaust. Now the real issues are the war against terrorism and its witch hunting and global warming.

Finding out that your marriage is a sham is very sad, but chances are good that 19th century European novelists covered the topic.

I like murder mysteries that deal with personal problems. A dysfunctional family gets a lot zippier if you add a corpse and a question. Who done it? But murder mysteries with political content are even more interesting. Hammett and Chandler wrote about corruption. The more recent women writers have written about feminist issues -- if only by taking over the tough guy mystery.

Patrick has been reading Sinclair Lewis. Babbitt is about the psychological problems of a person who is financially comfortable, but it is also about how incredibly sterile life in Midwestern, middle class America was at the time. That is a point worth making.


I've gotten enough critical feedback from this comment that I suspect I am wrong. I'm leaving it as it is, anyway, while I think more about the topic.

Wednesday, September 23, 2015


It's always a bit sad when one puts together a long, thoughtful post and there is a comment, and one thinks, "Aha, the conversation is continuing." Then the comment turns out to be robotic praise, leading into some kind of selling...

Monday, September 21, 2015

Stories About Stories 2

One of my failings as a thinker is -- I suddenly get interested in something and chew it to bits. This is more on Brain Attebery's quite harmless paragraph, taken from facebook.

I talked to a pagan friend yesterday. The Icelandic and Finnish myths are still alive and relevant in her community. I think Brian wanted to move on to his main topic, the use of indigenous religions in fantasy, and didn't think through why the use of white mythologies was okay. (Well, I guess the ancient Egyptians and Sumerians are not white. His list is actually a grab bag of cultures. The Icelanders and Finns are white cultures on the the margin of Europe. The Greeks and Romans are foundational. Their art and literature are everywhere in European culture right up to the present. The ancient Egyptians and Sumerians are also foundational, but more remotely, and they exist in an ambiguous racial state. The Egyptians at least are often regarded as honorary whites. I guess any myth that is part of Western history is okay to use. And I can see this is an argument. But it isn't because the myth is dead. It's because we regard these myths as part of our past.)

For example, the Egyptian fad in the early 19th century, after Napoleon invaded Egypt... Sumeria is a longer stretch, but it could be argued that the civilizations of ancient Mesopotamia come down to us through the Bible and the histories of Greece and Rome. Here is George Gordon, Lord Byron, on a Biblical event:

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

I need to point out again that this is not what Brian's book is about. It's a tossed off comment, before he moved on to the serious discussion.