The History of Luminous Motion

The History of Luminous Motion by Scott Bradfield
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Simultaneously, some of the most beautiful, frustrating prose I've ever read. There's no doubt that Bradfield is a master craftsmen when it comes to narration. This work is ethereal, smart, and evocative of some of my favorite writers (Brian Evenson, Rikki Ducornet, etc). But when Mary Gaitskill blurbs that the work is "Painfully beautiful writing," she is speaking more truth than she knows.

The narrator, Phillip, travels through a sort of dreamscape seeking the "History of Luminous Motion". We're not quite told what that means per se, but if pressed up against the wall, I'd say it's the need to keep moving, the need to feel empowered, that seeking for the feeling that one has control over his own life, his own agency. Phillip, along with his friends Rodney and Beatrice, seek power from the world of the spirits to . . . well, this is where things break down. You see, Phillip is psychotic. Not figuratively speaking, he really is psychotic. So his goals are . . . elusive, even to himself. He doesn't quite know what he wants until he's almost "on top" of it. Maybe this is part of the idea of motion, the stumbling on from event to event, from thought to thought, with no real notion of where things are going to end up until you're "there" wherever "there" is.

And they end up in a bad place. A very bad place for everyone involved.

But, see, Phillip, again, is psychotic. He can't be trusted. So how much of this is real? Having finished the novel, I can't even tell you if his friends are real or not. The only two people that seem real at all are Phillip and his dad.

Then there's his mom. Phillip has an obsession with connecting and disconnecting with his mother throughout the novel. I often wondered if his mother was just a figment of his imagination, if she had died when he was younger, if she was a dead body in the house, if . . . if she was even real. And the connection to his mother (and subsequent disconnections and reconnections) are what drive much of the philosophy forward in this book.

I must note that this book is full of philosophy. It will make you think. You might not agree with Phillip's (or Rodney's or Beatrice's) philosophies, but they will make you think.

The writing is dark, not for those who are seeking comforting prose and happy scenes. Rather, Phillip plunges deep inside himself to the dark places in his skull and between his ribs, where he ruminates on life's meaning or tries to escape from it:

For the first time in my life I was utterly alone. I examined the desultory, overinflated images of naked women in men's magazines. I bought a harmonica which I liked to hold in my hand and imagine myself playing. Sometimes I danced alone in my room, listening to Bruce Springsteen or Joe Cocker on my Sony Walkman. I preferred Jim Beam, but I cultivated a taste for gin as well. I drank and danced until I grew dizzy and surfeited with a thick, swollen stomach, and collapsed on my unsheeted mattress, beating my feet in the air, watching the room swirl around. When it started swirling I knew I might throw up at any moment. That's what the plastic-lined trash bin was for. I lay very still and tried to make the room stop moving. It required an act of intense concentration. It was as if this swirling room was itself a mockery of movement, pulling up through my stomach while the alcohol moved through my blood, lifted into my brain and skull and sinuses. I wanted more to drink and tried to sit up. I knocked over bottles and ashtrays. The gray ashes spilled across my clothes and sheets. There were beer cans everywhere. Everything reeked of gin and cigarettes. The floor of my room looked like the high school parking lot. The world seemed to be growing darker and more desperate. "I don't know where I'm trying to go, Mom," I whispered, as if she could hear me. "Maybe I'm already there and I don't even know it."

Pretty dark stuff, but probably what you'd expect from a person struggling with psychosis.

Only Phillip is eight years old . . .

Yeah, eight years old.

Okay.

Whatever.

This is what held this novel back from brilliance. NO eight year old uses words like "surfeit" or "desultory," and, I'm sorry, but a little boy who drinks that much (and later is smoking weed and sniffing glue with abandon, along with his 12-year-old friend, Rodney) is going to survive long. "Well," you say, "an eight-year-old could handle alcohol in small quantities." Fine. How many eight-year-olds enjoy drinking enough that they'll drink until they vomit? Really?

And that vocabulary, that beautiful, erudite vocabulary - eight? There's no way. I was an advanced reader and writer at that age, and I couldn't have told you what "desultory" meant. I might have figure out "surfeit" from the context of the sentence, but to construct a sentence using that word? No way! And the book is full of examples like this. Chock full.

I just couldn't swallow it. Had the book ended on a big "reveal" that this was written by someone in their twenties, looking back on a childhood riddled with mental illness, I could forgive the indulgence. But no . . . just no! The book ends . . . okay, I won't spoil it for you. But it's not as I would have wished, not by a long shot, not in a way that makes a modicum of sense vis-a-vis all the previous narration.

My suspension of disbelief was further shot down by Phillip's Mom's words and actions. She excuses her son for an attempted murder[attempted murder (hide spoiler)], and possibly (though it's never quite clear) a genuine, honest to goodness homicide,[genuine, honest to goodness homicide (hide spoiler)] just chalking it up to her inability to understand her son. What??? She stands and watches as he tortures the boy's own incoherent father, her husband, who is strapped to a chair with cables and extension cords, in an attempt to kill the man, and does nothing to intercede? WHAT?!?!? Then it turns out, if I read correctly, that Phillip's Mom is, contrary to the theories I held all along while reading the book, a real person.

This could have been a gem. Should have been a gem. There are still shining moments, but it's like a pearl necklace that's been dropped into an outhouse hole. Yes, there are rewards, and yes, it's beautiful and valuable, but do you really want to have to put up with the stink to get it? Your call . . .

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Locus Needs HERACLIX AND POMP, Heraclix and Pomp needs your vote!

If you are inclined to participate in semi-juried partially-masked as legitimate popularity contests, please go to Locus Online and vote for Heraclix and Pomp as Best Fantasy Novel (it will have to be as a write-in candidate - take this as your opportunity to "Mickey Mouse" the voting, but with something worthwhile. You know you've wanted to do this for a long time. Give in to the temptation)!

Oh, and please share and invite your friends to do the same.

Vote early, vote often . . .

Thanks for your support.

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#RaggisRejects Magic Items

A pair of magic items rejected for the Lamentations of the Flame Princess referee book project. Use as you like in your home campaign . . . but be careful! Please contact me directly if you wish to use either of these in a publication for which you are being paid or might be paid. Proper attribution is appreciated. Critiques are welcome. Enjoy! No, that's not really the word, now, is it???

Crown of Thought

Overview: Historically, nothing is known about the manufacture of the so called "Crown of Thought" or who first wore it. Some scholars have noted that portrayals of the crown appear in tapestries and manuscripts throughout history, but these so-called scholars are of the garden variety, with little or no academic training. Their writings on the crown, which describe it as an "artifact of great renown and terror" and "an uncontrollable vice," should be viewed with caution. Though it is true that some historical representations of the crown generally pre-date a certain eccentricity on the part of the wearer, the chronological appearance of the artifact and subsequent neuroses of the wearer does not guarantee causation, as the data are of a small scale and quite obscure. More research is required.

Physical Appearance: The Crown of Thought appears to be a poorly wrought crown made of dark iron. It is composed of a series of sharp spikes that ascend in height on either side as one rounds the crown toward the front, where a single spike, 12" in height, surmounts the piece. Some of these spikes are bent, as if the crown had been dropped form a height or thrown against a wall. Indeed, dents, gouges, and scratches are plentiful and its dark patina give the object the air of something of little worth. The inside of the crown is worn smooth and shiny, ostensibly from previous owners having worn it. Two initials, "HB" are stamped on the rear, inside face, where the crown would touch the back of the wearer's head. The provenience of the initials are unknown.

Effects: When the Crown of Thought is first donned, the wearer feels a sense of clarity of thought, an awakeness and awareness beyond that of the everyday. If the wearer continues to keep the crown on, he or she will feel his or her thoughts "reach out" after a few hours of wearing the crown. Within a day, the wearer will gain the ability, once per day, to use an effect equivalent to that of an ESP spell. After a number of uses equal to the wearer's intelligence ability score, the crown, if used again, will reveal to the target the thoughts of the wearer - i.e., the wearer's intent in reading the target's thoughts. The target will know that the wearer is trying to read his or her thoughts. Reactions toward the wearer will be based on the target's personality. 

If the wearer insists on using the crown again, it will "reach out" to two different people's thoughts at once: the desired target's, and another person or creature within range, as randomly determined by the referee. The sudden input of two sets of thoughts will affect the wearer as if affected by a Confusion spell. If the wearer persists in using the crown a third time, the next instance of use will result in his or her being affected by Feeblemind. If the wearer successfully saves versus magic, the ESP will succeed, as normal. At this point, the wearer will develop a powerful addiction to using the crown's powers for the most trivial of matters. Each time the wearer does use the Crown of Thought, he or she must save versus magic. Again, if the save is successful, the wearer can continue to scrye the thoughts of those within range. But any failure to save results in the effects of a Feeblemind spell.

Green Drink

This item appears as a thick, bright green liquid in a glass flask to which a tag is attached. The tag reads "Green Drink".

Anyone imbibing the Green Drink (even a sip will do) immediately feels very thirsty. Within one turn, the drinker's skin will have turned green and harder, as if calloused. The drinker will feel not only an insatiable thirst, but the need for water all over his or her body and the need for sunlight. If the drinker fails to be entirely doused in water twice a day, he or she will suffer as if he or she had gone without water for one full day. Furthermore, the drinker must also get 5 full hours of sunlight per day or suffer starvation effects (save versus Poison or lose 1 point of constitution). These effects are cumulative and last until the next autumn, regardless of when the effect began. When autumn arrives, the spellcaster sheds all of his or her hair and several layers of skin, with the skin color returning to normal at that time. After the green skin is shed, there is no further need to be doused or receive the 5 hours of sunlight, though any constitution loss is permanent.

The Library: A World History

The Library: A World History by James W.P. Campbell
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

It would be easy, yet criminally dismissive, to merely tell you about how gorgeous the pictures are in this book. Don't get me wrong, they are gorgeous, and those who are addicted to "book porn" will need a lifetime of therapy to get unhooked, but this book is so much more than pretty pictures.

A simple chronology doesn't do it justice, either. Yes, Campbell outlines the history and evolution of libraries from the earliest antecedents in Mesopotamia to the most modern libraries of both hemispheres (with the notable exception of the University of Chicago's Joe and RIka Mansueto Library - I guess you can't cover them all in one book). But this book is much more than a simple history.

Really, the core of the book is the manner in which mankind goes about collecting, protecting, and cataloging knowledge in written form. It is not comprehensive, and the underlying themes are presented in such a subtle way as to go almost un-noticed amongst all the data that is presented. But make no mistake about it, Campbell's work here is not a mere recounting of the many buildings that make up the libraries of history. It is a map through the maze of the ever-changing ideas of privilege, egalitarianism, the interface between civilization and nature, the interplay between trust in the good of mankind and the fear of man's greed, and the monumental (I use the word literally) expression of the human race's physical interaction with the texts of its intellectual achievements and struggles.

There are intriguing tidbits that point the way through this maze, but they are never obvious or pedantic. For instance, the earliest monastic libraries housed the collected knowledge of much of Christian civilization to that point, but it was in these same libraries that books were chained to desk-mounted rods in order to prevent theft or, more likely, the temptation for an enterprising monk to sell books to an outsider (It took the skins of 250 sheep to make enough parchment for a copy of the Bible), spurning his vows of poverty. Here, we don't just have a clinical recounting of methods of theft-prevention, we have an emblem of the internal struggle between religiosity and human nature. And though libraries were open to the "public" (read: "good" citizens) back in the Renaissance, it wasn't until the 1890's that library patrons were routinely allowed to browse books. Both of these factors (chained books and controlled patronage) had profound effects on the physical building itself.

Campbell's specialty is architecture, not information science. I was fascinated by his take on the building of libraries, but a little disappointed at the lack of emphasis on the collections themselves. Still, without buildings, you have no library. The skin and bones are important, as they contain the other organs and protect them from the outside environment, as well as providing a chassis in which the engine can operate.

But my metaphors are getting away from me. Forgive me. I'm slipping into metaphorical usage because I want to highlight the danger of reading this work as a straight data set, which would confine it to beautiful banalities. And, again, it is so much more than that.

This book is a treasure-chest (it better be, for what I paid for it!). This became apparent before I even received it, as it was backordered through University of Chicago press not more than a month after it was published. Apparently there was a greater demand than the press anticipated, probably based largely on the lovely photographs contained therein. The beauty of the artifact itself is obvious. But the hidden beauty, what I would term the "deep knowledge" hidden between the interstices of the text, that, THAT is where the real treasure lies!

And there's plenty to go around . . .

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We

We by Yevgeny Zamyatin
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

George Orwell, you poser. You punk. You . . . thief! I heard that you had read this before writing 1984. But I didn't expect Zamyatin's writing to be so superior to yours. And it is. It is so much more intriguing than your sterile work. D-503 is so much the better character than Winston. And you rob I-333 of her power and respect by demoting Julia to the role of a sexual object that stirs Winston to action. Yes, D-503 is stirred to action by I-333, but she's the political activist, the intelligent one in this revolution. Besides, Zamyatin had the guts to apply a letter and a name to his characters, while your very English "Winston" makes your work smack of parochialism and, frankly, condescension. D-503 is the universal toadie and I-333 the universal revolutionary.

"Winston"? Really? Were you trying to evoke Churchill? Somehow I sense . . .

Regardless of this, Zamyatin's prose is far better than yours. It never seems hackneyed, and rarely pedantic, though I suppose any novel that portrays rebellion against totalitarianism has to be somewhat pedantic. But because Zamyatin actually lived under a totalitarian state - TWO, actually! - and you only imagined what the Socialists would do in your imaginary world, he avoids much of the rhetoric that you seem to embrace, even while lampooning the imagined society of Big Brother.

You see, despite his impersonal name, D-503 is so much more human than Winston. Yes, Winston is a revolutionary like D-503, but when I read him in comparison with the protagonist of We, Winston comes off as disingenuous. D-503 is the real deal, because Zamyatin was the real deal. The man was exiled by both the Tsar and the Communists for his free-thinking while you were worried about threats from within your country that never materialized. Maybe that's why 1984 feels so forced (remember that awful middle section outlining the world's politics - BORING!), while We feels so much more natural and easy to read.

Furthermore, Zamyatin's prose is beautiful. Yes, you have the occasional turn of phrase that came out well, iconic, even, but Zamyatin's writing is beautiful throughout, even in its stochasticity. It's the writing of a poet who actually lived under totalitarianism, not a vested academic who feared a potential threat. You were fighting despotism, Zamyatin was living with it. You surmised, he knew.

And for these reasons, I am doing the unprecedented (for me, at least): I am taking one of your stars and giving it to Zamyatin. Because, while his work isn't perfect, one must give credit where credit is due. Censorship, along with the the Cold War, gave you your day in the sun of America's high school classrooms, when, all along, those kids, myself included, should have been reading Zamyatin's work.

That's an injustice. Maybe you're not totally to blame. Maybe Western society has to shoulder some of the guilt here. But . . . but . . . you copycat!

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90 Old School Tabletop RPGs - How many have you played?

90 Old School Tabletop RPGs - How many have you played?



I scored 15/90, and I consider myself pretty well-rounded when it comes to RPGs! Apparently not so!

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Loki

No, not the Norse god. The ferret. Loki. Our ferret.

It's been about three weeks now since we had to put Loki to sleep. I'm finally in a place where I can wipe away enough tears to actually write a little about Loki. He was a part of our family for about 8 years. Now, I don't have a lot of photos of Loki - my kids were way better about taking pictures of him than I was, and my facebook stalking skills aren't that great, so I can't just snatch up the images from my kid's FB pages. But this graphic helps illustrate, quite nicely, exactly what Ferrets are:

Yes, ferrets are members of the weasel family. In their wild state, they kill and eat rabbits and other small game. They are related to the mongoose, as well, famous for fighting cobras. Though we were tempted to see what Loki could do against a garden snake, it's probably a good thing we never put him in the ring. He was pretty tame, as far as animals go.

Ferrets, by nature, are playful, lazy, and at turns incredibly bright and incredibly stupid. I've heard them described as "kittens that never grow up," and I think that's a pretty apt description.

As a child, I had only one pet: my dog, Rusty. We owned Rusty when we lived in the Philippines, and when we moved back to the States, we gave Rusty to a friend of ours, a guy named Vern. I think I was about four at the time. My fondest memories of Rusty were riding his back through a foot of water during monsoon season after watching the Lone Ranger. Poor, dumb Rusty. Rusty was apparently eaten by someone not long after we moved away. This happens in a country as poor as the Philippines. Being four, I wasn't really capable of understanding such things, so it hasn't left any kind of emotional scar.

Fast forward many years to a time when my wife and I talked about getting a pet. We can't have cats or dogs, since there are too many allergies in the family. The kids had proven that they can kill a carnival goldfish in a matter of hours. We had a couple of hamsters, but, honestly, I hate those things. They love to bite, are not very cuddly, and don't bond at all. Yes, one of my kids cried when "Legolas" died, and I felt really sorry for my son, but as for Legolas' passing I didn't really bat an eye.

So we did some research and learned from some friends about ferrets. As I said before, they are playful and fun, they sleep a LOT (like almost 20 hours a day), and, as I did not say before, they litter train very well. They are pretty clean critters.

We went to the Humane Society to see if they had any ferrets and found that we had just missed a pair of them a day earlier. We let them know that we might be interested and asked if they could call us when the next ferret came in so we could meet it and see what we thought. It wasn't long after that, maybe a week or so(?) that we got a call. There was a ferret in, and he was up for adoption. We dropped everything to go check it out. Keep in mind that we were trying very hard to keep this a secret from the kids. They knew that we were planning on getting a ferret, since we bought a ferret cage and un-veiled it at Christmas, promising to get one as soon as we could. But they didn't know what the timetable was. We wanted to surprise them!

As we arrived, we asked about the Ferret and were told that someone was playing with him right at that moment - a "try before you buy" get-acquainted thing that the Humane Society likes to do with potential pet owners. Still, they took us to the room with the understanding that the couple in front of us had "dibs" on the animal, if they chose to take it home. We peeked into the room to see a young couple and a very active young ferret. After letting the animal have a little break for food, water, bathroom, it was our turn next.

I'll tell you, I fell in love. I had played with a ferret before, when I lived in Pennsylvania, but this guy was different. First of all, he was gimpy. We were told that he had the limp because he had fallen off a stair landing and broken his leg, at one point. He seemed to get along fine, but he had a funny little waddle to his walk and when he ran, he bounded sideways a bit. It was cute, to be honest, and a little endearing. I like rooting for the underdog or, in this case, the under-ferret. We played with him for about 15 minutes and realized that if we got a ferret, we'd have to be careful to train it not to bite so darned much. Some of that had to do with youth - this one, who the previous owners had named "Samson" was not even a year old. Still a pup, or at least a young child, in ferret years.

We expressed our interest in having "Samson" come be a part of our home and family, and the Humane Society told us that they'd get back with us as soon as they had word from the other family. I don't recall how long it was, no more than a day, that we got our answer. The other couple had "passed" - we had our ferret! We drove over and, after filling out a lot of paperwork and getting some instruction on how to take care of his needs, we brought him home.

The kids were giddy.

The first order of business was to get this guy a new name. "Samson" wouldn't do. And since ferrets don't have very good hearing, anyway, we figured we could rename him and he wouldn't even know the difference. After a long and complicated series of blind voting and a runoff, we finally settled on "Loki". For those who want to know, the second choice (and it was very close) was "Felix".

The second order of business was assigning who would do what in taking care of Loki. Someone had to clean his litter box and feed the little guy, and though he had a fairly sizeable cage, we needed to take him out of his cage a couple times a day and play with him. Of course, that chore was not difficult.

All was not bliss. We had to teach Loki not to bite, which wasn't helped by the fact that one of my sons actually liked the fat that Loki bit and would entice him to bite people's feet (including my son's own feet - I still don't understand the attraction there). And there were the inevitable disagreements about whose turn it was to clean his cage and litterbox. I don't know that that fight ever went away.

Still, we had many good times. We taught him not to bite (so much), but let him play rough when he wanted to. He learned just how hard he could bite and get away with it. The only exception was this strange, blue brain made of foam that he would latch onto and not let go. Ferrets don't make many sounds, but when he clamped his jaws down on that blue brain, he would make the strangest noises and we had to prise him off the darned thing. He would NOT let go. I think that, in some alternate dimension, ferrets fight an alien race of floating blue brains. I'm pretty sure of it, in fact.

From time to time, Loki would get sick, usually from eating something he shouldn't have in the yard. Oh, yes, we would take him outside from time-to-time and, later in life, he would actually walk over to the front door and beg to be let out. After taking him outside on a couple of winter days, though, he learned that when we opened the door, he might not want to go out after all. We couldn't let him out for too long - not that he could really get away. He was too slow for that. But for fear of birds of prey snatching him up (we have owls and eagles that sometimes frequent the neighborhood). He could hold his own against most other animals, I'm guessing. I always wondered who would win in a fight between Loki and a cat. If his instinct kicked in, I'd put my money on Loki, hands down. But he was so tame that he probably wouldn't know what hit him until it was too late.

Needless to say, we bonded. It didn't dawn on me until after he was gone, but for about three years, I was working a 4:10 shift at work, which meant that every Friday, Loki and I were alone, together, at the house. I took care of him a lot in that time, and had some great time playing with him and helping him explore the house. That was one of his favorite things to do, just to burrow under anything he could and investigate every nook and cranny of the house. He was particularly fond of laying down by my closed bedroom door and scratching at it, trying to get inside. I think he thought that Shangri-la was on the other side.

As happens, Loki grew old. A few months ago, he was looking really run down and he wasn't eating properly. So we took him to the vet and discovered that his blood sugars were all out of whack. This is fairly typical for older ferrets. They develop insulinoma, in which their body produces too much insulin, which does bad things to blood sugars. He stayed in the animal hospital for a week, and we got him regulated with twice daily doses of prednisone. The picture I am including below was from the time right after he came home. He was feeling cuddly and I had just given him his meds and I thought I'd snap a picture of him.

It's good that I did. About three weeks after he came home, I got home from work and discovered that he was in a bad way. He had bloody stool and was shaking almost uncontrollably. The meds didn't pull him out of the situation and he couldn't even walk properly. We had suspected for some time that his eyesight might be going, and it was apparent, that day, that he was completely blind. I bathed him and called my wife. We knew it was time. This would be our last trip to the vet.

I took Lokin around, because he couldn't walk himself, for one last exploration of the house. I was careful to take him into my old bedroom, which had now become my youngest son's bedroom, that Shangri-la behind the forbidden door. I wanted him to see it before we had to let him go. He seemed as thrilled as a very sick, very old ferret could be. I like to think that it was a bit of a "treat" for him.

So we called the kids that were in town and let them know that it was time to say goodbye. Unfortunately, we had just taken our oldest son to college in Iowa, and he couldn't be here. This was particularly painful because he, above all the rest, really did the most to take care of Loki, especially when Loki was entering the elderly stage. That's my one regret about having to put Loki to sleep when we did. Loki was in a lot of pain and discomfort and was definitely ready to go. But I wish Kaiser could have seen him one last time.

I cried for days. I almost called in to work, but somehow made it through the first day by staying at my desk and not talking to anyone. A few days later, as I was getting ready to take a shower, I remembered giving Loki that last bath and I cried like a baby. I haven't cried like that in a long, long time. Tears well spent, though.

I'm so glad that Loki could be a part of our lives. I had heard of people having a hard time losing pets before, but I never expected it to be so difficult. I'm wiping away tears as I write this, but overall, things are getting better. Time heals all wounds, and we will do our best to remember all the good, fun times we had together. We had a pawprint cast taken as a reminder of him, which is on our kitchen wall. He always loved the kitchen, usually because he could snatch up some tidbit from the floor before we could grab it from him. Little rascal!

We miss you, buddy . . .

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