Tea and Dragons

My plans to sleep out a recovery from Arisia were somewhat complicated by the move-in of the new upstairs neighbors and the resonating chamber of feet and furniture our bedroom immediately downstairs of this process necessarily turned into, but the snow remains beautifully fallen and is not even supposed to rain back into immediate slush or, worse, spring.

I am re-reading Kathryn M. Drennan's To Dream in the City of Sorrows (1997) for the first time since it came out and had completely forgotten the introduction by J. Michael Straczynski in which he designates it the first fully canonical novel in the Babylon 5 tie-in line. Despite the volumes of Harlan Ellison I was tracking down in used book stores and reading at the time—his credit as creative consultant was a point in the show's favor—it was not until years later that I caught since how much of his nonfiction voice had been adopted by JMS. "How difficult a task was this? Job would've packed it in, Hercules would've retired, and Orpheus would've decided that his days spent in Hades weren't really that bad."

The Post-Meridian Radio Players have now opened auditions for their spring show: Jeeves & Wooster: Hijinks and Shenanigans. I am seriously considering throwing myself on a slot for the genderswapped adaptation. It would be something of an exercise if I went for it; most of my performance skills do not translate into straight acting and I am frankly missing the facility with accents specified in the sides or I'd be able to code-switch out of being asked all the time where mine's really from. I would have to hope I was not just wasting the creative team's time. But even if it's just the hangover from Arisia, I have not auditioned for anything since 2019 and so long as I could decouple the experience from actually landing a part, it suddenly looked as though it might be fun.

Indeed, I had never heard of hickory oil. I am not however thrilled by the prospect of trading off maple syrup.

Tonight after my second and last panel of the convention, I was told by one audience member that they would listen to me read the phone book because even under those circumstances they would learn something interesting and Tiny Wittgenstein was definitely confused.

The panels went chaotically well. "Cursed Literature" lived up to its name by losing two panelists before the con even started, but in practice it turned into a freewheeling discussion less of literature in particular than the concepts of hazardous information, the spellmaking of language, and narratives as contagion, which gave me an excuse to boost Emeric Pressburger's The Glass Pearls (1966), An-sky's Jewish Ethnographic Program of 1912–14, and Aramaic incantation bowls plus the inevitable M. R. James. "SFF on Stage" had a supersaturation of panelists mostly from the performing arts and could have gone an extra hour at least as we started with the inherently liminal nature of theater and bounced around through all the ways that the speculative can be invoked on stage through conceits, stagecraft, scoring, nothing but the contract that reality changes because the actor says it does. I went all in on twentieth-century opera and weird technically realist plays and discovered that there has actually not been another production of Jewelle Gomez's Bones & Ash: A Gilda Story since the one I saw with my grandparents in 1996. As always, members of the audience asked such good questions that they should have been on the panels to start.

I have been asked multiple times if I will be around for the last day of Arisia and since I have no further programming the odds are unfortunately good that I will be flat in bed, but at the moment I regret nothing. I saw a genarti! I saw a skygiants! I failed to write down the names of a pair of extraordinarily well-dressed attendees who wanted to talk about Jewish folk magic and were thrilled that I recognized their Babylon 5 tie-in novels! nineweaving and I shared a panel for the first time since virtual 2021! I did not make it back to the dealer's room before it closed and instead sort of keeled over in the disused cosplay repair area with choco_frosh and presently a friend of his who is unlikely to be on DW, since this time around people were giving me their contact information on Instagram and I felt as though I should have business cards printed on papyrus scraps. I had genuinely not been sure how this experiment in professional interaction would go. It is snowing as busily as a real winter in New England and without begrudging a second of this vanishing season, I am looking forward to Readercon.

I may feel like a dishrag, but if so it's a dishrag who had a wonderful time returning to Arisia after six years, even if the ziggurat on the Charles is still a dreadful place to hold a convention. For the Dramatic Readings from the Ig Nobel Prizes, I performed selections from W. C. Meecham and H. G. Smith's "Effects of Jet Aircraft on Mental Hospital Admissions" (British Journal of Audiology, 1977) with what I hope was an appropriately haggard channeling of my sleepless night and Leonie Cornips' "The semiotic repertoire of dairy cows" (Language in Society, 2024) with what I hope was an appropriately technical rendition of cow noises. I heard papers on the proper techniques of nose-blowing, whether snakes dress to the left or the right, the sexual correlations of apples. It feels impossible, but it must have been my first time onstage since onset of pandemic. Readers who overstayed their allotted two minutes were surrounded by a chorus of bananas.

I had forgotten how much socializing my attendance of conventions used to entail. I turned the corner for registration and immediately spotted a nineweaving, followed in close succession by a choco_frosh, a_reasonable_man, and a sorcyress. I was talking to the latter in the coat check when Gillian Daniels came in and now I have a zine-printed copy of the second edition of her chapbook Eat the Children (2019/2026). I had not lengthy enough catch-up conversations with awhyzip and rinue and am now in possession of a signed copy of Nothing in the Basement (2025). I brought water with me and kept forgetting to duck outside to drink it. Dean gave me a ride home afterward and commented on my tired look, which was fair: six, seven years ago I could sprint through programming even after a night of anaphylaxis or a subluxed jaw and these days there's a lot less tolerance in the system. It seemed to be a common refrain. If I have fun and don't take home any viral infections from this weekend, it'll be a win.

Tomorrow, panels.

Alexander Knox was born on this date a hundred and nineteen years ago and without him I might never have discovered that the fan magazines of classical Hollywood could get as specifically thirsty as the modern internet.

Come to that, you would have been pretty tasty in the pulpit, too, Alex. You look, except for that glint in your eyes and that dimple in your cheek, like a minister's son. You look serious, even studious. You dress quietly, in grays and blacks and browns. Your interests are in bookish things. You live in a furnished apartment on the Strip in Hollywood, and have few possessions. You like to "travel light," you said so. You like to move about a lot, always have and always will. You've lived in a trunk for so many years you are, you explained, used to it. Of course, you've been married twice, which rather confuses the issue. But perhaps two can travel as lightly as one, if they put their minds to it. But you do have books. You have libraries in three places. At home, in Canada. At the farm in Connecticut, of which you are part owner, and in the apartment where you and your bride Doris Nolan still live. You write, which would come in handy with sermons. You're dreamy when you play the piano. For the most part it isn't, let's face it, church music you play. But you could convert.

—Gladys Hall, "Memo to Alex Knox" (Screenland, August 1945)

My schedule for Arisia this year is minute, but a fairly big deal for me since the state of my health last allowed me to participate in programming in 2021. I mean, at the moment the state of my health is failed, but I'm still looking forward.

Dramatic Readings from the Ig Nobel Prizes
Saturday 3 pm, Amesbury AB
Marc Abrahams et al.

Highlights from Ig Nobel prize-winning studies and patents, presented in dramatic mini-readings by luminaries and experts (in some field). The audience will have an opportunity to ask questions about the research presented—answers will be based on the expertise of the presenters, who may have a different expertise than the researchers.

Cursed Literature
Sunday 4:15 pm, Central Square
Mark Millman (m), Alastor, Kristina Spinney, Sonya Taaffe

Some literature describes haunted houses; other books seem like they are haunted, as though the act of reading the book is inviting something vaguely unclean into the reader's life. Whether considering the dire typographical labyrinths of The House of Leaves, or the slowly expanding void at the heart of Kathe Koja's Cypher, some works leave a mark. Panelists will explore books that by reputation or their own experience, produce a lingering unsettled feeling far beyond the events and characters of the story.

SFF on Stage
Sunday 5:30 pm, Porter Square B
Raven Stern (m), Andrea Hairston, Greer Gilman, Sonya Taaffe, Stephen R. Wilk

Science fiction and fantasy have long been mainstays of live theater; William Shakespeare wrote A Midsummer Night's Dream in 1595. Peter Pan introduced one of the 20th century's best known characters in 1904. In 1920, R.U.R. gave us the word "robot." Universal Studios' famous version of Dracula was adapted not from the novel, but the wildly successful Broadway play. That's not even getting into modern musicals like Wicked or Little Shop of Horrors. What does it take for genre to work in a live setting, and where have we seen it succeed (or fail)?

Anyone else I can expect to see this weekend? The ziggurat awaits.