Karima Vargas Bushnell's Blog, page 4

Sometimes It Takes a Child . . .

” ‘You, kid!’ she called out an open window. ‘Get everybody to the Dirty Dog in thirty minutes. Step on it!’

‘Step on what?’ asked Nuri. He was brilliant, though very young, and did not have a particularly literal mind, but the constant switching between Arabic, Ebonics, and various dialects such as Old Hippie and Preisczech’s sprung English had left him ignorant of idioms.

‘That means hurry up!’ said Ruby, grasping his confusion. And he did.”  — From the Book of Squidly Light

In Book One, The Life and Times of Halycon Sage:

Who was too young to realize his Iraqi immigrant dad could lose everything, even though he’d done nothing wrong?
Who thought he was on a great family vacation while sitting homeless on a curb with Mom, Dad, and an Unnamed Cat?

NURI, that’s who!

In Book Two, The Book of Squidly Light:

Who’s the first person to encounter the Apocalypse Zombie — all by himself, with no responsible adult around at all?
Who gets the first peek into the alien holy book, The Book of Lighted Squid?
Who has a first name that means “light,” a middle name the means “love,” and is waaaay more powerful than anyone from his home planet could ever understand?

NURI, that’s who!

Pondering parallelograms or crawling after his green metal truck, this kid just might be the one to save the world.

 

 

 

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“Potato-nose!” says Basel Vasselschnauzer

Dear Readers,* a glance in the mirror this morning reveals that my nose looks just like a potato! A whole, boiled potato! Don’t tell me that I’m getting older and these things happen — besides being known for my brilliant writing and my exquisite taste in clothing and dining, I have always been known for my lean, aristocratic nose. It must be reduced to at least the semblance of a french fry immediately, whatever the cost!

And don’t give me any nonsense about elective surgery being unavailable, either because no such thing exists in Dry Creek Gulch or whatever this half-horse town is called, or because I must “shelter in place” in the alternate universe — in a motel which cannot be considered a shelter, and can barely be called a place! I demand assistance immediately! Others can wait! I, Basel Vasselschnauzer, have needs!

Also, will someone please send two dozen fresh oysters on ice and three bottles of champagne? I will accept any quality–the situation is that desperate . . . Halycon Sage, are you laughing? And what is that sound, as of tiny mice giggling? I will not have Nanobots in here! Yours, in extremis, Basel Vasselschnauzer

*Of my superlative column which is featured in the New York Post-Times and elsewhere

** In the pathetic appeal above, I almost wrote “this quarter-horse town,” but that would imply that racing was available here. Ha! While rumor has it that the Apocalypse Zombie’s mule, the horse No-Name Stupid, and a couple of other local quadrupeds once rounded an improvised track two or three times, that can hardly be called a race, and in any case, it is over.

*** Note bene: The above footnote, combined with my misspeak in referring to my paper as the “the Post-Times” when it is actually “the Times-Enquirer,” underlines my desperate physical and psychological situation! (Get it? Post time? Horse racing? Ah, now you have it!) Would someone please at least bring over a pack of cards? Or a game of Scrabble?

 

 

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Halycon Sage Ruminates

What if you were writing an imaginary world and you suddenly found out it might just be real, that every dog, cat, buzzard and eagle in it had feelings and you were responsible for them all? And for all their eggs and relatives and ecosystems?

What if some funny things you’d jotted down to amuse yourself suddenly got you elected Greatest Novelist of the Century?

What if, after that, the world ended, and there might be no wider world at all, nothing much outside Canyon Creek Prairie Gulch or whatever the hell it was called, and the only semblance of the former world, going along as if everything was just fine right now*, was the stuff you were writing?

What if you were not even entirely sure that your influence was limited to just one planet, and you suspected in cold-sweat moments of midnight horror, that you might be writing whole solar systems, galaxies, and more? (Or you might just be a crazy fool who was imagining it all.)

Well, if you honestly suspected those things, you might just be Halycon Sage, and as for the validity of these fears and suspicions, well, they fall somewhere on the spectrum between utter truth and total nonsense. And you yourself might be anything from a powerful world-builder who bears the guilt for every single thing to a not-only-powerless but completely imaginary character in somebody else’s book.

That was how it would be . . . .

If you were Halycon Sage.

 

*This was the incredibly bland title of Sage’s second novel, changed to avoid one of those problems you get when history changes the meaning of something you did. Like, remember there used to be a diet candy called Aids? Yeah, like that.

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Public Health and the Arts — Fatty Lumpkin and Friends

[The following comments were written by the Discarnate Cat Attorney, Fatty Lumpkin. These opinions are Fatty’s own and do not represent anyone else on the Greater Earth-Squidian Editorial Team.]

Okay, gloves off! Firstly, they’re calling this thing “the novel corona virus”. What’s so novel about it? I don’t think it’s novel at all, I think it’s a bore.

Secondly, if they mean, instead, that it’s like a novel, they should just say so. But since we’ve already had The Stand about a million years ago, and also that Michael Crichton thing*, well, been there, done that. The Stand was horrifying but interesting. I didn’t read the other one because I don’t really like hard science except in real life, where you need it, and besides, the pages were too thin to turn with my claws. (Note bene, publishers and printers, you probably lose a lot of business this way!)

Thirdly, if they mean it has written a novel, I don’t really see how. How would it hold the pen? And even if it did, this book is probably pretty low on the fictional food chain. I mean, yeah, a virus gets out a lot, but what does it know about anything? Who does it talk to? Does it appreciate the sights it sees in passing, if it even does see?  Sorry, virus, I don’t think so!**

 

*The Andromeda Strain

** Something in the logic here reminds us of Zoolander, in which Ben Stiller, indicating a scale model of a school, asks with passionate outrage, “What is this? A center for ants?” and wonders sorrowfully how the children can “learn how to read if they can’t even fit inside the building.” — The Editors

***This cat has terrible taste! And I can think of about six ways this article could offend people, but maybe I’m just too sensitive. — Basel Vasselschnauzer

 

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Theosaurus: Most Ecclesiastical of Dinosaurs

NOTHING IN THIS POST is meant to offend you whatever type of dinosaur you are, or even if you’re a mammal! Or a crustacean or something.

After frequently finding myself at the wrong web address while trying to access thesaurus.com, I have learned two things.

1. I cannot spell. Well, let me qualify that: I had to learn spelling to get out of court reporting school — otherwise I’d still be there 30 years later, stuck in permanent 250-word-per-minute hell — but I still have the instincts and basic nature of a truly bad speller. Perhaps this is my mother’s fault (as most things are), for thinking my early childhood spelling of our planet’s name as “rth” was cute and interesting.

2. There was something else going on here, some reason I kept winding up at theosaurus.com and feeling a pull, a sneaking temptation to buy that peculiar web address, because it was for sale.

And one day the knowledge burst upon me like a flash of light. Of course! It was a dinosaur! The theosaurus! I could see him, magnificent in his robe and miter and stole and whatever all those other things are called, holding that scepter thingumee. His silken robe is a rich lime green, embroidered with gold fleur-de-lis or some such configuration. Clearly the theosaurus is a high church, rather than low church, dinosaur! No speaking in tongues and loudly PRAISING THE LORD for this guy — “smells and bells” all the way**!

But a few days later — you know how synchronicity works, you get an idea and immediately thereafter you run into the same thing somewhere else? Ya know? Well, a few days later, what do I come across but this, upsetting all my theories about the nature and religious leanings of the theosaurus, or at least proving that there are several subspecies. I’ll share it with you roughly as I posted it on Facebook, in big letters on a deep turquoise background, because it seemed very cheerful to me, and God knows (literally) that we could all use a little cheer right now. To wit:

THERE’S A DINOSAUR BAPTIST CHURCH!

(“WHERE ALL ARE WELCOMED AND ALL ARE LOVED”. PRETTY COOL!)

Some conversation ensued, as follows:

M.H: Was it founded by a seven year old?

Karima: No, but the mind boggles, doesn’t it? Do dinosaurs GO there? And would they welcome not only gay dinosaurs, but Muslim, Jewish, and Hindu dinosaurs?

P.T: And both Saurapods and Therapods! (I should have mentioned theremins at this point, but didn’t think of it.)

M.T: I just remembered (vaguely) a [comedian’s name deleted***] remark about fundamentalism and the time frame in the Bible, something about Jesus removing a thorn from a dinosaur’s paw.

Karima: That’s kind of sweet. . . Okay, here’s the spoiler: It’s in Dinosaur, Colorado. But it’s still so great!

So, if you’re ever in Dinosaur, stop by and give ’em some love! And who knows: the theosaurus may be back here in future episodes or might even turn up in Book Three. Stay tuned.

*The theosaurus is camera shy and borrowed the photo of a more assertive friend for this article.

**”Smells” = incense.

***Because, though funny, he’s too contemptuous for this venue, and because as acting Squid Empress here I say so.

 

 

 

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Thanx, said the Manx

What is the Eel Pout pouting about?

“I’m a fish, I can’t fly, but I long for the sky.”

“Well, if you were a snail you’d be missing a tail,

And I don’t have one either, no thanx,” said the Manx.

“Did you have it removed, did it get in your way?

Was it lost in some war in the heat of the fray?”

“No, I’ve just never had one, and not felt the lack

Of a long, ropy thing at the end of my back.

The humans wear pants and the ants march in ranks,

I think we have it better, but thanx,” said the Manx.

“Proper cats have a tail,” said the Persian politely,

“They help with our balance and render us sprightly.

Mine waves in the air when I venture out nightly.”

“I’ve just never missed it, but thanx,” said the Manx.

“The gator lacks fins but it swims just as well,

And the camel knows secrets it never will tell,

And the hermit crap camps in some other dude’s shell–

Should my taillessness shame me, when all goes so well?

Though I value your input, no thanks,” said the Manx.

“You leap like a leopard and sleep like a sloth,

You sit in the corner and play with a moth,

Truth to tell, we admire you!” the others all said,

And you don’t need a tail to jump up on the bed.”

“I don’t need it for anything. Thanks,” said the Manx.

 

NOTE: The camel is reputed to know the 100th Name (attribute, quality) of God which no one else knows, which is why they look so pleased with themselves.

 

 

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But Then . . .

Perhaps one day this will all be over.

I will travel the world in a light-powered plane, light as a glider, sun-powered.

Light and light, light upon light, and visit the animals.

So many dark and probable dreams, why not one light, sweet, crazy dream of hope?

I will travel the world. I have no heart for travel now, but then . . . then . . .

Chasing the sun, horizon to horizon, colors blend in shifting layers

Sky blue, pale green, pale yellow — violet, pink and gold, fiery orangy red at the horizon

Sunrise/sunset’s brave display. Then the subtle dawn and dusk,

fajr and maghrib, all hearts at prayer.

Landing briefly, dodging magnificent stormclouds

Smell of water, thunder smell as ozone stimulates the brain.

Dark blue piles of watered air a thousand fathoms high,

lightning crackles, but we are safe on the ground — then up again.

In the open plane, the breath of sky, of wind and light.

The whole wide sky a clear blue bowl of light.

Deep in deserts, sparkling stars. Then to fragrant jungles, lush and green

To meet the returning animals.

Jungle cats who slink and sleep, monkeys shriek and chatter, scolding.

Snakes even, and parrots everywhere.

The ordinary madness of the life we had before this hell.

Seas of buffalo and elk, wave on wave they surge across the land

Yaks and camels, bears and seals, dogs and wolves, great sounding whales

Each in its place, and each restored. With only those humans left who love them.

Meadow larks and nightingales sing, and the evening and the morning were the first day.

I greet the returning animals with love, marvel at their presence, and play with the koalas.

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The Most Annoying Aliens in the Galaxy

This is NOT a Snrrr. They look nothing like this, but the picture perfectly expresses their collective personality.

 

One of the most annoying alien races in the galaxy, heck, maybe in the whole multiverse, are the Snrrr. And the obnoxious thing about them is their insistence on having their name spelled and pronounced exactly right by all the other galactics. Now, many people can relate to this. “Katherine” does not want to be spelled “Catherine” and Siobhan must be very tired of being pronounced SEE-oh-bahn instead of She-VAWN, but these guys are really taking it too far.

To start with, the spelling we’re using here, “Snrrr,” is flat-out wrong. It’s actually Snrrrrrrrrr, or maybe Snrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, though variants exist such as Snuuuuurrrrrrrrr and Snnnnnnrrr, whose proponents also insist on correct spelling and pronunciation. Telepathy and technology won’t get you out of this either: Mental, electronic, or other communication are subject to the same requirements. (And now you see why the photo above does not depict an actual Snrrr: All Snrrr require a signed contract before being photographed, and of course the name must be rendered correctly on the contract.)

Saying this word is no easier than writing it. Many races have difficulty producing the requisite sounds. To say the word correctly:

Concentrate your attention at the top of your nasal passage and think small, petty thoughts.  Allow your face to assume a rabbity expression. Now say, in the voice of that accountant in the Office Space movie, “I believe you have my stapler.”
Simultaneously make a kind of gargling, snoring noise at the back of your throat.
Use your tongue to make an R-rolling sound while simultaneously vibrating your lips very fast.  (If you do not have all these body parts, tough luck on you. Try your best.)

Almost no one but the Snrrr themselves can do this. Beings without noses cannot speak through them, and bivalves cannot be expected to roll their R’s, which would involve opening their shells to vibrate them in imitation of lips, exposing themselves to needless danger. Plant-beings aren’t great at this either.

Failure to address them correctly will result in the individual Snrrr or the entire collective turning their backs on you and refusing to acknowledge you or deal with you in any way. (This is assuming you can tell which side of them is the back, but it doesn’t matter. You will feel roundly and categorically rejected.)

Nobody would mind this — after all, who wants to mess with these clowns and their stupid name, which is also an honorific and so must be included at the beginning and end of every sentence? Who needs them anyway?

Well, almost everyone does, because they are the only known source of the ruby-red, delicious, and infinitely adaptable shaflee fruit. Imagine a giant pomegranate whose gleaming, wine-red seeds are lovelier than you would have thought possible. When pounded into a lightweight, impervious metal coating, they protect most of the galaxy’s spaceships from heat, cold, asteroids, and enemy attack. Shaflee seeds also exude a mild intoxicant which eliminates worry and boredom, and they can be taught to play Chess, Go, and Mah-jongg, which is pretty much invaluable on long voyages.

“Well, how did the other galactics obtain the shaflee fruit if access requires using this impossible name?” you ask. You don’t want to know! Suffice it to say that a whole fleet of ameboid Gtetan lawyers gave their lives, or at least their sanity, to accomplish this, and they are the trickiest lawyers in the galaxy. But that is another story*.

Of course those of us who live on light and travel instantaneously have dispensed with these things and can tell the Snrrrr to go pfligg up a rope, but we may be in the minority. If you’re not like us, you’d better figure out how to say and write this name STAT.

This has been a public service message.

____

* “The Party of the Two Parts” by William Tenn introduces the planet Gtet and its ameboid inhabitants.

 

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“Don’t Panic” (And Bring a Towel)

THIS IS ONLY A TEST. 

HAD IT BEEN AN ACTUAL ALERT

YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN INSTRUCTED

TO VACATE YOUR PLANET FOR A MINIMUM OF 48 HOURS

WHILE INTERGALACTIC ALIENS CAME TO STRAIGHTEN OUT YOUR MESS.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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“My name is Tree, but call me George”

If You’re Raised by a Nonconformist to be a Nonconformist and It Works, Does That Make You a Conformist?

Because, you see, you’re doing what you were brought up to do, what is expected.

First responses to this question ranged from confusion (“Yes, no, maybe? Hopscotch with dominoes. Will there be a test?”), to instant understanding (“You would conform differently,” and “The question of my  existence . . .”) to a full-throated defense of nonconformity as either creative and joyous originality or as the only sane response to an insane society.

One person pointed out that if she “raised a non-conformist, it would be a straight accountant that married, had a couple of kids and was Methodist or something mainline like that.” This might be called “Malcolm X John Lennon Syndrome” after an old Firesign Theatre record of hippie parents bewailing their crazy (conventional) kid, “Ooooh, he’s so weird” Or, in a supposedly true story of a third grader’s self-introduction from long ago, “My name is Tree, but please call me George.”

Two people spoke of being raised “by VERY conservative parents,” thus having “something great to rebel against”, and in contrast, by “nonconformist parents” to “follow your bliss. Yours, not necessarily theirs.” Good points well made. My situation, though, was a little more complex. (Not whining, I just think it’s interesting.)

What if your parents were completely different from each other, the one who mainly raised you was violently at odds with the surrounding culture, and each parent was hiding or denying at least one identity? What if you never had any coherent culture to conform to even had you wished to? Anybody else in this boat? Or do you have strong feelings about this topic from some other point of view?

If so, don’t be shy! This part-Hispanic/AmerIndian, Irish-fiddle-playing, Jewish-wisecracking, somewhat-Black-acculturated, Sufi Muslim would be very glad to hear from you!

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