Karima Vargas Bushnell's Blog, page 5

Why George the Tree? It started with “Messiah”!

When I watched Netflix’ Messiah, an aspect of one review surprised me. They said we’d see it through the eyes of a female CIA agent and an Israeli interrogator. Heck no! I didn’t identify with either of them for a moment! I saw it through the eyes of a huge, streaming group of foot-traveling refugees and a crowd of evangelical truck drivers from Texas.

As a Muslim, I don’t do the whole “Son of God” thing, but we do have Jesus as a prophet (the highest human rank in Islam), a return of the Messiah with a companion called the Mahdi (or Mehdi) and an anti-Christ figure called the Dajal. The title character is played by Mehdi Dehbi (interesting coincidence) with “brilliance and sensitivity” or something like that — can’t find that review now. He appears, by turns, like: Jesus, some random nut, a con man, a holy madman (very familiar to Sufis!) an unholy madman, and, yikes, that guy with all the eye makeup who played the pirate. And like a few others who commented online, I really wanted him to be the real thing! (No spoilers, and I think it’s still in doubt at the end, no matter what some Internet Persons have opined.)

Why did this start me wondering, “Would a nonconformist raised by a nonconformist thus be a conformist?” Well, if you’re trained to make your own decisions and go your own way, the only way to conformingly ‘please Mommy’ is to be a rugged individualist, which is a really silly state of affairs. I believe if some coherent culture with more than one person in it had been offered to me, I would have happily complied. In fact, I might easily have the truck, the gun, the dog and maybe even the MAGA hat. This is an important thing to realize right now in the U.S. when we’re so divided and it’s so easy to dehumanize the other: Brought up differently — talking to both sides now — “we” could easily be “them”.

Three of the most comfortable episodes of my life have involved walking or sitting in a stream of humans, all touching, all moving together. At an amazing Jungian Institute “psychology weekend” years ago, 40 or 50 humans walked slowly, all touching, eyes closed, in a large empty room as part of an exercise. You couldn’t hurt yourself because the pace was so slow, there were no obstructions, and we were all gently packed together, moving as a herd. We were supposed to imagine ourselves as drops in a river, and for me it worked.

Years later, when my family went to the Minneapolis airport on a winter midnight to pick up two Tibetan refugees,  I got ahead of the Americans, who were walking in twos and threes, and became embedded in the cohesively-walking group of Tibetans. Like the river drops, we walked in close formation, touching, moving together, and for me, this was joy and peace.

The last setting was a Somali zikr, a room full of women packed together and touching, with no embarrassment or nervousness. It was so natural. Once again, I was home.

And a triumph of family life, never to be repeated: the time I stood up from a long Chinese restaurant table in my home town of Reno and realized that these people were all my family and there were 19 of us! Nineteen family members! Again, I felt that great sigh of relief, that sense of belonging. Imagine this for a person raised in the most nuclear of families — aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents far away or dead, brothers and sisters separated from me by the strange winds of divorce so I hardly knew they existed till I reached my teens. It was never to be repeated, as the Reno family is in fragments — A won’t talk to B and C won’t be in the room with D — but like the above experiences, for me, it was home.

Moving from the sublime to the ridiculous — did you know that quote was from Napoleon? — my feelings could be summed up with a bit of dialogue between Firesign Theatre’s Porgie and Mudhead, a 60’s mind-altered Archie and Jughead duo. The two are discussing their plans and ambitions for post-high school.  One option I remember was, “Live in a tree and learn to play the flute!” If you’re from the 60s and 70s, you’ll know that this kind of thinking was not nearly as unusual as it sounds now.

Porgie: Aw gee, Mudhead, you gotta have a plan! Whaddaya want to do with your life?

Mudhead: I want to find some guys that dress alike and follow ’em around.

Yeah. Me too.

 

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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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Confused? Ask Karima!

Hello, dear readers and friends. It has come to my attention that certain things in my books are immediately understandable (and hilarious) to some, but incomprehensible and frustrating to others.

The perfect example is the hero’s best friend, Alexander Preisczech. Why is he so paranoid, especially in the supermarket? Why does he think some government is following him from store to store? Is he just crazy or is something else going on here? This situation sparks instant, explosive laughter in some—in others, a feeling of, “Huh? What? This is pointless!” Well, worry no more!

If you’re confused about Mr. P., his issues and his name, CLICK HERE! [Due to technical difficulties, we have been unable to install an intriguing-looking trap door or lift tab or treasure chest lid here. So you can “CLICK” by sending me your question at this site and I’ll tell you!]

A related issue: In the Acknowledgements (Book Two), I thank my mother, “who trained me in words as others are trained in sports.” It was like the parent who starts tossing a cloth ball to the one-year-old and never lets up. She read and read and read to me, and we talked about it all. But this means I make a lot of verbal and literary connections and have a lot of weird, varied associations that others don’t have. I’m sure the problem is compounded for non-Native English speakers. So many of the smartest people I know speak two, three, or more languages, like Preisczech himself! I’m all gape-mouthed admiration, because my skills in most languages are at the, “Me Karima! Me of America!” level.

SO, WELL THEN: if you encounter things you don’t understand (or that seem like mistakes), you can ask at this website! I would love to take your questions! Of course, for some questions, I might tell you, “Keep reading, Grasshopper. All will be revealed.” An example of this kind of question: “Green thread? But I thought you said Blue Thread!” But if it’s one of those questions that has to do with weird little language things, I’m all yours!

Most things in these books make sense when you know the answers. And incidentally, what the heck is with the Apocalypse Zombie? Again, is he just another oddball, or is there a deeper reason? Dear Reader, of course there is! But to find out, you have to read Book Two, The Book of Squidly Light.

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Reparations for the Animals

Oh One Without a Second, I come before you as a lawyer—not by trade and training, but by my nature—asking Compensation and Reparations for the Animals.

With the discarnate Cat Fatty Lumpkin (F. Atty. Lumpkin, Esq.) and A Certain Horse, I come not as Your slave and lover, which I am, but as the daughter, sister, niece, and aunt of lawyers, a natural attorney with no degree.

Of Your Power, we demand relief and compensation, with full consideration of pain and suffering, for the farm animals, the laboratory animals, the victims of habitat loss, of abandonment, of things too painful to describe even here, in this most serious Complaint.

Before Your Love, Oh Compassionate and Merciful, we bring the case of these Little Ones. Knowing that Your physical reality—this Persian carpet, this Chinese puzzle box—cannot accommodate our request,

NOW THEREFORE, we pray for their Relief, Compensation, and Blessing outside and beyond this earthly life, including but not limited to

LOVE AND DELIGHT – Care, nurture and compassion; petting and play; reunion with friends, companions, offspring and mates; warm hugs, sweet tears on their fur for such as would like them. Silence and whale song and bird song. The grace of cold or heat or water, whatever is most pleasing, upon their fins and scales, upon their snouts and claws.

Romping through fields; sleeping in sun or shade, or curled in furry piles of boon companions. Leaping through oceans. For the predator, wild intrepid hunting. Glaciers beyond measure, or jungles thick and deep, whatever is their pleasure. Dark burrows filled with worms to eat, with no pain to the worms themselves. Infinite skies to fly in, great nests for their welcome home.

APPRECIATION – To know that they are wondrous and adored, their beauty or fierceness or humor seen, immeasurable contribution to the tapestry of life, loved by many, many, many of their fellow creatures, and most of all, by You. And that we aspire to love them as they are, not as we imagine them to be.

EVOLUTION – For those who wish, higher levels, new insight and knowledge, a Light to their intelligence: lizard to dragon, parrot to phoenix. For those who wish, a dancing with Your angels, a conscious journey toward Your Nearness.

WE PLEAD, PRAY, AND DEMAND, of Your Justice and Compassion, all this and more, since what we conceive for them is the groping of a blind mouse in a dark tunnel, the philosophy of a microbe, against Your Love and Knowledge, Secret Beloved, Nearest of the Near.

YOU KNOW AND WE DO NOT KNOW, but of Your Justice and Compassion, we humbly request this Relief and Compensation for all the Animals.

SETTING OUR HAND, PAW, HOOF, AND SEAL to this document, this Day of Our Lord, December 19, 2019/ 20 Rabi’ al-Akhir, 1441 A.H.

Karima Vargas Bushnell, Friend of Halycon Sage and the Squidren; F. Atty. Lumpkin, Esq., Discarnate Attorney at Large in the Multiverse; No-Name Stupid, a Horse of Great Resources

Amin. So may it be.

P.S. And for the trees, too!

P.P.S. Drawing by Faye Howell, illustrator of The Book of Squidly Light.

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THIS kind of book!

BOOKS! My very favorites have certain commonalities. They can be simple or complex; classed as Adult, YA or Children’s; as Literature, Fiction, Sci-Fi, Mystery, Nonfiction or Fantasy. But most share these things:

First, a game, a maze, a challenge: a schematic of the universe to be traversed and—not conquered exactly, but solved in some satisfying way, though perhaps never fully understood. Ideally the heroine/hero/merry band of friends win through to a resolution, or at least to a joyful and successful breathing space.

Second, the book’s world(s) and its travelers should be worthy. The goal must be more than treasure, pleasure, or power. ‘They took what they wanted! Greed, lust, dominion, they wanted it all!‘ Nope, not interested. My favorite books aren’t simplistic, and the characters can be confused, morally ambiguous, or even apparently bad guys, but they must have more than this inside them, and they must learn and grow. (Except I do love James M. Cain, for instance, where nobody learns anything till it’s too late and everything always ends badly. So much for making rules, then!)

The sky should be high enough, the world big enough to contain clashing or harmonizing identities and perspectives, different characters’ meanings woven into a greater whole. And it can’t be a dissertation on meaninglessness or an exercise in self-pity. ‘She sat on an empty beach considering the pointlessness of her life.’ Nope, not unless she really hauls up her socks and does something interesting.

Finally, there’s that taste of something from outside the ordinary, from far above or deep within. It’s hard to define, but easily felt. The book’s universe can be explicitly spiritual or not — I don’t mind at all either way — but there must be transcendence, and there must be hope. Though again, James M. Cain. I suppose a certain depth of understanding can be transcendent in itself, even without the hope. But mostly I prefer a happy ending.

For me, humor is a huge plus, but not an absolute necessity.

The Games House (2019), by Claire North, is a complex maze where the stakes can be anything. It meets most of these criteria, but I’m waiting to see whether it turns out to be too cold. Brilliant, but a bit ruthless. On the other hand, Catherynne M. Valente’s Space Opera (2018), a hilarious and pyrotechnicly-written inter-galactic Eurovision, is supremely lovable. Where else could you meet Decibel Jones and the Absolute Zeros, Mr. Elmer of the Fudd, or such a charming assortment of aliens and alien cultures?

If any of the above reminds you of other books, please recommend them here or on my Goodreads author page. And may all your stories be wondrous!

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This is an OUTRAGE! A Cat-Attorney Speaks

WHEREAS, WHEREIN, HEREWITH AND HERETOFORE, a most shocking thing has happened and I, Fatty Lumpkin (F. Atty. Lumpkin, Esq.), want to know who will pay? Who will remediate this outrage with chicken, fish, and catfood?

The first paragraph of the duly published edition of The Book of Squidly Light begins this way: “BREAKING NEWS!! Alien Time Travel Scandal Spins Out of Control!!” wrote Halycon Sage . . . ‘There!’ he exclaimed, putting down his pen. ‘That oughta hold ’em for a while.’ ”

Putting down his pen?? Putting??? I laugh at this! I laugh it to scorn! Hahahahaha! As a Fact Witness to the actual event, I can confidently assert that writer Halycon Sage did not “put” down his pen, he ‘THREW” it down!

You see Sage, founder of the Post-Modernist, Minimalist, Post-Modernist Pseudo-Realist school of literature, was full of a mighty relief. His longest novel to date having been, oh, about a page-and-a-half, he was jubilant that the aliens and others clamoring for him to tell the story could be palmed off with a mere paragraph. He thought he had dodged the bullet—the bullet that eventually turned out to be a 248-page novel.

So, what I want to know is, who is responsible? Since the entire Earth & Space-Squid Editorial Team utterly disclaims the foul and despicable substitution of “put” for “threw,” it must be somebody else’s fault, and that somebody is going to pay! A mistake in a published book? Whoever heard of such a thing! I shake my soft, orange, pink-padded fist at you. (I would extend my claws, too, but that would make a painful fist.)

We shall see justice done! You have not heard the last of me, my unknown friend! (And if you wonder why I look so sweet and adorable in the picture—well, all that outrage wore me out.)

—F. Atty. Lumpkin, Esq. on behalf of the Earth & Space-Squid Editorial Team

P.S. This is nothing compared to the shocking disappearance of the portrait of No-Name Stupid and the Dirty Dog Bar sign! No worries, we are investigating! — Sophie McGregor

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It’s ALIVE!!!

The Book of Squidly Light is live on Amazon now and who knows how many other galactic superstores in other universes!

 

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Kitten Trees

Somewhere far, far away, there are kitten trees.

But if you try to pick one before they are ripe, the tree will slap you. No one is ever mean to them. While a few let go earlier, most of the unpicked drift to the ground in autumn, and majestic mother cats climb out of the hollow trees and nurse them.

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A Different Kind of Squid

Since books that sound alike are sometimes grouped together in the public mind, we of the LightSQUIDian Federation and the Dry Gulch Creek Editorial Board hereby repudiate any similarity between The Book of Squidly Light and various horror publications with titles or author names containing the words “light” or “squid”. Rather than wishing to “make your skin crawl and your nights sleepless” we hope to bring you comfort, inspiration, illumination, joy, and laughter.

To this declaration we hereby (therefore, heretofore, and henceforth) set our hand and seal—our hand, tentacle, paw, hoof, and seal.

Sophie McGregor, Valedictorian

Basel Vasselschnauzer, Ph.D.

F. Atty Lumpkin, esq. (Fatty Lumpkin), a Feline American Attorney

The Squidren of Squidship One

No-Name Stupid, a Horse

 

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Apricots in the Morning

If you didn’t grow up speaking Arabic (or possibly Persian or Turkish), you’re probably not familiar with the phrase, “There’ll be apricots in the morning.”

While this might sound delightful, especially if you like apricots, it’s the rough equivalent of “pie in the sky when you die,” or maybe, “Sure you can have a pony for Christmas. You can keep it in the bathtub.” In other words, that ain’t never, never, never gonna happen.

Recently I had come to the conclusion that this was pretty much the situation with the actual availability in paper back, not on Kindle under the wrong name, of The Book of Squidly Light: The Continuing Chronicles of Halycon Sage. Long, long ago, in the dear, dead, darling days of yesteryear (say about a month ago), we, the Editing Team, had done everything necessary to launch its publication and sent it, all excited and dewy-eyed, out into the world to make its fortune. The only remaining need was for Amazon.com, apparently a modern ‘strange god’ both powerful and capricious, to do its part and frickin’ PUT THE THING ON ITS WEBSITE! Simple, no? N’est pas? Nicht war? Apparently not.

I am not a patient person. While there are people and animals with real problems in the world—you know them only too well, up to and including the possible destruction of the earth—I traversed stages from compulsive site-checking through seething impatience and finally arrived at a sort of maudlin self-pity pretending to be world-weary stoicism. Which would have fooled nobody, though I was smart enough not to disclose my state to any but a few dear friends in the zikr circle.

And yesterday during salat—prayer time—came the blindingly obvious  revelation. Oh, yeah. Bismillah. Inshallah. Masha’allah. I stopped praying, “Please, please, please, Daddy, Daddy, please?” and prayed, “Please, at the right time. Not my time, Your time.” Because that always works so much better.

So I now await the eventual release of the paperback edition and the arrival of the physical object with the composure and patience of a young Victorian lady doing embroidery while waiting for her beloved to arrive on a very slow horse. Or with even more. When it comes out, you’ll be the first to know. Bismillah. Inshallah. Ma sha’allah.

 

— Karima Vargas Bushnell and the Editing Team: Sophie McGregor, valedictorian; Basel Vasselschnauzer, Ph.D; No-Name Stupid (a horse); and a whole mess of Squidren.

 

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