Michael Swanwick's Blog, page 93
January 5, 2018
A Torrent of Faces (Part 2)
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One thing that doesn't come across on television is how friendly the Mummers are. Sometimes some of them will rush the camera and wave and shout "Happy New Year!" and it comes across as kind of rude and pushy.
That's now how it comes across on the street.
These are happy, friendly people who are giving you a remarkable experience, out of the goodness of their hearts. And they're happy to pose with you.
It takes all kinds to make a Mummers Brigade -- and admittedly some of them look like it's a little more work than they're enjoying.
Most, though, look like they're having a hoot and a half.
And it's worth mentioning how many Mummers are family men. There are a lot of children in the parade. It's a common thing to see infants in Snuglis and carriages -- just so that late in life they'll be able to brag that they've marched in 80 or 90 parades.
Some of those kids are cute, too.
But it's the adult faces that steal the show.
It used to be that women were not allowed in the Mummers. That's changed and the change is good. Still, those of us old enough to remember when this costume would have been filled by a 300-pound dock worker with five o'clock shadow have to admit that a certain je ne sais quois has been lost.
When they've marched to the end of the parade, some Mummers go home. Others walk back up the sidewalk, sometimes interacting with the parade viewers, sometimes trying to pick up a date, each according to their type. Here's the funny thing, though. Sometimes viewers show up in costume. So I have no idea if this guy was a Mummer or not.
Some of these guys, it should be mentioned, are downright dashing.
This man was getting by on charm. Which he had in spades. He gave Marianne a Flannigan NYB sign satirizing our mayor. (A lot of Mummers liked her "Occupy Mars" hat -- it was the kind of thing they'd come up with themselves.)
It should be mentioned that the Mummers marched even though it was a bitter cold day -- so cold that the spilled beer literally froze on the street. (Did I mention that the Mummers -- well, the Comics, anyway -- drink like fish? Considering that some of them started the night before, you have to respect that.)
It takes a good photographer with a good set of lenses to capture that joyous anarchy that is the Mummers Parade. But I include the above pic to give you just the slightest idea of the flow of color and costume that goes on all morning and afternoon, for hour after hour. It really is a wonderful experience.
But mostly, as I said, it's all about the faces.
*
One thing that doesn't come across on television is how friendly the Mummers are. Sometimes some of them will rush the camera and wave and shout "Happy New Year!" and it comes across as kind of rude and pushy.
That's now how it comes across on the street.
These are happy, friendly people who are giving you a remarkable experience, out of the goodness of their hearts. And they're happy to pose with you.
It takes all kinds to make a Mummers Brigade -- and admittedly some of them look like it's a little more work than they're enjoying.
Most, though, look like they're having a hoot and a half.
And it's worth mentioning how many Mummers are family men. There are a lot of children in the parade. It's a common thing to see infants in Snuglis and carriages -- just so that late in life they'll be able to brag that they've marched in 80 or 90 parades.
Some of those kids are cute, too.
But it's the adult faces that steal the show.
It used to be that women were not allowed in the Mummers. That's changed and the change is good. Still, those of us old enough to remember when this costume would have been filled by a 300-pound dock worker with five o'clock shadow have to admit that a certain je ne sais quois has been lost.
When they've marched to the end of the parade, some Mummers go home. Others walk back up the sidewalk, sometimes interacting with the parade viewers, sometimes trying to pick up a date, each according to their type. Here's the funny thing, though. Sometimes viewers show up in costume. So I have no idea if this guy was a Mummer or not.
Some of these guys, it should be mentioned, are downright dashing.
This man was getting by on charm. Which he had in spades. He gave Marianne a Flannigan NYB sign satirizing our mayor. (A lot of Mummers liked her "Occupy Mars" hat -- it was the kind of thing they'd come up with themselves.)
It should be mentioned that the Mummers marched even though it was a bitter cold day -- so cold that the spilled beer literally froze on the street. (Did I mention that the Mummers -- well, the Comics, anyway -- drink like fish? Considering that some of them started the night before, you have to respect that.)
It takes a good photographer with a good set of lenses to capture that joyous anarchy that is the Mummers Parade. But I include the above pic to give you just the slightest idea of the flow of color and costume that goes on all morning and afternoon, for hour after hour. It really is a wonderful experience.
But mostly, as I said, it's all about the faces.
*
January 2, 2018
A Torrent of Faces
.
Marianne and I spent most of Monday at the Mummers Parade, here in Philadelphia. And I am here to tell you that it's a different experience on the street than it is on television. The sense of fun and anarchy is electrifying. Mummers come over to the crowds watching to slap hands, kiss women, throw beads, and shout "Happy New Year!" The guy up above? He saw me taking pictures, so he came over to tell me why he was marching. The drum line with one band of mummers came over to the police barricades and, stepping sideways, the front line drummed on the barricades themselves. Just to let us know how good they were. And it sounded fantastic!
That's something you don't get at most parades. A real sense that these guys aren't just entertainers but people too.
So what's the Mummers Parade all about? Wrong question. They're not about anything. They just are. They march because that's what their fathers and grandfathers always did at this time of year. And they have fun doing so.
Which is not say there isn't a certain... edge to the Mummers. They're for the most part blue collar guys and the Comics in particular (there are four categories of Mummer: Comics, String Bands, Fancies, and Fancy Brigades) like to mix in a little political commentary. Pictured above, the Froggy Carr New Year's Brigade's take on Mayor Kenney's unpopular soda tax.
And, from another NYB, their take on Catholic education.
As the nun costumes may suggest, Mummers like to dress up as women. Directly above is a typical "wench" costume. It's an amazing experience to see a street full of wenches, waving flags, carrying signs, popping beers, pumping umbrellas, and coming straight at you.
You have to be a better photographer than I am to capture that sense of unchoreographed anarchy. But I learned long ago that if you want to photograph Mummers, it's all about the faces. And the parade is a joyous torrent of them.
(MORE PHOTOGRAPHS TOMORROW!)
*
Marianne and I spent most of Monday at the Mummers Parade, here in Philadelphia. And I am here to tell you that it's a different experience on the street than it is on television. The sense of fun and anarchy is electrifying. Mummers come over to the crowds watching to slap hands, kiss women, throw beads, and shout "Happy New Year!" The guy up above? He saw me taking pictures, so he came over to tell me why he was marching. The drum line with one band of mummers came over to the police barricades and, stepping sideways, the front line drummed on the barricades themselves. Just to let us know how good they were. And it sounded fantastic!
That's something you don't get at most parades. A real sense that these guys aren't just entertainers but people too.
So what's the Mummers Parade all about? Wrong question. They're not about anything. They just are. They march because that's what their fathers and grandfathers always did at this time of year. And they have fun doing so.
Which is not say there isn't a certain... edge to the Mummers. They're for the most part blue collar guys and the Comics in particular (there are four categories of Mummer: Comics, String Bands, Fancies, and Fancy Brigades) like to mix in a little political commentary. Pictured above, the Froggy Carr New Year's Brigade's take on Mayor Kenney's unpopular soda tax.
And, from another NYB, their take on Catholic education.
As the nun costumes may suggest, Mummers like to dress up as women. Directly above is a typical "wench" costume. It's an amazing experience to see a street full of wenches, waving flags, carrying signs, popping beers, pumping umbrellas, and coming straight at you.
You have to be a better photographer than I am to capture that sense of unchoreographed anarchy. But I learned long ago that if you want to photograph Mummers, it's all about the faces. And the parade is a joyous torrent of them.
(MORE PHOTOGRAPHS TOMORROW!)
*
December 28, 2017
Chasing the Phoenix and Dancing With Bears in Russia
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I'm making the final changes to The Iron Dragon's Mother, which is why, of late, I haven't been as active here I should be. But I can't help sharing the good news that I'm in print in Russia again!
There up above are Dancing With Bears and Chasing the Phoenix. Presented with the usual Russian flair for graphic design.
I've always wondered what Russian readers think of Darger and Surplus's adventures in their country. I did take some liberties with the facts. And with Moscow. But my respect for and admiration of the Russian people is genuine. So I'm hoping that they didn't take offense.
Above: Photo by my friend Alexei Bezouglyi. Thanks, Alexei!
*
I'm making the final changes to The Iron Dragon's Mother, which is why, of late, I haven't been as active here I should be. But I can't help sharing the good news that I'm in print in Russia again!
There up above are Dancing With Bears and Chasing the Phoenix. Presented with the usual Russian flair for graphic design.
I've always wondered what Russian readers think of Darger and Surplus's adventures in their country. I did take some liberties with the facts. And with Moscow. But my respect for and admiration of the Russian people is genuine. So I'm hoping that they didn't take offense.
Above: Photo by my friend Alexei Bezouglyi. Thanks, Alexei!
*
December 22, 2017
What Kind of Biblio- Are You?
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If I have a weakness -- and everybody agrees that's understating it -- it's that I'm overfond of stuffy old compilations of essays. Belles lettres. Books that were written just for the joy of putting words down on paper. Resting on a shelf in the bathroom convenient to the throne right now is Curiosities of Literature, a selection of essays from a much larger collection of the same name by Isaac D'Israeli, father of the similarly-named British politician.
Ben's dad Ike was the sort of scholar who is never happier than when writing about other writers writing about writers and their books. And in an essay on "the rabid Abbé Rive," he provides the divine's useful list of types of book amateurs:
A bibliographe is a describer of books and other literary arrangements.
A bibliomane is an indiscriminate accumulator, who blunders faster than he buys, cock-brained and purse-heavy.
A bibliophile, the lover of books, is the only one in the class who appears to read them for his own pleasure.
A bibliotapheburies his books, by keeping them under lock, or framing them in glass-cases.
To these categories, D'Israeli adds two more, both professional: The bibliothecaire or librarian and the bibliopole or bookseller, particularly of rare books.
So where do you fall on the spectrum? Me, I'm somewhere between a bibliophile and a bibliomane.
And are there any more useful categories that could be added to the above?
Above: Some of the books in my bedroom. Not, it goes without saying, the largest collection of books in the house.
*
If I have a weakness -- and everybody agrees that's understating it -- it's that I'm overfond of stuffy old compilations of essays. Belles lettres. Books that were written just for the joy of putting words down on paper. Resting on a shelf in the bathroom convenient to the throne right now is Curiosities of Literature, a selection of essays from a much larger collection of the same name by Isaac D'Israeli, father of the similarly-named British politician.
Ben's dad Ike was the sort of scholar who is never happier than when writing about other writers writing about writers and their books. And in an essay on "the rabid Abbé Rive," he provides the divine's useful list of types of book amateurs:
A bibliographe is a describer of books and other literary arrangements.
A bibliomane is an indiscriminate accumulator, who blunders faster than he buys, cock-brained and purse-heavy.
A bibliophile, the lover of books, is the only one in the class who appears to read them for his own pleasure.
A bibliotapheburies his books, by keeping them under lock, or framing them in glass-cases.
To these categories, D'Israeli adds two more, both professional: The bibliothecaire or librarian and the bibliopole or bookseller, particularly of rare books.
So where do you fall on the spectrum? Me, I'm somewhere between a bibliophile and a bibliomane.
And are there any more useful categories that could be added to the above?
Above: Some of the books in my bedroom. Not, it goes without saying, the largest collection of books in the house.
*
December 18, 2017
A Second Night of Galactic Philadelphia
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So there's this monthly reading series called Galactic Philadelphia, which is held in the Irish Pub in (no prizes for guessing this one) Center City Philadelphia. Last week, the guest readers were Tom Doyle and Fran Wilde. That's Tom up above at the far left with the Usual Suspects behind him. And by "usual suspects," I mean pretty much a Who's Who of the local science fiction world.
Dominating the photo above is writer/editor/fan/pretty-much-everyting-else Darrell Schweitzer, oblivious to the fact that he's being photographed. Behind him is Fran Wilde, not oblivious to the fact that she's being photographed. (To be fair, I also took a shot where she didn't notice but it was much duller, so I yelled, "Hey, FRAN!" to get a better one.)
Looking imperious on the left side of the photo is nanopress magnate, Marianne Porter. Visible behind her are (l-r) writers Samuel R. Delany and Tom Purdom. Not visible but definitely behind her was Dennis Rickett.
And, finally, here's Fran Wilde herself.
This is only the second event of the series and it had to be moved to a larger room. There's a very comfortable feel to this event. I enjoyed it immensely. So... Kudos to Sally Grotta and Lawrence Schoen, who are the driving forces behind the series. (If I've left anyone out, I'm sure they'll let me know. Nicely, of course. Because they're not mean people.)
Above, top: How many of the people behind Tom can you identify?
*
So there's this monthly reading series called Galactic Philadelphia, which is held in the Irish Pub in (no prizes for guessing this one) Center City Philadelphia. Last week, the guest readers were Tom Doyle and Fran Wilde. That's Tom up above at the far left with the Usual Suspects behind him. And by "usual suspects," I mean pretty much a Who's Who of the local science fiction world.
Dominating the photo above is writer/editor/fan/pretty-much-everyting-else Darrell Schweitzer, oblivious to the fact that he's being photographed. Behind him is Fran Wilde, not oblivious to the fact that she's being photographed. (To be fair, I also took a shot where she didn't notice but it was much duller, so I yelled, "Hey, FRAN!" to get a better one.)
Looking imperious on the left side of the photo is nanopress magnate, Marianne Porter. Visible behind her are (l-r) writers Samuel R. Delany and Tom Purdom. Not visible but definitely behind her was Dennis Rickett.
And, finally, here's Fran Wilde herself.
This is only the second event of the series and it had to be moved to a larger room. There's a very comfortable feel to this event. I enjoyed it immensely. So... Kudos to Sally Grotta and Lawrence Schoen, who are the driving forces behind the series. (If I've left anyone out, I'm sure they'll let me know. Nicely, of course. Because they're not mean people.)
Above, top: How many of the people behind Tom can you identify?
*
December 15, 2017
My First Graphic Story Ever!
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I have news. In April, Dark Horse comics will publish Once Upon A Time Machine: Greek Gods and Legends. It's volume two of an anthology of graphic stories that was pretty successful a few years ago. And I have a story in it!
This is the first time I've written a comic book script (or whatever it's called). It's an interesting medium to write for -- extremely concise and far more concerned with the images than the words. It wasn't until writing this that I understood Scott McCloud's contention that the most important part of a comic is the gutter -- the space between panels. But he's right. That's where all the movement takes place. Which is to say, that the action is conveyed not by individual pictures but by the relation of each drawing to the next one.
My story is titled "The Long Bow," and it answers one of the mysteries of The Odyssey that everybody should find baffling, but apparently very few have ever thought about. (And yet the clues are in the text.)
The man responsible for -- yes! -- drawing the long bow is Joe DellaGatta. I'm extremely happy with his artwork, both for the way it amplifies and make clear the plot and simply as as graphic art.
I haven't seen any of the other stories, so all I can tell you about the rest of the book is that it's edited Andrew Carl & Chris Stevens, best known for the Eisner and Havey Award-winning book, Little Nemo: Dream Another Dream. So the odds are that it'll be good.
*
I have news. In April, Dark Horse comics will publish Once Upon A Time Machine: Greek Gods and Legends. It's volume two of an anthology of graphic stories that was pretty successful a few years ago. And I have a story in it!
This is the first time I've written a comic book script (or whatever it's called). It's an interesting medium to write for -- extremely concise and far more concerned with the images than the words. It wasn't until writing this that I understood Scott McCloud's contention that the most important part of a comic is the gutter -- the space between panels. But he's right. That's where all the movement takes place. Which is to say, that the action is conveyed not by individual pictures but by the relation of each drawing to the next one.
My story is titled "The Long Bow," and it answers one of the mysteries of The Odyssey that everybody should find baffling, but apparently very few have ever thought about. (And yet the clues are in the text.)
The man responsible for -- yes! -- drawing the long bow is Joe DellaGatta. I'm extremely happy with his artwork, both for the way it amplifies and make clear the plot and simply as as graphic art.
I haven't seen any of the other stories, so all I can tell you about the rest of the book is that it's edited Andrew Carl & Chris Stevens, best known for the Eisner and Havey Award-winning book, Little Nemo: Dream Another Dream. So the odds are that it'll be good.
*
December 11, 2017
The Parable of the Creche
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It's that time of year again, the one we call Almost Christmas. Which, as we all know, is the time when this blog traditionally presents...
*
It's that time of year again, the one we call Almost Christmas. Which, as we all know, is the time when this blog traditionally presents...
*
December 7, 2017
A Birder's Christmas Carol
.
I was in Bombay Hook yesterday and it was a great day for birding. All told, Marianne and I saw nine bald eagles, including two in a tree (above) we could hear speaking to each other and a pair in courting flight. You really need to see two together to fully appreciate what spectacular fliers they are. Also several thousand snow geese, many great blue herons, some quite closeby, a variety of other birds, and a red fox!
So I am happy.
To celebrate, I took a classic Christmas carol and adopted it for birders. You know how the song goes, so I'm only going to give you the final round:
The Twelve Days of Christmas Birding
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love spotted these:
Twelve turkeys drumming
Eleven peeps a-piping
Ten lapwings larking
Nine quails a-dancing
Eight doves a-mourning
Seven mute swans swimming
Six geese a-laying
FIVE SNOWY OWLS!
Four peregrines
Three black ducks
Two godwits
And an eagle in a bare tree
-- Michael Swanwick
Above: Photo by M. C. Porter. Photo and poem are both issued under a Creative Commons license. You are free to use them for noncommercial purposes, so long as credit is retained. And you can change the words of the carol. That's how I came up with it myself.
*
I was in Bombay Hook yesterday and it was a great day for birding. All told, Marianne and I saw nine bald eagles, including two in a tree (above) we could hear speaking to each other and a pair in courting flight. You really need to see two together to fully appreciate what spectacular fliers they are. Also several thousand snow geese, many great blue herons, some quite closeby, a variety of other birds, and a red fox!
So I am happy.
To celebrate, I took a classic Christmas carol and adopted it for birders. You know how the song goes, so I'm only going to give you the final round:
The Twelve Days of Christmas Birding
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love spotted these:
Twelve turkeys drumming
Eleven peeps a-piping
Ten lapwings larking
Nine quails a-dancing
Eight doves a-mourning
Seven mute swans swimming
Six geese a-laying
FIVE SNOWY OWLS!
Four peregrines
Three black ducks
Two godwits
And an eagle in a bare tree
-- Michael Swanwick
Above: Photo by M. C. Porter. Photo and poem are both issued under a Creative Commons license. You are free to use them for noncommercial purposes, so long as credit is retained. And you can change the words of the carol. That's how I came up with it myself.
*
December 1, 2017
Two Roads Diverged...
.
My friend and occasional editor, Gabrielle Wei, knowing of my fondness for writing on leaves, sent me the above picture of a ginkgo leaf. I was touched, of course, but also reminded of a true story.
This happened to a neighbor of my family's, back when we lived in Winooski, Vermont. She was out driving, one day, on a lonely country road, when she came to an intersection. She stopped at the stop sign and started forward.
Just then, a maniac driving far too fast for the road, blasted through the intersection, ignoring the stop sign entirely.
Both drivers slammed on their brakes. They missed colliding by inches. The driver who had been going too fast turned to look back and glared at my neighbor in fury. Then he put his foot on the accelerator and sped away.
And our neighbor recognized him.
She told us the next day that she sat in her car for several minutes, shivering, and reflecting on the headline that would have been printed the next day, had she not braked in time:
WINOOSKI WOMAN KILLS ROBERT FROST
Every word of this story is true. Had it been a fiction, I'm pretty sure there would have been an implicit moral to it.
And as long as we're talking about leaves...
Here's a picture I took of the water trough outside the thatched cottage of Du Fu in Chengdu. It looks like I left out a couple of strokes in the great poet's name, but that's just a trick of the light. I copied it out very carefully.
*
My friend and occasional editor, Gabrielle Wei, knowing of my fondness for writing on leaves, sent me the above picture of a ginkgo leaf. I was touched, of course, but also reminded of a true story.
This happened to a neighbor of my family's, back when we lived in Winooski, Vermont. She was out driving, one day, on a lonely country road, when she came to an intersection. She stopped at the stop sign and started forward.
Just then, a maniac driving far too fast for the road, blasted through the intersection, ignoring the stop sign entirely.
Both drivers slammed on their brakes. They missed colliding by inches. The driver who had been going too fast turned to look back and glared at my neighbor in fury. Then he put his foot on the accelerator and sped away.
And our neighbor recognized him.
She told us the next day that she sat in her car for several minutes, shivering, and reflecting on the headline that would have been printed the next day, had she not braked in time:
WINOOSKI WOMAN KILLS ROBERT FROST
Every word of this story is true. Had it been a fiction, I'm pretty sure there would have been an implicit moral to it.
And as long as we're talking about leaves...
Here's a picture I took of the water trough outside the thatched cottage of Du Fu in Chengdu. It looks like I left out a couple of strokes in the great poet's name, but that's just a trick of the light. I copied it out very carefully.
*
November 29, 2017
A Foreword, A Season, An Afterword
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Monday's post on Dragonstairs Press's two new (and one old) chapbooks ran so long that I didn't have the chance to present any excerpts. A failing that I will correct right now.
The preface to Midwinter Fables:
A season from 5 Seasons:
And the afterword to Touchstones:
And since you asked . . .
The Dragonstairs chapbooks -- slim, elegant, and seriously underpriced -- can be found here.
Above: Winter leaves.
*
Monday's post on Dragonstairs Press's two new (and one old) chapbooks ran so long that I didn't have the chance to present any excerpts. A failing that I will correct right now.
The preface to Midwinter Fables:
That scandalous old slave, Aesop, having spent his youth as secretary to his master, and his middle years as the freed commercial ambassador of the same man, found himself living in a cold stone hut in the mountains. One day, his scribbling was interrupted by a woman who claimed to be his granddaughter, looking to discover what sort of man he was.
“How do I know what you say is true?” Aesop asked.
The woman cast a scornful glance at her surroundings. “My father is a successful wine merchant in Syracuse. Why would I lie?”
“Very well,” the fabulist said. “Listen to these stories I have just now written.”
A season from 5 Seasons:
Winterthaw
I crave thy pardon, mistress, that I did try to eat thee. It were the Darkwinter, when we all do what we must to survive. I understand why thou dost flinch from my touch.
Still. Didst thou not kill thy sister, who did love thee, when the foodstuffs ran low? Not that I disapprove. It were the right thing to do, God wot. Hunger knows no morals. I did the same with my father, poor soul.
Those dire times are behind us. The snows are melting at last. We can scrabble in the mud for last year’s roots, and perhaps a small rodent or three. We keep our knives sharp and close to hand, of course, because we each know what the other is capable of.
Now the ice turns back into pond water. The air is warm. Desperation falls a day, a second day, a third into the past. Now at last – though I grip my blade as firmly as thou dost thine – I am free to say...
I do love thee.
And the afterword to Touchstones:
A touchstone, literally, is a stone used to test the purity of gold. Metaphorically, it is the test of the truth of any particular statement. But in the heart, a touchstone is whatever connects us to our deepest and truest values.
When you travel, you carry a little bit of your home with you as a sort of touchstone. For my third trip to Chengdu, I brought these three stories, which exist in physical form in my house. The first is written on a jar filled with keys and is partly true and partly not. The second is written on a framed sheet of paper behind a Mason jar filled with mineral oil, scrap electronic parts, and a rubber eyeball. It is an homage to Ray Bradbury and completely fictional. "Lovers and Lunatics" is written on a crescent moon shaped wall lamp. It is a love letter to my wife and every word of it is tru
"A Jarful of Keys" was published on my blog in 2009. The other two stories appear here for the first time.
Home, family, fantasy, and love. These stories are touchstones for what matter to me most. I hope they give you pleasure.
And since you asked . . .
The Dragonstairs chapbooks -- slim, elegant, and seriously underpriced -- can be found here.
Above: Winter leaves.
*
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