Greer Gilman's Blog, page 18

Enter Tilburina, stark mad, in white satin ...

... and her confidante, stark mad, in white linen.

The wind whistles–the moon rises–see
They have kill'd my squirrel in his cage!
Is this a grasshopper!–Ha, no, it is my
Wiskerandos–you shall not keep him–
I know you have him in your pocket–
An oyster may be crossed in love!–Who says
A whale's a bird?–Ha, did you call, my love?–
He's here! He's there!–He's everywhere!
Ah, me! He's nowhere.

O frabjous day!  Back in 1982, I chanced to catch the legendary BBC broadcast of Sheridan's The Critic, with Hywel Bennett, Nigel Hawthorne, Rosemary Leach, Anna Massey, with an ineffable cameo by John Gielgud.  Thirty years later, I managed to score a bootleg copy of it, the jewel in the crown of my theatrical fiasco collection, which I screened for rushthatspeaks   and gaudior , one memorable evening.  We slid off the couch.  Now some angel of hysteria has put the whole of it up online.

Remember, it has a long slow fuse, sparkling all the way, but the fireworks begin at the rehearsal.

Enjoy!

Nine








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"Enter Tiburina, mad, in white satin ...

... and her confidante, mad, in white linen."

O frabjous day!  Back in 1982, I chanced to catch the legendary BBC broadcast of Sheridan's The Critic, with Hywel Bennett, Nigel Hawthorne, Rosemary Leach, Anna Massey, with an ineffable cameo by John Gielgud.  Thirty years later, I managed to score a bootleg copy of it, the jewel in the crown of my theatrical fiasco collection, which I screened for rushthatspeaks   and gaudior , one memorable evening.  We slid off the couch.  Now some angel of hysteria has put the whole of it up online.

Remember, it has a long slow fuse, sparkling all the way, but the fireworks begin at the rehearsal.

Enjoy!

Nine

Sun, Moon, and stars

Michael Swanwick captures our performance in mid-flight.  Ben Jonson ("playwright, pedant, malcontent") gesticulates while Ethel Smyth ("composer, suffragist, Sapphist," played splendidly by Marianne Porter) smiles knowingly.

The excellent Catherine Rockwood reviews Snatched from the Sun.

Nine

Comedy of Errors

The play, thank heavens, went exceedingly well, despite the rain. The fortuitous cries of coyotes were effective: I should put them on the soundtrack. I do hope we can stage it for a wider audience.


But the anti-anti-Stratfordian rant was a palpable hit, judging by the number of people who kept buttonholing me to say how much they'd enjoyed it. "Delicious snark," as one said. I'd asked for AV help, as I had a number of slides on a thumbdrive, points that could only be made visually. For example, Alexander Waugh (grandson of Evelyn, son of Auberon) likes to draw shapes around letters:










Well, the promised AV person didn't turn up; then they sent a DVD player, which was useless; and finally, they put out an all-points bulletin. And the rescuer who came was—

Sarah Smith, a devout Oxfordian.

Bless her heart, she showed every slide without a murmur, while I mocked her dearest beliefs, relentlessly. It was an act of diplomacy unequaled in the transcripts of con history, worthy to be set with the Christmas Eve Truce.

Only afterward, she said plaintively, "But you only talked about the idiots." I thought it would be cruel to ask, "Who else is there?"

Nine

Peter Quince presenteth Moonshine

A special event for Readercon-goers.*

Ben Jonson, who saw Will Shakespeare set among the stars, has fallen short of apotheosis.  Stranded on the Moon, he strives to write himself into the heavens.  Now he's joined in this frustrating afterlife by Dame Ethel Smyth, suffragist, Sapphist, and composer. Opera ensues.

Some of you will remember the interview with Hope Mirrlees from Readeron 20.  For those who weren't privileged to hear that, Marianne Porter is bloody brilliant.

Elsewhere and otherwise, I appear:

Reading: Greer Gilman
Fri 2:00 PM, Salon C

Snatched from the Sun: Alternative Shakespeares and the Zemblance of Reality
Greer Gilman
Fri 4:00 PM, Salon A

Why does a small but vocal and impassioned band of conspiracy theorists believe that Shakespeare wasn't Shakespeare? Why do they read his work for the common stage as the encrypted secret history of a genius suppressed? Why do they think that Hamlet was a selfie? While examining these questions, Greer Gilman will explore the shipping of John Donne’s muse, sepulchral monkey-heads, canals on Mars, vice-versal doublets, the Elizabethan elevator pitch, the seacoast of Bohemia, ciphers, triflers, Templars, and the true author of As You Leak It.

The White Space Around the Words: The Camaraderie of Poetry and Comedy
Amal El-Mohtar, Greer Gilman, Julia Rios, Romie Stott (mod), Sonya Taaffe
Sat 1:00 PM, Salon A

In a 2018 interview, comedian Dylan Moran said, "The verbal fun of standup is much more like poetry than prose... because a lot of it is about elision, suggestion, inference, the white space around the words. They’re much closer than people think, poetry and jokes." Our panelists explore this similarity between poetry and comedy, sharing some of their favorite examples of wordplay that works within the white space.

Food at the Corner of Fiction and Community
N.S. Dolkart, Andrea Martinez Corbin (mod), Greer Gilman, Michael Swanwick, Sabrina Vourvoulias
Sat 9:00 PM, Salon A

Food plays a central role in many cultures and accordingly takes center stage in the work of many speculative fiction writers. How does cuisine help define, or build, a community? How can food be used to communicate important information about a people to the reader? What are some particularly noteworthy examples of the way food can be used to set, or subvert, expectations?

Nine

*This is not an official Readercon program item.

Leapfire

Ooh, there's a Stonehenge cam!  Wishing you midsummer bliss.

Now I want a deep meadow with fireflies...

Nine

Bounded in a nutshell...

My excellent small Readercon schedule.  Many thanks to the splendidly inventive progcom.  I hope to see many of you there!

Reading: Greer Gilman
Fri 2:00 PM, Salon C

Snatched from the Sun: Alternative Shakespeares and the Zemblance of Reality
Greer Gilman
Fri 4:00 PM, Salon A

Why does a small but vocal and impassioned band of conspiracy theorists believe that Shakespeare wasn't Shakespeare? Why do they read his work for the common stage as the encrypted secret history of a genius suppressed? Why do they think that Hamlet was a selfie? While examining these questions, Greer Gilman will explore the shipping of John Donne’s muse, sepulchral monkey-heads, canals on Mars, vice-versal doublets, the Elizabethan elevator pitch, the seacoast of Bohemia, ciphers, triflers, Templars, and the true author of As You Leak It.

The White Space Around the Words: The Camaraderie of Poetry and Comedy
Amal El-Mohtar, Greer Gilman, Julia Rios, Romie Stott (mod), Sonya Taaffe
Sat 1:00 PM, Salon A

In a 2018 interview, comedian Dylan Moran said, "The verbal fun of standup is much more like poetry than prose... because a lot of it is about elision, suggestion, inference, the white space around the words. They’re much closer than people think, poetry and jokes." Our panelists explore this similarity between poetry and comedy, sharing some of their favorite examples of wordplay that works within the white space.

Food at the Corner of Fiction and Community
N.S. Dolkart, Andrea Martinez Corbin (mod), Greer Gilman, Michael Swanwick, Sabrina Vourvoulias
Sat 9:00 PM, Salon A

Food plays a central role in many cultures and accordingly takes center stage in the work of many speculative fiction writers. How does cuisine help define, or build, a community? How can food be used to communicate important information about a people to the reader? What are some particularly noteworthy examples of the way food can be used to set, or subvert, expectations?

———

Yes, I will touch on Aemilia Bassano Lanier as the coming thing, though her devotés are some of the less–er—picturesque Bedlamites.  Give them time.

If all goes well, the reading will be from a new one-act blank-verse play, inspired by the excellent Catherine Rockwood.  Ben Jonson, frustrated by his afterlife on the Moon, is joined by Dame Ethel Smyth, suffragist, Sapphist, and composer.  Opera ensues.

Nine

"And set my teeth in the silver of the moon"

Back in the day, before Commencement tickets were rationed, I used to love regalia-spotting.  Chicago.  Oxford.  Ooh, Sorbonne!  Hey, who does the squashy pink biretta?  Love the frock, darling, but your handbag's on fire.  There was once an African in a doctoral dashiki, with a wizard's staff; but my all-time prize was the guy in the swimming-pool-aqua lampshade, complete with deep fringes.  He looked like a cross between a David Hockney and Some Like It Hot.  Fabulous.

Not in years now, sadly.

But they're less strict about the afternoon exercises, so I got to hear Angela Merkel, who was terrific.  I picked a program off the grass, so at least I could read the Latin salutory, "Bibliotheca et Hortus" (they print up a cheat-sheet for "those whose Latin may be rusty").  I missed some good music, evidently:  a gospel choir, and a new setting of an e.e. cummings poem.  Pretty hot stuff for a graduation.  Ah well, I got to cheer a Cliffie from the class of '41, and hear some immortal Tom Lehrer by the band.  I wonder what Merkel made of that?

She was splendid.  It was like wading out into cold clean water to hear a politician with ethics.  She talked about growing up imprisoned by the Wall, and its coming down, just 30 years ago.  It was (for a moment) "Unlocking the Air" in plain text:  not in her language but her truth.  Change can happen.  She talked about the Shoah, and the forced migrations of our own time; she talked about education (above all of women), about science, about climate change.  She counselled the graduates never to “describe lies as truth and truth as lies,” never to act on impulse.  The crowd kept rising to its feet and cheering.

(Lord, I remember standing on those same steps listening to J. K. Rowling.  An adoring women next to me said, "Oh, I love fantasy.  You don't have to think!"  If I weren't such a perfect lady, I'd've pushed her down the steps.)

Then everyone sang rival lyrics.  The college anthem has changed its measure of eternity.  It used to be "Till the stock of the Puritans die" (still is for the old-timers) and is now "Till the stars in the firmament die."  Cotton Mather is past his sell-by date.

And hey, I did get my regalia-spotting.  On the way in, a nice dithery woman, kitted out in tufted bunny, scurried past me, turned, and said confidingly, "I'm looking for the faculty."  Pure Gaudy Night.  And on the way out, I saw a dazzling tartan hood.  I had to ask.  It was Carnegie Mellon.  Of course.  Of course.

Nine






 

Irresistible

An illiterate, innumerate, "scholarly" Oxfordian* attempts to prove that his darling boy and Shakespeare are one and the same by counting "unusual common phrases."  He is unaware that he's been toiling away on a demo version of his database.   Satire ensues.

Nine

*UMass Amherst, to its eternal shame, actually awarded him a doctorate for this sort of garbage.  They probably just wanted him to Go Away, but he's a drama queen.  And litigious.  And brought a mob to his dissertation defense.

"That which is, is not forever..."

My friend Rachel Trousdale has written a poem on "Notre Dame, Burning," on loss, and consequence, and order.

Those beseeching candles pierce the heart.  I've lighted those.

Nine