Academic Goodies: The Science Fiction of My New Year
Well, I said I would post the proposal abstracts for the various academic conferences I will be attending. All three of them deal with science fiction on some level, as indicated here. It should be interesting to present all of these papers and field questions from the audience. I don’t get many opportunities to talk about science fiction with fellow academics. So here goes: “Habitually Us: Battlestar Galactica, the “Android Personality,” and Human Preservation” (to be presented at the SWTXPCA Conference in Albuquerque, New Mexico): Philip K. Dick, in talking about the rise of consumer culture in the 60s and 70s, suggested that society had fallen prey to what he called the “android personality,” a reflexive, repetitive personality incapable of making exceptions or doing anything other than what it had always done. There are obvious connections between this concept and his novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, and it is a concept that can readily be found within more modern forms of science fiction. Ron D. Moore’s Battlestar Galactica imagines a future/past that mirrors many of the same concerns Dick imagined were present in the proliferation of the “android personality.” Not only does Battlestar Galactica question the very nature of humanity by juxtaposing it against the humanoid Cylon (literally and metaphorically), but it also imagines the interchangeability of the “android personality,” from human to Cylon, and the reflexive nature of both. In this paper, I will use Philip K. Dick’s non-fiction “philosophies” to analyze the relationship between the humans and Cylons of Battlestar Galactica and the “android personality.” I will argue that the reflexive nature of the “android personality” is both based on a purely selfish motive and is also a necessary, though not necessarily positive, human reaction to preserve human identity in the face of something human and not-human at the same time. “Otherism: The Dissection of Humanity and the Negation of the Human in Battlestar Galactica” (to be presented at the PCA/ACA Conference in St. Louis, Missouri): Science fiction film has had a curious history in relation to the human/other dichotomy. In its early days, science fiction imagined the other as the monstrous alien or robot, a vision that has now largely been adopted by supernatural horror and the less frequent science fiction horror. The re-imagining of Battlestar Galactica, however, has offered a contrary and more complicated view of the other in science fiction film. With the advent of the Cylons as biological “machines,” the human/other dichotomy becomes not only an allegory for our current and past relations to the “other,” but also a force that essentially dissects humanity piece by piece by exposing the human to an “other” so like itself. Humanity’s understanding of what it means to be “human,” thus, is put in jeopardy. In this paper I will argue that Battlestar Galactica’s presentation of human-like Cylons effectively negates the existence of the category of the human. I will examine the literal deletion of the human as a distinctive entity, and humanity’s responses to the sudden disruption of its identity, from a past-reflective collection of human exceptionalist reactions to the acknowledgement of the emerging death of the human and the hybridization of the human/other dichotomy. “Shaping the Shapeless: New Weird, Bizarro, and Bending Genres”(to be presented at the “What Happens Now: 21st Century Writing in English–the first decade” conference in Lincoln, England): The past ten years have changed many things in science fiction and fantasy. The former has had what some have called a golden age in film, while the latter has seen a remarkable explosion of interest in literature with the power of the urban fantasy and young adult markets essentially turning the entire genre into one of the most lucrative and vibrant writing fields around–more so than it ever was. But what of science fiction literature and literature on the margins of speculative fiction? The new Millenium has resulted in a curious array of changes within speculative fiction. Two movements have been primarily responsible in what one might call the “weirding” of the genre: New Weird and Bizarro. Each places emphasis on an impossible-to-define exceptional weirdness, and the result has been the development of a cult following and a significant, if not unintentional, influence on the wider range of science fiction and fantasy being written today. The 2000s, as a result, have been noticeably experimental in form, style, and content, with new and old authors approaching speculative fiction from a odd, even surreal perspective. In this paper I will analyze the emergence of the “weird” through New Weird, Bizarro, and other as yet un-named categories and their widespread influence on speculative fiction, from the unique, spatially disconnected short fiction of Jason Sanford to the characteristically nonsensical atmospheres and concepts of writers like Jeff Vandermeer, Brian Francis Slattery, China Mieville, Steve Aylett, and others. There you go. Any thoughts?
Homesick 2010: Where I’ll Be All Next Year
2010 is shaping up to be a busy year for me. A few big things have happened, and with the next semester of school coming up I’m sure I’ll be a busy little bee. The sad thing (or cool thing, depending on how you look at it) is that I’ll be away from home for a little under two weeks between the months of February and July. So, what’s going on in 2010? First, I’ll be teaching at the University of Florida, again (I’ll be doing this for the next six years, most likely). January marks my second semester as a teacher, with a few changes to keep things spicy. I’ll be teaching an introductory course to college research papers and, for the second time, a technical writing class for engineers. While neither course is as interesting as an intro to science fiction course would be, I am still getting a lot of valuable experience that will help me get a good job when I graduate with a PhD (or an MA if I somehow get booted out of the academic circuit). Second, I’ll be taking two graduate-level courses. One is on African fiction and the other is a class on Lacan (the latter is a theory-intensive course on psychoanalysis and I am not exactly looking forward to that because I hate Freud). They didn’t have any science fiction courses this time around, or anything that seemed directly related to what I am working towards or studying, so much of my course preferences this semester were based on a “will I find that enjoyable or at least remotely useful” mentality. The African fiction course, however, does look promising and I expect I will learn a lot from it (well, I’ll probably learn a lot from both, to be fair). Lastly, I will be attending three conferences during 2010 to present papers on subjects of interest to anyone who is a fan of science fiction or fantasy. The first is the Southwest Texas Popular Culture and American Culture Association Conference to be held in Albuquerque, New Mexico (don’t ask me why it’s not held in Texas, because I have no idea). I will be presenting a paper on Battlestar Galactica and Philip K. Dick (I’ll be talking about all my upcoming papers in another post) and will be there from February 10th to the 13th. The second is the annual conference of the Popular Culture and American Culture Associations in St. Louis, Missouri. Battlestar Galactica will be a feature yet again, only I’ll be dealing with some different ideas. The PCA/ACA conference is held from March 31st to April 3rd. The last is What Happens Now: 21st Century Writing in English – the first decade, a conference held at the University of Lincoln in the United Kingdom. There will be no Battlestar Galactica in this one (or I don’t expect there to be). Instead, I’ll be talking about the Bizarro and New Weird movements and their influence on the wider world of science fiction and, to a lesser extent (because it’s already weird and bizarre anyway), fantasy. Thankfully, this conference is held towards the tail end of the academic school year (July 8-11), giving me plenty of time to fine tune the essay and do appropriate levels of additional research. And that about sums up the next six months of my life. I have a lot of work to do, since I will have to write three papers for conferences, and likely two more for my graduate courses. That’s five papers, fifteen pages or longer, in six months. I expect there to be much sweating. Any of you up to anything? Attending any conventions or conferences of your own? Let me know in the comments!
Random News For 12/11/09 (Peter Watts, Interviews, and Randomness)
Some interesting things have happened today. First, there is an interview with me up on the Outer Alliance blog that you all might want to check out. They asked me some questions about dealing with anti-gay hatred and Survival By Storytelling Magazine, among other things. It’s fairly brief, but well worth checking out. Probably the biggest news for today, though, is the story of the apparent beating and abuse of Peter Watts by U.S. Border Patrol on Tuesday. He has since been released and is back in Canada, but he has to return to Michigan to face trial for what seems to be a trumped up charge that could not only land him in prison for two years, but get him banned from the U.S. for life (he’s charged with assaulting a federal officer, which is apparently adequate reason to beat people with clubs and pepperspray them these days; here I thought these folks were supposed to be protecting us…Watts was on his way OUT of the country, not into it). In any case, Cory Doctorow over at BoingBoing has posted a lot more detail about this here, but what is most pressing right now is that Mr. Watts needs money. He has acquired a good criminal lawyer, but because such trials can often run for extended periods of time and he isn’t exactly Stephen King, he needs a burst of financial aid to pull him through. So, if you can help out by donating a little bit of money, I’m sure Mr. Watts, his family, and his fans would be grateful. Donations can be sent to donate@rifters.com. Update: Peter Watts has broken his short-lived silence here. Update 2: The Toronto Star has a more detailed explanation of everything, which further shows that the border patrol folks are total assholes. That’s all I have for today.
A Taste of “The Head” (Tentative Title)
I thought I’d let folks read a little of what I’ve been working on lately. I’ve mentioned this story on Twitter a few times, particularly by its first line, but it’d be interested to hear what folks think. The only thing I have to say before taking you to it is that you shouldn’t read it if you’re easily disturbed or cannot stand the f-word. I don’t use the latter excessively, but it is there and has to be there for the characters. The disturbing imagery is a part of the world I’m working with (think of it as sort of what happens when Event Horizon gets stuck in the world we live in and becomes part of the norm). So, don’t read past this point if you can’t handle that kind of stuff. I don’t think it’s excessive, but I also don’t want anyone yelling at me that I made them ill cause there’s an undead, talking, severed head being worn like a hat. The only other thing to say is that it’s still in the rough stage. I’m going to do a lot of editing later. So here goes: I used to wear her head like a hat until she started talking to me in downtown Memphis. It’s a strange experience, hearing the head of a dead person curse you out in the middle of the street. There’s something embarrassing about that, like a beacon telling everyone else that you’ve botched your human sacrifice. They were supposed to stay dead. But, she talked. And talked. The curse words turned into snarls, the snarls into black magic, until finally I had to make a deal with her to get her to shut up: I’d find her a new body. And that’s how I lost my weekend. # There’s always something looming in the dark of the world. A living thing. You can call it God if you want, but whenever I descend into the shadows, her head whispering above, I get the feeling that something isn’t quite right. That’s not a feeling you’re supposed to have if you deal in dead bodies; the fact that someone who isn’t quite right to begin with can sense something that isn’t quite right on top of his or her own not-rightness is like a politician feeling like other politicians are screwing around with the lives of the many. It’s irony, perhaps. Memphis, though, hasn’t been quite right since the Change. Dimensions don’t mix well, and so here I am, with her head on my own, trying to find a new body for a woman who, quite honestly, didn’t deserve the one she had before, all so I can save my dignity. “I want one with a nice ass,” she says. “Curves and all that. I don’t want to be one of those skinny bitches that you see on TV. You know, the ones with all the cuts on their damned arms, bleeding all over the place, with all the fat, wart-covered old men drooling foam at their feet…No, I want a voluptuous, curvy body with a fine looking face.” “Don’t get picky.” I feel her wiggle. “Fuck. This is the body I’ll be stuck with for the rest of my life.” “Yes, and if God wanted you to have the perfect body, he would have given it to you in the first place.” “Fuck what God wants. I want to be able to do things I never could before. I want my tits to say ‘this is what you all want, but you can’t have.’ There are other things you’re going to have to give me, but they’re personal.” “Right.” “Did you know the left side of your brain has a tumor?” It’s interesting. Sacrifices always produce a unique symbiotic relationship with the decapitated. With her, she’s tangled herself through my brain. There’s a good side to it, I think. I didn’t know I had a tumor until that moment. But she’d know. She’s had your veins winding through every inch of me for a week now. She’d know things about my insides that I wouldn’t know even if I had a brain surgeon to go poking around in there. Fuck, the world is weird enough as it is without having some old crone screaming out your genetic defects. “What about that one?” I point to a young girl, maybe a little young, but, hell, maybe the old bag would have wanted a few extra years as a teenager. The teenager struts along the street, wearing a belly shirt and the shortest skirt I’ve ever seen, her midriff all curves and toned, wobbling back and forth. She draws the eyes of every man on the street, except for the ones that like the blood rolling out of their wrists. She slips into shadows, then out again, and I see that hint of darkness in your soul. It hits something close to home, something dark inside myself that yearns for young flesh. But I’ve had my sacrifice for now. I’ll have to wait. But the old crone should want what that beautiful creature has. Don’t we all want to have our youth again? She could really do something with that. “Fuck no. I’ve had it up to here…” she pauses, realizing she doesn’t have hands of her own to make the gesture. I do it for her, raising the hand to her forehead. “Thanks. I’ve had it up to here with holier-than-thou-hot-as-shit teenage blonde crap. She’s probably been around the block a few thousand times already. Loose. That’s not in my book of desires. I ain’t hoping for no virginal blood, but, fuck, at least a little self-respect.” “Alright.” Like she’d know what self-respect looked like. I knew her before she met me in that dark alley. She was a secretary, old, but not quite over the hump, working for a rich blood-letter who knew exactly how to twist the arms off of prospective clients until they were writhing and screaming on
Funny Things About Grandfathers
I’ve never talked about some of my grandfather’s exploits on this blog, but one of the things you learn as a writer (or a wannabe writer, for that matter) is that your family, friends, and random acquaintances can act as fantastic inspiration. My grandfather has acted as quite the little inspiration bee in the last few years, and will continue to do so for many reasons. But there are some stories about my grandfather that I don’t think I can ever replicate in a fiction story. You know the saying, “Life is stranger than fiction”? That’s absolutely true of my grandfather at times. Here are just a few of those stories: Cub Scout CampingBack when I lived in Washington, my grandfather took my brother, sister, and I on a camping trip to all sorts of pretty places. The problem? Washington is wet almost year round. It’s either raining or the apocalypse has arrived and everything is burning to a crisp. Our trip happened to coincide with non-Biblical events, which makes for interesting camping. During a particularly wet trip we decided to stop and find a nice place to camp. Having set up all our tents, my grandfather set to making a fire. Matches, unfortunately, do little for turning soaked wood into toasty fire, so he decided to hunt down some kerosene. A little while later, he returned with a half-full container and poured all of it over the wood. The result was probably the first real-life mini-demonstration of a nuclear explosion my siblings and I will ever see. A big flame, a little mushroom cloud, and no standing fire. We gave up at that point and decided to settle in for the night. That’s when it started to pour. My grandfather, being the cub scout that he was, had put his tent, which he was sharing with my brother, at the bottom of an incline. Why? I don’t know. He just did. And at some point in the middle of the night we all heard the revving of our car’s engine. Apparently the rain had created a lovely puddle in the middle of the tent and my brother had secured all of the dry space, leaving my grandfather a freezing pond to sleep in. Eventually he had to get up and warm himself in the car. We didn’t camp outdoors after that. Stubborn DriverMany years ago my grandfather had some problems with his heart and had his driver’s license taken away for safety reasons. Anyone who knew my grandfather also knew that he was one of the most stubborn individuals ever. He gave up his license, alright, but he sure as heck didn’t give up his right to drive. He and I used to climb into this old hatchback (a Colt or something) and tear down the dirt road where he and my grandmother lived. We wouldn’t drive all the way into town, though. No. That would be too obvious. Instead, my grandfather would hide the car (very poorly, I might add) behind a small wall of blackberry bushes along the road, and then we’d walk the rest of the way. It was clear that he didn’t want to walk up and down the blasted hill. Some time later I learned that pretty much everyone knew what he was up to (Placerville is a small town). Looking back, it seems somewhat ridiculous that he was so secretive about the whole thing. Everyone knew, including my grandmother, and nobody did anything about it. Of course, I was a little young and didn’t know any better at the time. I kept the secret for a while, though, because I’m like that. Secretive and stuff. Hanging GrandsonsThere were other events following my grandfather’s early heart problems, but none put my life on the line like his desire to have me help re-paint the house. You see, my grandfather was kind of a “do it yourself” guy, but since he couldn’t reach certain parts of the house with his ladder he needed a way to finish the job. That’s where I come in. My grandfather’s brilliant post-stroke plan was to climb to the roof through a ceiling window and dangle me over the side of the house by a rope, without a mask for the paint sprayer and held only by a post-stroke grandpa. Yup. I’m not sure how I weaseled my way out of it, but he was quite adamant about putting me over the side of the house. Thankfully it didn’t happen. The MonkeyWhen my grandfather and grandmother got married, they went on the kind of honeymoon that most people only dream of these days, visiting places like Egypt and others. At some point in the trip they arrived in a place where the locals had a special delicacy that most Americans (and my grandfather was the old rancher-type) would find…let’s just say strange. But my grandfather, as I’ve said before, was a stubborn mule. Wanting, I presume, to respect local culture, he almost demanded to be served the delicacy, all while my grandmother tried to explain to him that it was not a good idea, at all. Eventually, however, my grandfather won out, as he usually did, and the locals brought before him a remarkable gift: a monkey head with monkey brain soup inside. I’m told that my grandfather turned a shade of white that doesn’t currently exist in the human makeup. And no, he didn’t learn his lesson, as the last story will illustrate. The CurseNever cross my grandmother. Ever. If you do, you’ll pay the consequences. Trust me. My grandfather never learned that, but he did help to make a funny story about the power of grandmother’s to use subtle magic. At some point in the past my grandfather had a little sailboat. It wasn’t anything special, but it brought him some joy, I assume. One day he discovered a jar of money my grandma had been saving to buy a dress or nice drapes or something (I
The Green Literature Proposal
I think I mentioned this on my Twitter a few times, but if you don’t follow me there, then this may be new to you. I recently sent out an abstract for a paper to a conference about green literature (specifically in science fiction). I haven’t heard back yet, but regardless, I wanted everyone to see what I was thinking about doing. So, here goes: The notion of the environment as an inanimate, and particularly harsh “other” brings to the forefront a particularly challenging question following what will likely be an inevitable requirement for humans to move into non-traditional living spaces: how must we survive at home or elsewhere when the potential range of environments leans heavily to what we currently accept as uninhabitable? Science fiction posits that this move will entail a variety of responses, and of particular interest are subaltern responses to cultural othering. Sly Mongoose by Tobias S. Buckell, Marseguro by Edward Willett, and The Silver Ship and the Sea by Brenda Cooper all imagine the future of subaltern figures as merging with an otherwise inhospitable environmental space. This symbiosis with the environment develops as a result of a desperation to seek shelter from a dominant human culture that seeks to purge the subaltern class from society. In this paper, I intend to analyze two things: 1) the symbiotic relationship between the subaltern and the environment and the fragility of such a relationship, even in far-future human vision; and 2) the implications/affects of such a symbiotic relationship on the nature of identity, both to the self and to the environment. So, thoughts? P.S.: It should be noted that I was partially inspired by Matt Staggs and his greenpunk manifesto.