LITERATURE: Samuel Delany and the Past and Future of Science Fiction | Neo-Griot

LITERATURE: Samuel Delany and the Past and Future of Science Fiction | Neo-Griot.

From the beginning, Delany, in his fiction, has pushed across the traditional boundaries of science fiction, embraced the other, and questioned received ideas about sex and intimacy.

Samuel Delaney & Other Sci-Fi Authors Talk Feminism and Genre Writing in New HeForShe Video | Dark Matters

Samuel Delaney & Other Sci-Fi Authors Talk Feminism and Genre Writing in New HeForShe Video | Dark Matters.

“Here are Samuel R. Delany, Joe Haldeman, Simon R. Green, Ian R. MacLeod, Ian McDonald and Todd McCaffrey singing the praises of female sci fi greats like Ursula K. Le Guin, Octavia E. Butler, and Andre Norton.”  at http://www.themarysue.com/heforshe-scifi/

‘Crumbs’ – The First Ever Ethiopian Post-Apocalyptic, Sur | From “Shadow and Act

‘Crumbs’ – The First Ever Ethiopian Post-Apocalyptic, Sur | Shadow and Act. “Directed by Spaniard Llansó, who actually

lives in Addis Ababa (Ethiopia), “Crumbs” stars Daniel Tadesse, and

tells a story of diminutive superhero Gagano (played by Tadesse), a junk collector, who embarks on a “surreal epic

journey”  that’s set against “post-apocalyptic Ethiopian landscapes,” says the press description.”

By Tambay A. Obenson | Shadow and Act

 

From “The Moral Dilemmas Of Narrative” a timely post on ethics and priniciples when writing about living subjects

The Moral Dilemmas Of Narrative | Gangrey.com.

A timely excerpt from Gangrey.com’s post of Bill Marvel’s book introduction:

“Compassion seems simple enough. It requires we be aware of our subjects’ feelings, that we write in a way that, if possible, minimizes their distress. If the revelations become awkward, we try to balance the good the story does against the harm.

The obligation to be sensitive likewise requires us to be aware of our subject’s needs, for example, for security and privacy. Subjects who don’t know better need to be warned of the consequences publication of a story might bring. We might tell a subject, “If there’s anything that you don’t want your boss or family to know, tell us ahead of time so we can figure out how to handle it.” What we write should never expose children to ridicule, exploitation or danger.

Compassion and sensitivity thus tell us how to approach our subjects from the outside.

Empathy, the word Lee Hancock murmured that morning, is more difficult. Because empathy requires that we approach our subjects from the inside. We try to enter into the emotions, thoughts, the very lives of those we write about. We try to imagine what it must be like to be them. Only by living in their skin at least briefly, by walking in their shoes, can we begin to see that person as he or she is. This requires moral imagination. It is what the good fiction writer does. And it is, I argue, what we writers of nonfiction must do.

There are learned people who will argue that this is impossible, and they may be right. How can we ever fully know another person? But the impossibility does not erase the obligation to try. That obligation demands that our actions as journalists not only be ethically sound, but — taking a word from Janet Malcolm — that they be morally defensible. Ethics is the rules of the game: fairness, honesty and disclosure. Morality is what we owe one another, not as writer and subject, but as fallen human beings. It demands self-knowledge, humility, and charity.

This, I think, sets the bar on its highest peg.”

Viral Image #31 by Cherie Ann Turpin (30 Stories in 30 Days) #30Days

Viral Image #31

by Cherie Ann Turpin

(30 Stories in 30 Days)

#30Days

viral
The pictures on my walls started moving and talking last month.

It’s a virus, something that traveled through several layers of probable realities as a result of an experiment launched by a group of physicists in Switzerland.  The word “virus” is about as close a term as one could use to refer to or at least approximate what has happened to digital photography, film, music, and sound.  The “virus” has somehow rendered our actuality more porous than its previous state of stability, reworking digital codes of compressed audio and visual data into multi-dimensional portals.

Infected computers have been quarantined at a secret facility near the port, but as the virus is already in the cloud, the virtual world is taking on a version of reality not yet understood by most physicists or IT specialists.  Every single picture, movie clip, and sound clip is now subject to the virus’ rewiring of its nature into a separate actualization.  Worse, some of these realities are pushing into our reality.

I have seen long-dead relatives appear in my living room, wearing the same clothes they wore when the photos were snapped.  They aren’t quite flesh, but more than ghosts.  My grandmother encountered a much younger version of herself in my hallway, much to her own shock.  I have ex-boyfriends fighting each other, fading in and out with each emotional flare-up.

My car is now gassed up for a long trip, something I should have done when my neighbors escaped from a slightly psychotic uncle with a penchant for knives.  I just have to find a way to use my driver’s license without my previous version of myself sliding out from my purse.

“Fractal Hant” #30 by Cherie Ann Turpin (30 Stories in 30 Day) #30Days

“Fractal Hant” #30

by Cherie Ann Turpin

(30 Stories in 30 Day)

#30Days
coppersulfate
You find a strange blue crystal on your driveway one evening while picking up the newspaper.  You take it inside and placed it in a glass of warm water, thinking it to be a nice stone to use in your endless collection of homemade jewelry sitting in your bedroom.  It sits on your window shelf over the kitchen sink for about five days, upon which you, after forgetting its existence, glance up at the glass while washing dishes.   You almost jump back at what you see.

Two crystals now occupy the glass, and two others are now sitting on the shelf.  You pick up the glass, and, using paper towels, scoop up the other crystals, panicking at what seems to be an impossibility.  Each crystal is equal in size and each one now seems to cast a reddish hue when close to each other.  You dump it all into a small plastic bag, including the glass of water.  You dump it all into the green garbage container you’ve already rolled out to the curb for the early morning garbage guys.  It takes four men to lift the garbage container into the truck to dump out the trash.

Kneeling on your couch cushions, you peek through your living room curtains to see them step back at the container’s contents mixing with the neighborhood’s trash:  dozens and dozens of crystals that seem to glow like fireflies.  You close the curtain and slowly stand up, as you turn around to see something you don’t want to see:  a single crystal sitting in the middle of your living room carpet, turning red, then black as it levitates up to the height of your face.

Turn around.

And run.

“Sleeping Beauty Did Not Know How to Wake Up” #28 by Cherie Ann Turpin (30 Stories in 30 Days) #30Days

“Sleeping Beauty Did Not Know How to Wake Up” #28

by Cherie Ann Turpin

(30 Stories in 30 Days)

#30Days
bedroom
Once again, I found myself lying in a bed next to Stephen, watching him sleep in a nondescript room with a bed, wardrobe, and drawers.  It resembled a room in an airport hotel that needed some color.  I had not seen or spoken to him in well over two years, but for the last two months I felt myself being pushed into his dreams, his Guardian Spirit showing me the world from its charge’s perspective, and showing me its desperate efforts to wake him from his deep sleep.

I battled demons and dragons on his behalf in the dream realm in years past, but never this….silence, this void that kept him locked out from his own feelings.  It was an emptiness that left his soul in a coma-like state in the dream realm, while leaving him hollow and bereft in the harsh light of the day.  window

This was the first time I actually encountered his dream body in its true state–asleep to the richness of the dream realm.   Unable to imagine a landscape while trapped in the void, Stephen’s dream self remained oblivious to its status as a prisoner.   I felt myself drifting into a light slumber and quickly jerked my dream body out of it with a sudden roll onto the floor.  I felt a sharp pain in my left arm from my elbow to my pinkie as it hit the carpeted floor.

I stood up and leaned over him, rolling his prone body towards, jumping slightly as I discovered his eyes open, staring.  He blinked, and looked at me with a slightly confused look.  A realization came to me:  he doesn’t know how to switch to lucid dream state.  I could feel my dream body’s energy draining as he drew from me to stay awake.

“Stephen, I am tired.  I cannot continue to carry this for you alone.  You have to help me help you heal and get out of this trap.  You must be lucid, aware, and awake in your dream state.”  I saw a shadow crawl from the ceiling towards the bed.  I felt my waking body snatch my astral body back across the realm.  My waking body sat up in my own bed, quivering.

I needed to talk to Stephen in the waking world, and I needed to do it fast.  I had no idea whether he would believe my story, but he needed to learn what I learned so he could fight the monster holding him as a prisoner in his own dream realm.

But I had to find him first.