Escapade 2015

Last weekend marked the 25th anniversary of Escapade, the little California slash convention that is the remarkable work of two very energetic, very enthusiastic women, Charlotte Hill and Megan Kent. Now, they would tell you that the con works only because of their vast number of volunteers and, to a point, they're right; the smooth-running event relies heavily on knowledgable volunteers. BUT... Charlotte and Megan were smart enough to blackmail those volunteers into working for the convention. And I will say right now that Escapade has always been a joy to attend from it's early days in Goleta, California to its current incarnation at a hotel near LAX.

Before last year, I hadn't attended Escapade for over a decade. During that time, the con had moved from north of Santa Barbara in Goleta to south of Santa Barbara in Ventura, but I never experienced the con there so I can't speak to the difference between that location and the current location. I can say that the LAX local allowed me to attend once again because I'm a "local" and didn't have to contend with travel and hotel costs, leaving me free to pay for a membership and purchase a dealer's table last year. This year, I only was able to attend for one day, Saturday of Escapade.

I arrived a bit before 10:00, took the Star Trek buttons I was donating to the con's charity to the art show then dropped off a few of the fanzines I edit and publish at the Orphan Zine table before I rushed off to my first panel. But by that time -- fifteen minutes into my con day -- I had already encountered a handful of people I hadn't seen in many, many years and some I had only seen again last year after a long dry spell.

The first panel I went to was "Mainstreaming Slash", a panel that was being filmed to be used as promotional material for the convention. It was very well attended and very lively. The discussion was about how we, as slash fans/writers/artists/etc, feel about the producers and other show runners of our favorite series acknowledging slash and, in some cases, talking about slash on screen and, in yet other cases, either playing up to the slash fans or purposefully "straightening out" their characters who are slashy. It was a very interesting discussion. Concerns about the powers that be wanting to cash in on slash were mentioned as well as our proprietary leanings about slash. Some thought mainstreaming slash is inevitable, some didn't, some didn't seem to mind the idea of slash "coming out of the fandom closet", some did. Excellent panel, run by Charlotte and Megan.

The second panel I attended was "Captain America" and I attended it because I simply adore the new Marvel Universe and have always loved Cap. What I hadn't really thought of was writing slash Captain America fiction or even looking for it to read. I don't know why I hadn't thought of it, I simply didn't. But listening to people discuss the large numbers of Cap writers and the various takes on the the character of Cap and that of Bucky Barnes/The Winter Soldier really took my mind in a direction it had never gone before. I really enjoyed listening to these women who are obsessed with these characters; their enthusiasm was quite contagious.

"Say What You Mean" was the next panel I attended. This was about how to convey your intentions when giving online feedback. It was interesting but not something that brought up too many points that I hadn't already thought about quite thoroughly as a zine editor of 30 years. It was fun to listen to everyone, though.

I spent time in the Dealer's Room talking with friends and talking with friends in the halls as we encountered each other. Quite a few people attended this year who didn't last year due to the 25th anniversary so I saw people I hadn't seen in well over 10 years. As always, it's lovely to reconnect, to update contact information, to reminisce, to laugh and to cry a bit.

My last panel of the day was "Tumblr 102: Into Darkness". I attended because I have no idea how to work Tumblr and have been frightened of it! I'm still in the dark about it but some of the mystery and fear of the unknown was washed away as I tried to follow the discussion. Tech is most definitely not my thing.

More time was spent catching up with friends before the day ended with the song vid show. As always, it was great fun, despite there being several videos about fandoms I couldn't identify. A great way to end my con-going day.

Also, this convention coming so close to the loss of Leonard Nimoy was a good thing; I really needed to reconnect with fandom.

I hope to be able to attend all of the next Escapade, not just Saturday. I really have missed that sense of community, of continuity as new fans attend and bring their fresh outlook to the mix.

I think Charlotte and Megan do a shockingly excellent job running Escapade. I highly recommend it to any slash fan out there.

[Fyi: “slash” refers to fiction/art/videos and other creative undertakings based on two – or more – characters of the same sex in a sexual and/or romantic relationship. You have been warned!]

Leonard Nimoy

I've heard people say that Star Trek saved their life and, having found Star Trek when I was in a very dark place myself, I believe them. I can make this statement about myself and know in my heart just how true it is.

But I didn't come to be a fan of Leonard Nimoy via Star Trek; I became a Star Trek fan via Leonard Nimoy. When I was 19, my friend Kathie took me to see Mr. Nimoy in the play "Vincent", knowing how important Van Gogh is to me as a painter and as a human being. It was this performance that made me fall in love with Leonard Nimoy; my love affair with Spock came later.

Today, Leonard Nimoy lost his long, agonizing fight with COPD, a terrible, debilitating, energy sucking disease. For him, I can only think it is a blessing that his suffering is over. For his wife, children and the rest of his family, I understand that the blessing was to have him in your lives and, in time, that will come to be the warmth in your heart that I'm sure feels ripped away right now.

I feel blessed myself, having had the opportunity to meet him in person several times and to see him at many conventions over the years. He was a kind, generous man. I had been to many conventions in and around Los Angeles before I went to SpaceTrek 3 in St. Louis where he was a guest. I took my very treasured trade paperback copy of "I Am Not Spock" for him to autograph. He took the book as he looked up at me and said: "Hey, you came out here all the way from L.A.?" He then asked about the book because, at the time, that format of the book was nearly impossible to find. That he recognized my face -- or my unruly hair -- stunned me and had me walking on air all the way home to California. A bit later, I was at a convention in Los Angeles and had an unusual picture of him from "Marco Polo" for him to autograph. He was pleased and surprised that I had such a picture and took the time to ask why I chose it above pictures of him as Spock for him to sign. I don't recall my exact response -- I'm surprised I did more than blather -- but it was something to the tune of: "You're more than just Mr. Spock to me".

And he was. If you've seen "Vincent", then you know that Mr. Nimoy played Vincent's brother Theo van Gogh in the one-man play. It mostly consists of Theo reading letters that served as a deep communication between the brothers. You will also know how passionate Mr. Nimoy was about Vincent himself, not just the play by that title. He even did an episode of "In Search Of..." on Vincent, which remains one of my favorites of his projects.

If you haven't seen "Vincent", there are clips from it on YouTube and I think you can find the full play -- it was filmed -- on eBay or elsewhere. It's worth the search. I like to say that when I walked into the theater and realized it was "that guy who plays Mr. Spock" in "Vincent", I wasn't much impressed but that five minutes into the play, I was sitting in Leonard Nimoy's palm and that I've ever been far from that spot since.

Leonard Nimoy was more than Mr. Spock to me, though I can assure you that Mr. Spock also played a tremendous role in my life. Mr. Nimoy was a conduit between my own, private, teenage Vincent Van Gogh obsessed self and the larger world *out there*, outside myself, outside my own brain and heart. He confirmed my opinion of Van Gogh, he shared my obsession in such a way that it seemed as though he'd drawn all the love, admiration and knowledge I had for Vincent directly from my head. It was a very comforting thing to experience at such a young age.

It was only a few months after I discovered "Vincent", that I fell into the gloriously rich, life-affirming, welcoming, positive, exiting, adventurous world of Star Trek and only a few months after that that I discovered the amazing world of fandom that has given my life so much sustenance for over 30 years.

There's so much more to say about this great man who left us today to join his exceptional Self to the galactic starstuff but all I can do today is remember; finding the right words to eulogize him will come in time. For now, I am proud to say that I will continue to love Leonard Nimoy for the rest of my life, a life that he made possible by being the man he was and sharing himself with the world.

Rest In Peace, my friend. We will meet again.

The End of The Fall

Okay, here are the last 3 poems in the 22 poem cycle of "The Fall". Next post will NOT be poetry! I hope to start discussing living with chronic pain by then. Thanks for sticking with me through "The Fall"!

TWENTY: Second Cut

Is it the Abyss I see
reflected on your faces;
my own disbelief echoed
off your hearts?
How strong you are not to weep --
how brave you make me feel.
I am older now --
these years have worn me well;
I do not harden to granite
nor do I compact to lava or ice.
Your faith now warms me,
fades ancient resentments
to transparencies.
You are opaque and strong;
this time you believe the myth.
I will be Herculean in
my motion,
I will not tremble or quake
as the wound is cunningly
reopened and, once more,
the tremendous length of
healing is set to begin.

TWENTY-ONE: Facing It

On the walls,
my past watches as I
remain upright for
weeks on end;
rich colors keep vigil
from canvases I
can no longer touch.
This is a new loss;
the sacrifice of the sun.
Against the colors I
remain helpless;
I rely on time and
gravity to move me.
As I sit
encased in filaments
of sand and gauze,
I dream of brushes
and paint;
only in dreams am i
what I was.
Supported,
I walk the halls,
venture into the light.
But even now I know
what change is.
On the walls,
my paintings weep.

TWENTY-TWO: The Present

And now I walk upright,
flowing with the days,
allowing gravity to haunt me,
nightly taking measure of each step.
The Abyss looms to my right,
never quite out of reach,
out of sight.
In the Hellish wind
nightmares walk beside me;
I am falling most of all.
I breathe,
respect the placement of
each foot in the new Paris Smoke rug,
admire the pain that lingers
as pungent as fresh
garlic on my window sills.
Nothing is forgotten.
Tonight I sleep with furious dreams.
In the morning
I will wake,
I will stand,
and I will applaud each
turn of toe,
each arabesque that dusts
my careful path
along the devious trench
at my feet.

And more of The Fall

Moving on with "The Fall":

SIXTEEN: Upon Return (for my mother and father)

Your eyes are
brown and red,
mixing to a stunning
shade of sepia;
relief is the color of your vision.
From my view point
you are beautiful;
I tell you my body moves.
I remember your smiles,
imagine tears.
Later, you bring me
coolness with your joined voice;
a choir of angels
singing in my head.
For now
I will live,
for now, you will
keep me --
safe, as always,
from the edge of
the Abyss.

SEVENTEEN: Three Years

How angry I become
at this prophesied reawakening;
I am incensed at the
spinning of the Earth.
Helpless against gravity,
I buckle,
easily fold to the drag
and pressure that
adheres me to this life.
I am weary.
For several twists
I stand still,
petrified,
afraid to move,
to breathe.
For a moment I remember
stone and long to run,
to hide, to fade into
the stuff of the soil
beneath my frozen feet.
Shrugging, I sigh.
This is a well-trod path
I once again walk.
Loathing does not begin
to explain
nor despair come near
to defining resignation.

EIGHTEEN: For Granted

Shift of light,
shadow chasing bend
of back,
turn of shoulder,
sweep of arm.
Motion unfocused,
action unthought;
the body in natural splendor
parting molecules of air
in graceful dance.
Sensuous slide of
muscle over bone,
glorious extension of leg,
comforting contraction
of spine --
fetal, rest settles
perfectly in
strong sinew.
Body in simple movement --
memory's play a delight;
tease of yesterday
in wishful
musing in the midst
of exhausted night.

NINETEEN: Faltering

In starts and stops,
jerks and halts,
clumsy lurches
on rebellious limbs
move me;
no longer in the running,
I keep pace with myself now.
Ungainly,
I fall to one side,
remain hidden to watch
your glorious ballets,
graceful waltzes,
smooth salty tangos.
I walk as you dance,
shuffling steadily behind;
sorrowful bird-child,
regretting my accidental
loss of wings.

Continuing The Fall

More from the 22 part poem: The Fall. Even as I sit here, having just spoken to my doctor's office, waiting to schedule a fourth surgery to address the on-going problems with my neck. And, eventually, possibly a fifth. The reason for my physical limitations is what I'm addressing so far in the blog, how it felt to live though the injury, the long period of having no idea what was wrong with me, and past the second surgery into the dawn of the third. So much angst! But, hey, the thoughts of a fourteen year-old, even filtered through the eyes of my adult Self, the trauma was still very, very real. Now it's more of a distant happenstance that I don't think about. I'm so busy dealing with the results of the accident, that the original cause has slipped away into antique thoughts. Maybe there's still some words inside me that need expressing on the subject. But, for now, I'll leave this Long Poem to continue to tel the story:

TWELVE: One Hundred Years of War

Winding yarn in my arms
keeps the hours at bay;
casting skeins like nets only
to draw the multi-hued strands
back to my heart.
Gentle inanity to bide my time,
to keep my flinching soul rooted
to a body that rejects it every
strike of the hour.
Day.
Night.
Shifting to the left only to
jerk suddenly backward,
throwing me off balance,
trying to catch me asleep.
Day --
walking through tar and sand
to keep pace with the sun,
I drag my feet forward
refusing to rest, refusing...
Acres of yard piled at my feet
keeps the pain at bay;
a trick good only as long
as it lasts.

THIRTEEN: The Pit

How black can darkness be:
Sun burns my shoulders,
my face
as I in ch my way carefully
along the rim of the Abyss;
one shuffled step after another,
one lonely stride.
Blackness is within me --
I cannot feel the sun.
Heart strikes me down,
dragging at my mind,
biting bits of ice
from my lips,
sucking the frozen emeralds
from my eyes.
How black and emeralds see
the pit,
how deep my ind years to fall.
Sun burns the salt from my skin,
jumps harmlessly from the rim
plummeting downward,
downward to search the
bottomless cavern
from my heart.

FOURTEEN: Pills

Carousels of color
dance in your hand --
blue red yellow white
bullets of comfort
and oblivion,
lockets of salvation,
cages of despair.
Liquid flows from
your empty mouth
more easily than words;
I am deaf as well as blind.
Can't you see my hollowness
resting on the bed?
Can't you hear the hate
in my heart?
Giver of rest and illusion,
you walk these scented halls
in deviant awareness
of nothing but your cause,
your gift of lies.

FIFTEEN: First Cut

The deepest slice
touches my throat
just above my heart;
the incision is a miracle
from which I will never wake.
I know the face of finality
when its icy kiss
brushes my hair;
I will dance with angels
this night --
gladly.
The stench of antique ether clings
to my cells as strongly
as my conviction:
I am determined to die;
evil thoughts washed down
with gulps of filtered air
Valium has claimed and
maimed me;
I float through corridors
the color of mint ice.
I am the walrus...
I am a rock...
I am dying as they
strap me down and
feed me dreams.
Time is nothing of importance here,
it has no power,
no gravity holds it,
no inertia keeps it still.
All is a thick emptiness
as hours increase,
as planets spin,
as surgeons cut the poison
from my throat,
my brain,
my life.
I am determined to die
When I wake
the world is changed;
the sleeper jerks
harshly, rejoining the day.
In my confusion
a new life is born.
I am stunned
when my body revives
long withheld motion.

Happy New Year

I wish everyone a happy, healthy, prosperous new year. 2015. How'd that happen? 2014 was a wildly busy year with both blessings and more unfortunate goings on but, looking back, I will remember the beautiful wedding of my niece and her husband, Michelle and Michael and the birth of my great-great-nephew, Greyson, my nephew's oldest daughter's baby! I also moved to my lovely little bungalow last June. 2015 promises help for my health and and loads and loads of forward moving events for the family. I hope, with improved health, to get back to writing and painting. I'm loving the little drawings I've been doing but I do miss painting... and I have a commission waiting to be done (I promise to get to it, Susan B!). I also hope to get more into depth on the subject of chronic pain and how to deal with it, well, my experiences of dealing with it. It's been a long -- 41 years -- road so I think I have a few stories to tell.

But for now, back to the falling poem, there are, after all, 22 parts; if I don't continue I'll never reach the end. So, here we are, half-way through "The Fall":

EIGHT: The Second Step of Pain

Like an evil double
pain astounds me,
surrounds and engulfs me
and casts me toward stone.
I am granite and lava;
at once cold and aflame,
my core boils with ice.
Blue is the skin at my shoulder,
blue are my lips...
hewn from lapis,
my heart struggles to beat.
Opal are my eyes,
Mother,
changing, unreadable;
in water I separate into
triplets --
a double to double
my pain.
Above me, the keystone,
the burden of proof;
beside me rest rubies
and diamonds,
emeralds to replace
my disillusioned eyes.

NINE: The Battle Begins

From the high ground
cannons sound,
fro the valley
the clash of steel;
battles lost on the
killing ground of
these antiseptic corridors.
The scent of iodine
and paper gowns
rattles the pale green walls;
chrome-wheeled tables
glint florescently,
blinding me as I wait.
From the high ground
a stalemate:
no prisoners, no surrender.
In the valley,
one refugee lies
defeated at the foot of this
institutionalized mountain.

TEN: Another rejection

Time holds its breath
while the dumb rumbles
our anticipation:
how many songs have
repeated this worn theme?
Music jolts my too-still
limbs as I limp from
mirror to mirror,
finding only my
twisted twin staring back
in horror;
stone is encroaching --
I am half-gone gray.

ELEVEN: Fighting Back

Do you think me demented --
some warped child of an
isolated mind trapped
within a net of my own design?
Truly --
do you find me shaken,
twisted from my frame by
mere desire for your doting?
Better I should find my name
but dust,
blown to some lost corner
of your Hell;
better I should remain frozen in
silent fury.
Your faulty judgements
land poison on my tongue,
lay my mind exposed
to parch in the sun
Your folly is my pain,
your error, my death.

I Am No Longer Denied!

Just a quick entry here -- and jumping back to the subject of my first blog: being denied the right to vote in last month's election.

Saturday, I received a postcard from the Registrar of Voters informing me that my "case" has been decided and I am now a registered voter in Riverside County. Wow, what a mess I created by simply trying to pick up my voting material!

So, that little drama is over. More poetry posted in the next day or so!