I have never (maybe once, probably never, and I’m too lazy to go look into it) managed to write up what happened at any convention in any detail. I considered this to be a function of obligation (don’t have to so didn’t) for a long time, but I think that it’s just — cons are a kind of kaleidoscopic experience, with the number and qualities of the elements inhabiting the object cell, the size, angle and number of the reflecting mirrors, and the rotation of the object cell all changing wildly from moment to moment. That’s hard to recount, hard even to attach anything approaching stress or even sequence to after the fact.
This one isn’t much different. I’ve thirteen minutes; I’ll stretch and see if I can find a highlight.
Quote for the weekend, spake my me after suddenly hearing what I was saying and how I was saying it: “Is anyone writing this down? This strikes me as the sort of thing that, later, I’m going to wish I could remember more clearly.” Naturally, I don’t recall what I said or even what the topic was at the time.
People: Cera & Ken came to con, and for the first time EVER Cera and I had more than a rushed ten minutes to talk (well, a rushed hour). We spent a very pleasant time knocking around with them. I confirmed my earlier feelings that Ken is a Very Good Person to have around, I already KNEW that about Cera, and things just went swimmingly until gawdawful early Sunday morning.
Music: Tricky Pixie is wonderful. This is because the components are wonderful. Alec I’ve known and been fond of for ages, and has been gaining strength and power like to rival what it was when he was an as-yet unchangedling [sic], but S.J. Tucker is new to me –
–and zomg you must, must — no, really, you have to, go now — look into this lady. Her attitude is a cross between a libidinous muppet and Ani DiFranco, and her voice is every grab-my-lymbic-system sound I’ve ever heard a female make, and every last nuance of it under perfect control while sounding unforced and naked-skydiving free. And — when she grins like a Cheshire Cat she makes me check my meds to make sure I haven’t slipped a cog. That’s some sort of charismatic power of contagious surreality, that is, and I was Taken in that moment.
Deathbed: I was on mine from Sunday morning onward. I initially thought I’d overdone the drinking (which I had) and underdone the sleeping (which I had) and was generally being given What For by various different portions of my physiology. All of the things I expect from hangover weren’t in my mailbox, though, and other things were and wouldn’t go away. Nor rest nor water nor anything at all improved my lot, and I decided that next time I have to wake up with Regret I’m going to have done something really fun that has a good story in it. Around latish Sunday night the truth was manifest to me in a vision; in the dimness of my room I felt a rushing and heard the world spin beneath me and knew it for liquid rather than the firmament we are taught. The ebb flowed and whirled and the currents expressed thereby washed me from my bed and through the dimness, seeking egress through various orfices into the city’s waste system, where my mystical experience seemed much more mundane. In fact, after hours of experiencing it (well into Monday afternoon), I was positively bored with mysticism and its products.
Better now, of course, and glad of it.
Uhm. And out of time. Questions anyone? Good, then, back to work with the lot of you –
Crossposted from Epinephrine & Sophistry