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Space Races and Phalic Wars: some thoughts on the past and future of humanity

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Our Forgotten Nobility; or why humans do anything.

Humanity achieved its greatest feat---reaching out beyond the confines of our tiny planet and into the void between---because of a pissing contest. The first artificial satellite to breach our atmosphere was Russia's Sputnik. This humble little ball with a few antenna on it like whiskers ushered in a new age of human thought, reasoning and indeed evolution. But the circumstances around this monumental event in the history of the human race were for the most part rather common for our species.

Imagine; there are two mad men with all the wealth and power of the world at their fingertips. One is from the east and one from the west. They stare each other down, scowling and mean as men called  spies kill each other in the background. There is going to be a war. The world is sure of that. They just don't know when. They stare and gesticulate and act high and mighty, calling each other horrible names like children. Then one of them …

Harlan Ellison: Something Thereabouts

Let me start off by saying this isn't a eulogy. This isn't a weeping monologue about how great a man Ellison was or any of those shitty kinds of postmortem, self-aggrandizing spiel that authors, editors, writers, and readers tend to do when a master dies; no sir, this is not one of those kinds of posts. I don't have to talk on and on about the greatness, the achievement, and the high art this man created in his 84 years; the work itself says all that needs to be said. One look at Glowworm, or "Repent, Harlequin," Said the Tictockman, or A Boy and His Dog, or I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream or his editing in Dangerous Visions and Again Dangerous Visions, or his teleplays for Star Trek, the Outer Limits, the Twilight Zone---any of these will show you, without a doubt, the genius and the art of this man. And that's how we should all remember him. As an artist forever at the forefront of his craft, never taking bullshit, denying all idiots and users, a man of l…

Shouting in the Dark

“A reservoir of darkness, black
As witches’ cauldrons are, when fill’d
With moon-drugs in th’ eclipse distill’d.           
Leaning to look if foot might pass
Down thro’ that chasm, I saw, beneath,
As far as vision could explore,
The jetty sides as smooth as glass,
Looking as if just varnish’d o’er
With that dark pitch the Sea of Death
Throws out upon its slimy shore.”

            -Thomas Moore


This blog, and most blogs for that matter, has much in common with my chosen bit of insanity and obsession. For one thing, they achieve basically the same amount of success; that is to say, little if any. For another they both work in the same way. I am a lone man shouting in the darkness around me, hoping someone will listen. Whether that be in the field of short story writing or just this little place with a weird name, I, and many like me, are just strangers in the dark hoping---begging, let's be honest---for attention. Fore some that darkness is only a short hike round the bend while for others…