Scarlett Letters

I was never a particular fan of Tom Petty, an unpretty man who made good music, but his death has made an unexpected impact on me. It's been--what--two or three days since the news came of his heart attack and the slow wait for his passing, and I find myself still thinking about it. When Bowie died, I was heartbroken; I'd listened to his music obsessively at one point. I saw him in concert several times and he was brilliant. The glam era made its impact on me in a significant way. Petty's music was present, but far less important to me. Nevertheless, somehow, I'm moved by his departure. It was part of the musical landscape around me. So here are a couple of things that stick with me.

First, I remember seeing Petty's video of Don't Come Around Here No More. I remember watching it on MTV, back when it was actually a music video channel. The video was hallucinogenic, using images out of Alice in Wonderland, weird and vaguely disturbing. I've only seen that video maybe twice, but I remember it more clearly than many others I've seen over the years. It made an impression.

Second, I remember hearing "American Girl" on the radio and loving it. When it showed up as flavor text in "The Silence of the Lambs," I thought its use was both perfect and yet a little too on the nose, something that had nothing to do with Petty himself, but was still sort of a defining moment, in that use of such a recognizable song was shorthand to communicate who this girl was. She was everyone's daughter, unprepared for what was coming. Only a great musician could produce something so iconic, so economical and so effective.

"Free Fallin'" seemed to just show up for me, without any particular association. It's got one of the great hooks of rock'n'roll. I feel the same way about "Refugee," another song with a great hook. This one, though, held resonance for me. Still does.

And then there was his performance after 9/11 on "America: A Tribute to Heroes." He sang "I Won't Back Down" and I've never seen such burning rage in anyone's eyes before. At least, that's how I remember it; maybe I was seeing my own anger in him. His delivery was laconic as always, but the intensity in his expression was nearly unbearable. I've never forgotten it. And in a way, I was grateful for it. He was speaking for all of us.

So that was Petty's presence in my life. Why such an impact? I dunno. Maybe I wasn't aware of how hard I was listening at the time. But I was listening.

The to-do list: I made a "To do" list this morning. It has 16 things on it. I've done four. They were time-consuming, but they are done. I still, however, am staring 12 things to do in the face. I am comforted by the fact that some of these things are things I can't do on a Sunday. Some require leaving the house (I'm still in my nightshirt and sweats [see time stamp]). And apparently I needed an epic nap today (three hours). So of the things that require neither leaving the house nor doing on a Sunday, that leaves only eight things. I, um, ought to get right on those.

Halloween: Attended the one and only Halloween party to which I was invited last night. (Well, two, actually, but the first one was more of a stop-and-hop.) It was . . . not quite what I expected, but that's OK. I wore the black leather halter top with a white peasant shirt, black leggings and black leather boots, and called myself a generic fantasy villain. If I work in the office tomorrow, I have a different costume planned. Will I do my annual Halloween post here? We'll see. I don't believe I did one last year. Hm.

Sophie: Sophie has developed some unfortunate bathroom habits. I'm going to call the vet on Monday to get her checked for UTI and possible referral to a behaviorist. This CANNOT go on. At the same time, I find myself wondering if she is keying off of my own personal distress. If that's the case, this might go on for a while.

Exercise: This weather (dark, cold, rainy, wolves) is not encouraging me to exercise. Tonight, I'm going to try on every piece of workout clothing in the house, pack my gym bag, and hit the gym at the office. The price is right (free) and it's stupid not to take advantage of it.

David Delamare: My friend WI has made it public, so I wanted to make a note of the passing of her incredibly gifted husband, artist/musician/writer David Delamare. Wendy, David and I have been acquaintances for years, but we'd only begun to really get to know each other in the last two years or so. I was one of the proofer/editors on their Alice in Wonderland project, something I was delighted to be a part of. When I learned of his death about a month ago, it was a shock because it was so completely unexpected. My prevailing feeling is one of disappointment because, as we'd been getting to know each other, I was discovering how much we had in common and how wonderful it would be to get David's perspective on things we both enjoyed. Wendy's mourning for David has in many ways been more of a celebration of his life, and so I am following suit, remembering our brief friendship and trying to pursue my own arts in whatever way I can to honor him.

1) Here in Seattle this morning, it is, in fact, raining like the Biblical flood is coming. Here's the thing: Seattle rain isn't usually torrential. Usually, it's mist or drizzle that just lasts and lasts. Actual, umbrella-requiring rain happens rarely here. Our volume comes from duration, not saturation. So to wake up to the sound of hard rain on the roof (and the balcony, and the pavement in the courtyard) is unusual. I am not looking forward to braving the storm to get to work.

2) Zeke has been super-needy lately. I have to play with him all the time. I wake up to him snuggling and kneading me, which then requires petting and scritching until he settles down to sleep. It's made it hard to give cuddle- and playtime to Sophie. I dislike his monopolizing my time. He's gotten very possessive and I have no idea why or what's going on. I want some time with my girl and need to figure out a way to get it.

3) Next week is the final measure for the bathroom renovation. It means that work will start within 2-3 weeks. I'm excited about this; it's been a long time coming and when it's done, I'll have a lovely new bathroom--with real tile and everything. Right now, that bathroom has linoleum and one of those one-piece shower-stall insets. And the shower surround is safety glass, with visible wire running through the panes. It's not ugly per se, but no one could call it pretty. It will be more attractive when it's done, and far more usable overall, I think.

4) I am reading Marie Brennan's Voyage of the Basilisk, the third volume in her Memoirs of Lady Trent series, and enjoying it quite a bit. I like her dragonologist and her rich world descriptions. It's a fast read and an engaging one.

5) Passages: The news of editor David Hartwell's death has spread like wildfire through the science fiction and fantasy community. Though I didn't know him well, and had mixed feelings about our few encounters, there's no question he was a major influence in the field and leaves behind him a legacy of novelists and editors whose careers were made or changed as a result of his work. Respect.

My cousin Paul passed away yesterday. The cause was pancreatic cancer. He was 71.

Paul was my father's sister's son. He was 17 years older than me, so we didn't really know each other growing up. He became a doctor, served in Vietnam as a doctor. He became a specialist in what the profession calls electrophysiology, but what we think of as pacemakers. He had 104 pacemaking patents to his credit, published more than 20 peer-reviewed papers, and became not just an educator on the subject but actually wrote the test for others to qualify. He was known all over the world. As a member of the Heart Rhythm Society, he initiated the Honor Your Mentor program to honor those who have made a difference in the electrophysiology profession. His work helps keep my friend varina8 alive and healthy, along with so many others. He was married twice. His first wife, Lucille, kept him focused on her family, so we didn't see much of him over the years at all. He was devoted to his god daughters. After Lucille passed away, he began to reconnect with our family. It was a joy to see him remarried last year to a lovely woman named Susan, whom I hope to keep in my life. She brought him back to us, and I hate that she had him for so short a time.

Paul's great passion, besides his wives and his work, was butterflies. As a boy, he caught, pinned and framed them. As a man, he traveled the world to photograph them and share his pictures and his knowledge with others. He became a docent at the Placerita Canyon Nature Center and he loved the work.

He was a gentle man with a big heart. It's only within the last couple of years that we got to know each other at all. And now he's gone. There wasn't enough time.

davidlevine said to me once that fannish friendships are years long and weekends deep. That describes a number of friendships for me, but especially so my friendship with Peggy Rae, whom I just learned via Facebook that we lost yesterday. I met Peggy Rae at one of the Baltimore conventions. I'm pretty sure it was Balticon; it might have been a Worldcon. It was so long ago now--before I moved to Seattle--that my memory is uncertain. But we met, we made a pretty instant connection, and then we'd see each other at conventions whenever we could. She was ebullient, was Peggy Rae, enthusiastic, always interested and interesting. Generous. Empathetic. Funny. Marvelously capable, she chaired WorldCons and participated in convention-running like no one else. She helped build the science fiction community in a way not a lot of other folks have done.

My memories of her are not specific, partly because my memory is pretty lousy, and partly because Peggy Rae was always an emotional experience for me. A cloud of good feeling and fun. We saw each other at some convention in the last couple of years; I don't remember which one. It may have been OryCon or Norwescon. She invited me then to contribute a story to the World Fantasy anniversary anthology. I told her that most of my published short fiction that I was really, truly proud of was more SF and horror than fantasy and she said she didn't care; she just wanted me in there, so I sent her a contribution which she enthusiastically accepted. More recently, we were talking about getting together at this year's Potlatch. Then she announced that she was going in for heart surgery, specifically a valve transplant.

I realized earlier last week that I hadn't heard from her or her husband John and sent along a note to find out how she was doing. This morning, I saw the news that she'd passed away; apparently she'd never properly recovered from the surgery. Peggy Rae was such a big force in fandom, chairing conventions and just being this amazing, loving presence. Her loss is huge in the community.

I was so looking forward to seeing her at Potlatch. When that didn't work out, we said we'd see each other at WorldCon. I'm so sad about her death. Even though we saw each other maybe once a year, maybe for just an hour or two, I'm going to miss her. Weekends deep, but decades long.

ETA: John Scalzi eulogizes Peggy Rae at Whatever.

I've never read a Terry Pratchett book. I know, I know. You don't have to say it. I never had the privilege of meeting the man. Here's what I want to say about his passing. My Facebook and LiveJournal feeds are full of anecdotes about him. They are part personal experience with him and part reminiscence about reading his work, about the joy his work brought, about how smart and funny it is, about how smart and funny and kind he was.

First, if any of us are remembered with even half the love and goodwill this man is, we will have done life right in a manner of which we can be proud. Second, I find it extraordinary that I'm fortunate enough to travel in a circle blessed with his presence and with personal reminiscences about him. How lucky are my friends to have even had a passing moment with him! Of the millions of readers who mourn his passing only as a name on a book cover, how lucky are we few to have been in such close proximity. What a fortunate community we share.

Respect, Sir Terry. You did it right. And yes, I promise, I'll read your work. Should have done it sooner.

“I meant," said Ipslore bitterly, "what is there in this world that truly makes living worthwhile?"
Death thought about it.
CATS, he said eventually. CATS ARE NICE.”
― Terry Pratchett, Sourcery

So . . . jaylake died yesterday. A lot of pixels have been spilled in memoriam. I posted some words at Facebook, loving words in praise of my friend, my occasional lover--that was year and years ago now, and I know I'm not alone in this particular distinction by any means--a brilliant man. (Find those words below, written within hours of his death.) He was also an infuriating man: kind, vain, hilarious, oblivious, egotistical, generous, angry, affectionate, childish, maddening. A frustrating, entertaining, crazy-making, inventive man. An imperfect person by anyone's definition--and by his own admission, to his credit. (Thus speaketh the most imperfect of people, I must note, in justice.)

I have been in pieces over the last day. Fine until I had to talk about his passing, and then a mess, and then fine again.

My feelings about his departure are complex. I'm grateful that he was with his closest loved ones in death. I'm relieved on his behalf that cancer, this miserable disease, no longer tortures him with its slow stripping of his mind and his capabilities. I weep in losing him. How can I not, when we have the kind of history we had with each other?

He was my beloved friend. For every good and blessed thing we shared, for differences in perspective, for being close and being distant and being close again, we were first and foremost friends.

I mourn my friend, and I will miss him.
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Here's what I posted to Facebook, describing Jay to a friend who never knew him, who barely had ever even heard of him:

Jay was a remarkable person. The two of you came from such different parts of my life: let me tell you about him. Not only was he an award-winning science fiction and fantasy writer (Google him, really), he blogged about his journey through colon cancer with a frankness that was bracing and breathtaking. He gained a huge following for his blogging--almost as large if not larger--than for his beautifully wrought fiction. He was ferociously, blasphemously funny, a fierce and generous friend, an intensely thoughtful man. He loved women. [ETA: As many as he could, as often as possible.] He was unabashedly political and unapologetically outspoken about the things he believed in. In science fiction circles, he was known for being not just a gifted writer but a terrific editor and a mentor for writers coming up. He supported all of his friends in the endeavors of their hearts, whether it was writing or illustration or any other art form. He loved living and lived loud and with enormous brio. Our friendship was long and loving and complex--but never, ever boring. I knew I could count on Jay if I needed him. It is not too dramatic to say that a light has gone out of this world. He shined so bright that I--that we all--had to wear shades.
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Please keep Jay's partner, Lisa, Jay's daughter, the_child, and his family in your thoughts. And if you're so inclined, please donate in his honor to The Jo Clayton Memorial Fund. It helped Jay when he needed it; he wanted it to help others in their times of need as well.

It's been that kind of week-and-a-half. I posted briefly about the death of my brilliantly gifted cousin St. Martins VP Matt Shear while I was in New York. While I was traveling, we all received the wonderful news that mrdorbin and southplains became the fathers of a beautiful baby girl. And then this week, in rapid succession, we lost both the brilliant and gentlemanly author Frederik Pohl and the brilliant, ebullient, and fierce author and author's advocate Ann Crispin. When mortality hits, it hits hard.

I'm grateful to have known, even at a warm-acquaintance distance, Ann Crispin. My introduction to her work was inauspicious. I received her book, Yesterday's Son, as a gift from my cousin Eric, who wasn't fond of her as a person (they were coworkers) but who knew I was a Star Trek fan. She autographed the book to me for him, nevertheless, but he colored my initial perception of her with his presentation. When I finally met her, she was a large, enthusiastic, energetic presence, and I liked her despite my conditioning. That conditioning rapidly dissipated. We were ever close? No. But because her energy was infectious and her smile immediate, every meeting was like meeting an old friend all over again. The last time I saw her, I ran into her completely unexpectedly at the Museum of Natural History in NYC a couple of Christmases ago. We chatted quickly and with great energy in that massively confused crowd, and I regretted that the visit was so brief. I'm glad to have had it at all.

I met Fred Pohl at the very first Foolscap. He was there as one of the two guests of honor. (The other was Ginjer Buchanan, creating an automatic theme for the weekend.) He was gracious to everyone, generous with his time, and he dazzled this fan, who had read his novel Gateway (and the other Heechee books) very early on in her history as an SF reader.

I haven't said much about Matthew's death because it's a complicated thing for me. Matt was my first cousin and, like all my cousins but one, older than me--some by a decade and more. As adults, the age difference shouldn't have made a difference, but as children, 6 years was an uncrossable chasm. And so, growing up, I suspect he always thought of me as a kid, and I always thought of him as part of the older-cousin cohort. It meant that our relationship was well-intentioned but not close. The peculiar thing is that it might have been and never was. He was already an officer at Bantam when I started in publishing. I never talked about our relationship with coworkers because I wanted my career to be my own, and I didn't spend any time with him for the same reason. But given that we both loved books and the business, we might have been closer. It just . . . never happened. My family had started to disintegrate after my mother's death. With the death of Matt's father (my mother's brother) it shattered completely. Once I left for Seattle, my only ties were my brother and my cousin E--and that's pretty much how it stayed. So when I got the news of Matthew's death from a publishing friend--and I happened to be in New York--I knew I had to go to the funeral to pay my respects and try to reconnect with that side of the family.

I did not anticipate the welcome I received. My aunt dissolved into tears when she saw my brother and me. My cousin S, Matt's sister, did as well, saying that I looked about 16. I was moved in ways I hadn't expected. After the service, my aunt and my cousin and I spent hours talking. In the end, though Matt and I weren't close, he brought me back to family.

I have a lot more I want to say about all this, but I have more processing to do. I don't know how things are going to play out with that side of the family from here. I hope we can continue to be in touch. My aunt is in her early 80s and at this point I suspect her time is limited though she looks good and seems to get around well. My cousin S and I have lived very different lives, but I want to try to find some commonality with her.

Like I said, I have more thinking to do. Mortality will do that to you.

It must be convention hangover and the weather. I don't want to see anyone or do anything. And Roger Ebert has died, which dims the world's light in general.

I'm having a hard time right now expressing myself about much of anything--which is annoying because I actually have a number of things I want to write about. (That plus the fact that I wrote two thirds of a long LJ entry that appears to have been lost in email, about which I'm mightily frustrated.) I'm pretty sure it's because the weather has turned gray, cloudy, and rainy. I kind of hate bus commuting in the rain. And I need some time under a full-spectrum light. Or the sun. Whichever comes first.

Part of it, I think, is that last night Zeke knocked over a pile of stuff that included copies of the program I created for markbourne's life celebration. It's the first time I've looked at it in a year. It's full of everyone else's writing, not mine, mainly because I couldn't find words to express anything I was feeling about Mark's death. I still can't--no words, just tears still. But I put it together. I chose the content. I did what I do best in honor of him: I edited. I guess that's something anyway.

It occurred to me yesterday, after writing about Jack Klugman, that I failed to note a number of notable deaths this year. This is by no means a complete list but rather a list of famous people whose deaths I noticed that were of some significance to me somehow. They're also people whose deaths I didn't note at the time. We're seeing a particular generation pass--the entertainers of the 1960s and 1970s--and it does make one pause. Feel free to comment or share those who've passed this year that you noticed in particular.

(It occurs to me, as I review this list, that I watched a lot of TV when I was a kid. A lot.)

Ravi Shankar: The second rock concert I ever attended was George Harrison's Dark Horse tour. I was, I think, around 12 or 13 years old, certainly no more than that. Shankar opened for Harrison and, while I didn't really understand his music, I did understand that I was hearing something different and that Shankar was doing something important. That something was introducing world music to the west, something for which I'm quite glad.

Larry Hagman: The heck with Dallas. My brother and I were children of the Space Age, and a big part of that experience was growing up with Major Nelson and his sexy genie Jeannie. The idea that astronauts had anything like normal lives outside of their space capsules, that this was a job someone could actually do, was a new idea to me, even if it was introduced by a ridiculous, sexist sitcom. Still, there it was. We watched "I Dream of Jeannie" faithfully as geek kids with an interest in science and space; it was, weirdly, a show that continued to foster our interest, and Hagman was the astronaut who came home over and over again. (It was also the first show I can remember watching and waiting for the central couple to kiss. And waiting. And waiting.)

Neil Armstrong: The real deal. I remember watching his first steps on the moon on TV in black and white. I remember thinking, even at such a young age, that his words as he stepped into the regolith were clever and appropriate. He helped demonstrate what we were capable of as Americans, as humans.

Phyllis Diller: Though her comedy was never really to my taste, I remember her braying laugh and her crazy looks on everything from The Tonight Show to Hollywood Squares to all the talk shows that aired in my youth. She broke a lot of ground for the women comics who followed her.

Helen Gurly Brown: Editor of Cosmo for something like 30 years, she changed the appearance and content of women's magazines. For better (or worse, depending upon your perspective) she made many of them what they are today--more about what women wanted and how they could have it than about what men thought women ought to be. I can't help but be grateful for her contributions to the women's revolution.

Sherman Hemsley: George Jefferson--another break-out television character who helped to change things in the media. But I thought Hemsley was terrific no matter what he appeared in. One of my favorite episodes of the '80s Twilight Zone starred him and Ron Glass, an 8-minute vignette that still makes me smile. (And you can see it on YouTube.)

Sally Ride: The first American woman in space. We are strong. We are invincible. We are Woman.

Davy Jones: The first band of which I was ever a fan was The Monkees, and Davy Jones the first pop singer I ever had a crush on. It was a baby crush; I was practically a baby. But it was a rite of passage as surely as discovering The Beatles was a few years later. (I was a child of television--of course I discovered The Monkees first; I had no idea they were take-off on this obscure British band. ::grin::)

Robert Hegyes: Juan Epstein on "Welcome Back Kotter." My brother and I watched the show faithfully, and Juan Epstein, the Puerto Rican Jew (who made much more sense to a kid from New York than he probably did to people outside the tri-state area), was my favorite sweathog. Vinnie Barbarino was kind of a moron. Epstein, somehow, had something else, at least for me.

Other people whose passing I noticed but don't bear quite as much weight for me include Ernest Borgnine, Andy Griffith (everyone wanted an Aunt Bea), Richard Dawson (I watched Family Feud from early on), and Dick Clark (between American Bandstand and Rockin' New Year's Eve, he was ever-present).