#I too want to become fossils after snoozing

[noxvigil]

mood

Girls will say "I just need to lie down for a little while" and then sink into a muddy river and get all their hard.tissues replaced with mineral deposits

[rockpapercynic]

A little life update.

Yesterday, after his five-month bout with cancer, I said goodbye to Tommy, my beloved basset hound, ringbearer, travelling companion and best friend.

Tommy was already a senior when he came into my life at the age of nine—the oldest of a group of five bassets rescued from the worst backyard breeder that the rescue had seen in their decades of work. Fresh off a tail-amputation surgery to remove a follicle cancer tumour so big he couldn't wag his tail anymore, and still on roundworm medication, he burst into our lives and claimed a spot on the couch like this was the home he always knew he'd find.

Despite the abuse he'd been through, Tommy was kindness incarnate: impossibly pure, loyal, loving and gentle. Even dogs with histories of aggression and kids with a fear of dogs felt comfortable around him. So many times, other dog owners told me "My dog likes him, and my dog doesn't like ANYONE." On one walk, two separate strangers stopped me to implore me to "treasure" and "cherish" Tommy and a neighbour and close friend unprompted called him "too pure for this world." Even last week I heard someone yell in surprise and delight as I carried Tommy down the stairs because she'd mistaken him for a literal teddy bear.

Tommy helped our older basset Roxy live longer by becoming her little brother and bringing out her competitive big-sister edge, and he never begrudged her getting more of our love and attention as her age and needs increased. When we lost Roxy to cancer in 2015, Tommy helped us through the grieving and healing process and we really got to see his explorer's personality come out.

At the age of 13, he joined us on our 8,000-kilometre road trip to be the ringbearer at our wedding on Vancouver Island. He made it right to the end of the Trans Canada Highway in Tofino, wandered through ancient cedar forests and log tunnels and ran along beaches in BC, charmed a comfort food restaurant owner in Elkhorn, Manitoba into giving him a bowl of ham and scalloped potatoes, wandered through the hoodoos, and looked out over Horsethief Canyon in Drumheller, Alberta.

His adventures took us far and wide. He travelled by train, subway, streetcar, bus, car, ferry and airplane. He spent an eight-hour day walking around Halifax with us. He joined us hunting for fossils in Joggins on beaches where Darwin walked. He dipped his paws in both oceans. He was August in the Basset Hound Rescue's 2018 fundraising calendar and made cameos in many other months.

He was also patient as a loving older sibling to five foster brothers and sisters who stayed with us for as long as eight months. Despite the fact that he was getting on in years, he made room in his quiet home for five very different and variously loud personalities who, just like Tommy, all came from their own difficult backgrounds and particular needs.

When he was diagnosed with an aggressive osteosarcoma in July, he was given one to three months to live. We were told there was a 0% chance he'd be fit enough to travel with us to England in the fall, even if he lasted that long. Tommy had other plans. With each subsequent vet visit, his oncologist was shocked to find that Tommy was getting healthier and his lungs were clearing themselves of fluid when that should be impossible.

By November, well past the most wildly optimistic lifespan estimates, he had recovered to the point that he was cleared for air travel by two different vets.

And so we made a new home together in London, England, explored the city, walked Hampstead Heath and Waterlow Park, ate crepes, and met some jolly English bassets. Having him around on my 30th birthday in November meant absolutely everything to me, and staying in to celebrate Christmas and New Year's Eve with him was an absolute gift. I wish the miracle of his good health could have gone on forever, but he stopped eating in early January and in the last couple days his breathing became increasingly laboured. We kept him comfortable as long as we possibly could before making arrangements to say goodbye.

Words fall so short of expressing what it means for him to be gone. There's no word for how wrong it feels to stretch out in bed without worrying about disturbing his gentle snoozing position (always broadside across the bed taking up all the room). There's no word for the length of time we wait to put his water bowl away, or wash his little red hoodie with all his sleepy smells in it.

It's going to take a good long while to figure out how not to be a blubbering mess, but if there's something that Tommy taught me, it's that love is a messy, stinky, drooling thing that helps itself up on the couch and eats out of the compost. And saying goodbye is much the same way.

I haven't posted a new comic since Tommy was diagnosed, and there are a lot of reasons for that. Part of it was wanting more time with Tommy. Part of it was just needing a break. And there's a lot more going on with the comic right now that I still can't talk about for a host of complicated reasons.

But I'm still here. I'm doing the best job I can to take care of myself, and I hope to be back at it before too long. But there are still some hurdles to jump before I can bring the funnies back.

Thanks for all your patience and kindness,

-Peter (the Rock Paper Cynic guy)

[aion-rsa]

An Evolution of Dragon Stories: Dragonslayer by Duncan M. Hamilton

https://ift.tt/2YvaidS

We look at how Dragonslayer by Duncan M Hamilton fits into the long-running fantasy subgenre involving dragons.

facebook

twitter

tumblr

When Guillot is tasked with slaying the last of the dragons in Duncan M. Hamilton's Dragonslayer, the first in a planned fantasy trilogy, the character is way past his prime. All bets should be on the dragon, but a semblance of that knightly duty remains—even though Guillot struggles with alcoholism and is actively thwarted by someone high in power, there's tension in the narrative. Could Guillot actually win?

read more: Ruin of Kings is Must-Read Epic Fantasy

Knights and dragons -- it’s a tale as old as fiction and mythology. The traditional sort of dragon—winged, fire breathing—was popularized in the Middle Ages, the most famous story being St. George slaying the dragon. That story was immortalized in a Raphael painting, circa 1506, titled "Saint George and the Dragon," that now resides in the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC.

Dragons have been an enduring story and iconography throughout history. You’re hard pressed to find a culture without a dragon or dragon-like entity. Ancient China, Sumeria, Nepal, Tibet... even the Aztec had a dragon-like creature woven into their iconography. A fantastical creature possibly derived from a combination of imagination and seeing real creatures like crocodiles, or in some cases finding fossilized dinosaur bones, the dragon is something as universal as the act of telling stories.

Dragons were thought of as creatures to be overcome by the most gallant and saintly, and thus you can hardly see a story involving a knight without a scaly, fire-spouting foe. Even though the book The Story of King Arthur and His Knights, published in 1903, didn’t contain any dragons, the many variations on that tale since have often incorporated the creature as something for King Arthur’s knights to surmount. By the time we get to the BBC’s Merlin, the wise yet destructive dragon was such an important part of the narrative, he was voiced by none other than British acting icon John Hurt.

read more: Adventure Zone Returns With Murder on the Rockport Limited!

We’ve seen the image of the dragon take a decidedly friendlier turn. Perhaps the beginnings of this could be seen in Anne McCaffrey’s Dragonriders of Pern series published in 1967. There, the series was science fiction instead of the usual fantasy, because the dragons were genetically engineered. It made McCaffrey the first women to win a Hugo Award, and spawned a rich fandom in which fans "play" Pern, creating original characters to inhabit the fictional world.

In movies, we’ve seen Pete the Dragon (1977 and 2016) and Dragonheart (1996), both unabashed family romps that basically give the character a magical best friend. The Inheritance Cycle, a book series by Christopher Paolini, also played on the dragon-riding fun, and was eventually made into a lackluster movie.

Not all dragons had to be series either. Ever read Myth Adventures by Robert Asprin, published from 1978 to 2002? Because you should. The main character has a pet dragon called Gleep who only says the word “gleep.”

History is cyclical. What’s old becomes new again. As you might have noticed, dragons have returned to popular fiction in recent years as their fearsome selves—most notably the Cumber-beast Smaug in The Hobbit, Daenerys’s besties in Game of Thrones (both adaptations of books published in 1937 and 1996, respectively.)

read more: The Fork, the Witch, and the Worm — Checking in on Christopher Paolini's Eragon

The kids get How to Train Your Dragon’s Toothless. The grown ups with an HBO Go password get what happens if you don’t train your dragon to be a big puppy. The shift from monster to friend to monster again—it’s paralleled in fiction's exploration of other fantastical creatures, like vampires, werewolves, etc. (I have yet to hear of any angsty sparkling dragons and, if there are some, feel free not to share them. Some things are meant to be slain.)

We’ve had fantastic stories told that resonate with an audience long after the last pages or last episodes have aired. You still hear shows like The Sopranos and Breaking Bad mentioned -- these shows broke down the usual expectations about gangsters and drug dealers and created quality entertainment. We’re seeing that in our fantasy and science fiction, too. A classic foe—the dragon—can return to fiction and represent an audience’s need for more than just a good guy fighting a bad monster.

Reinvention has kept old stories and concepts fresh. Take for example, the bold brash action in the Amazon Prime series The Boys. Gone are the usual tenets of a hero’s compulsion to seek justice. Instead we get a super violent, ugly view of a corporatized hero system designed to sell movies and stuff and pander to the American dream while sweeping accidental and wrongful deaths under the rug.

When speaking to Den of Geek about his creative process, author Duncan M. Hamilton explained: “For the dragons, I leaned toward real myths and legends as a starting point, then embellished to my own taste as I went.” That embellishment created more than just a monster of legend, but a being with a rich inner life that allowed the reader to take a peek inside his head for a few chapters.

read more: Contemporary Fantasy Meets Noir in Magic For Liars

In many ways, Dragonslayer represents a return to the classic story of a gallant knight riding into battle against a fire-breathing beast. What it does well is the fact that our hero is hardly suited for the task anymore, and that our dragon is even questioning his own motives. In Dragonslayer, chapters take turns seeing from Guillot the knight’s point of view, the sorceress he befriends, his human adversary, and the dragon himself. From each character’s perspective, we see their wants and needs, their motivations and the dangers they face. We empathize, even, when faced with the adversaries of the hero. Even when that adversary is a great scaly beast.

Hamilton told us: “I think being able to empathize with the dragon makes for a far more compelling story.” It does. Looking at the dragon in a new light also helps illuminate how special our protagonist is. Guillot is not a knight in shining armor. He was, once, but he’s let himself go. He’s almost reprehensible, wasting away his days as a drunkard and a nuisance to his town, languishing in his bad memories.

Guillot often bemoans his ineptitude in the beginning, even feeling guilty when the sorceress thanks him for rescuing her from certain death: “The praise made Gill feel uncomfortable. He was a drunk who had pissed his life away because things hadn’t gone his way. He thought about admitting that he had still been drunk when he’d rescued her, but couldn’t bring himself to say it.”

But when the call to action comes, he answers, even if he begrudges being out of shape and out of practice. In this way, Guillot is more like the reader than many heroes in classic fantasy stories. Once a skilled swordsman, he’s woefully out of practice, and rides forth believing full well that this could be his end.

read more: K.A. Doore on The Perfect Assassin

Add to this the search for a relic that may be even more important than anyone realizes. This relic ends up having a deep significance to Guillot, something that he and his allies won’t realize right away until the pieces start falling together with each new discovery. And who happens to have that relic in their claws? I think you might see how this all ties together... 

Alliances are made, promises broken, secret histories revealed—and it all revolves around the discovery of a dragon waking up from a long snooze. 

Taking something old and making it new again—it’s a way to show familiar ideas but make them fresh. It’s an opportunity to explore new territory. Hamilton certainly accomplishes this in Dragonslayer.

Bridget LaMonica is a contributor at Den of Geek. Read more of her work here or follow her on Twitter @BridgetLaMonica.

Read and download the Den of Geek SDCC 2019 Special Edition Magazine right here!

facebook

twitter

tumblr

Feature Bridget LaMonica

Jul 31, 2019

Tor Books

Fantasy Books

from Books https://ift.tt/2MtKGM8

[mothkraft]

Misunderstandings (this title according to the .doc name)

(You know this is old because I reference the now ex PM Davey boy mc ‘i’m gonna hold a referendum because an internal party squabble’....yeah...this is freakin old fic)  

 Francis just turned his head to see the Englishman’s form still resting and sleep induced. The light seeped through the thin curtains enough to make the other’s body seem to glow.

 He loved brief moments like this, Arthur still dozing, tired from last nights activities (doing how many cubic yards of paperwork provided by that lovely, hateful, annoying moron of a political leader, whose name happen to rhyme with Cavid Dameron, and then his drowsiness leading to an uneventful collapse onto the bed in which the Briton fell asleep rather too quickly for Francis’ liking, wishing to relax the other…though that was admittedly a loss) left him totally vulnerable, though not in that manner. It just left said man looking so…peaceful and docile, looking like someone who had utter peace of mind when they slept…though that was unlikely no matter how much he thought about.

 There was something about Arthur’s body that meant it retained such archaic marks over his body. Maybe it was the sheer diversity of his nation, which meant it was for his remembrance, to show all of the variety.

 England, the land itself rather than the man sleeping beside him, had always had a certain attraction to it. The temperate weather, which didn’t always rain, but was enough for the soil to remain healthy, and for flora to grow. The once spacious landscape (though now mostly taken by intruding towns and soon-to-be-built major roads and such) with (once) lush terrain. The fact that it seemed great for agriculture, and that it was stable location for defending one’s self. Perhaps that is why so many sought it as their own, he played his own part of course, old Bill wanting the crown. The constant Viking invasions from Scandinavia, like Cnut. Or even older civilisations like Rome conquering the land…

 Perhaps all of that made Arthur himself more appealing, just an air of that attraction from his younger days that remained with him. That or the fact that Francis had always been fond of the Briton, the one who ran scared of him at first, fearing similar treatment that he received from his brothers from Francis. The one who grew by his side, slowly, steadily, before fighting to become his own small island. The one who grew to have naval supremacy, thwarting his foes with a cruel demeanour…(though he was glad the man lying next to him was far gentler than the ruthless pirate he had once faced).

Just looking at the alabaster skin, with the few freckles here and there, and seeing the slender outline of the Brit was nice, though he had thought that for a long time anyway. Arthur’s skin was rather pale in comparison to the mainland European nations

It had become this way after the Black Death swept over the island without mercy. True, most of Europe was affected but he never regained the colour of vitality after that; but if anything it just added entirely to the country. That pale complexion mixed with the young yet so ancient body.

 He still had old scars from previous battles, even ones from centuries ago. Yes all nations healed faster, but where wounds heal, scars remain.

 Francis moved Arthur closer, wanting more contact with the other, said man staying silent and patient.

 He ghosted a hand over old scars as he gently examining them like they were old fossils, in a sense they were, after all they were reminders of history long passed.

 A hand paused over the other’s chest, visibly seeing the large patch of healed yet marred skin. The centre-left had been entirely ravished ever since the Great Fire of London, though geographically a Capital city may be located anywhere, it always represents the heart of the nation. The skin still looked like recent burn, but had paled over the years. Within that large burn were more scars, tatters and rips from the (considerably recent in comparison) London Blitz. It tore Arthur apart. Though it wasn’t just London that had suffered, scars still remained all over the pale skin. Arthur always wasn’t present during the Blitz, but presence is irrelevant when you are bound to your homeland. He remembered the vicious sight, of Arthur cringing over, struggling to breathe, body twisting, writhing in pain…vast quantities of blood weeping out of wounds ripping across his chest…they weren’t fond ones, but were unforgettable.

 The Frenchman’s fingers travelled upwards towards Arthur’s neck. An ever so faint line ran across, all around it.

 It took a few moments of thinking back through old memories connect this one to the other’s heritage. He guessed, that with the death of the monarchy, and Cromwell’s rule for though brief years, the beheading of his King had too left the same scar on him. It was now almost invisible, unimportant, but everything mark is part of their history.

 Francis too had scars, notably one down his left side where the battle raged on the Western Front during the Great War. The Battles of the Somme took much from him. He had a similar line across his neck, rather he did…the French Revolution did end with many heads being disposed of…after all it required a whole new invention to chop them off more efficiently. Some he had received from the Englishman himself, some that Arthur had, were from him too. He was glad now there was peace between their two countries…it made their relationship more stable, suitable as well…Nations after all can love of their own will, whether the politics may not be so great…but leaders tend to disapprove with fraternising with the enemy, or in their case flirting and even fucking the enemy.

  He looked again thinking to himself. He amused himself at his thoughts. It seemed that many thought that England was actually…feminine, and that amused him. Perhaps ever so slightly androgynous, maybe, but Arthur was too rich in culture, pride, strength, to be considered feminine. Who cared if he had seen the other sewing in a meeting out of boredom, apparently Russia knitted anyway...Arthur too had his habits of tending his garden like it was the most beloved thing on Earth (sometimes Francis would feel envious of those few flowers that preoccupied Arthur’s time instead of Francis having the attention…but only slightly).

 What he could say though, is that over the years England had become emasculated. It was a simple fact. In his years of imperial power and might, he showed such tender care to most of his colonies, though most of that love turned sour unfortunately, through the ex-empires own greed and lack control at times.

Indeed…but never feminine. He doubted that the Brit’s wiry muscles, and frame would be placed in a ‘feminine’ category. Though, that told a completely different tale of its own.

Arthur wasn’t tall like Sweden, or small like Japan, but an average height. He wasn’t particularly well built, sculpted like some protein snorting bodybuilder, but still showed clear evidence of slender muscles.

He had never been the best soldier either, well at least, not in hand-to-hand melee combat. Yes, he could wield a blade and put it to good use, but his true power had been his skills as a marksman. Such as the Battle of Agincourt, in which (much to his own embarrassment) his heavily armoured troops had been defeated by simple English archers and horsemen.

 Tales like Robin Hood, may never have been true, but have links to the truth. That follows with many tales in history though, not all fiction is entirely make-belief, but have been tweaked accordingly, as to seem false, impossible even.

 He trailed his hand further up to meet his lover’s face, gently stroking at the cheek, before moving his body forwards and pressing a light kiss onto the other’s nose.

 Arthur fidgeted at the new contact, turning in his sleep to face away. Francis chuckled before pulling the Englishman right into his own body, hugging him gently but still with a firm embrace, nuzzling the snoozing man’s neck, probably tickling him with his stubbly chin as Arthur reacted with some odd twitches, an almost ticklish reaction.

After a few minutes of just resting gently like this Francis decided it best for him to wake Arthur, knowing he was sometimes not a morning person and would be grouchy if Francis let him sleep in – he often frowned at this as sometimes Arthur clearly needed the sleep, but decided it’d be wiser just to comply with the thorny man’s request.

----

and i never finished this so idk where this headed? was I gonna write banging, was i gonna write angst or fluff???? i’ll never freakin know

[latinamericandreams]

Chapter 10 - The wake up call

Diario del sottocomandante,

The wake up call kept insisting, and after snoozing ten times I woke up.  I opened my eyes to find myself in a cosy room back home.  It had already been one week since I was sleeping in this same bed.  Quite strange considering that in the last year I had changed hundreds of beds.  I was dreaming about snowy mountains and beautiful blue lakes.  They were obviously flashes from my trip.  The backpack was still half unpacked lying in the middle of my room so I decided that now that my dream was over I had to start becoming pro active, unpack it and start sorting out my life back in Malta.  I got out of the bed only to let apathy take over and lied again.  Post vacation blues is very common among travellers going back home after a long time travelling.  Personally I never had it, even after my last 9 month trip.  This time however it hit me really bad.  Probably the amount of jetlag, and shit weather outside made it even worse.  I was spending my first week trying to avoid contact with everyone, looking at photos from the trip and researching flights for my next vacation (even tough I was about €4000 under).

In the next days I slowly started readjusting to my life back home.  Weather was getting better.  I was meeting all my family and friends.  I partied a bit and started rock climbing again.  Life in general started feeling better.   I started unpacking my backpack and reorganizing everything.  Every piece of clothing or item took me back to an exact moment during my trip, and it seemed that while taking stuff out of the bag I was entering different dimensions and taken back in time.  I can safely say that my backpack became a time machine.

As I took a metal shot glass out and held it in my hand, the background scenery started changing until I found myself about a year ago in a hostel room in Fortaleza – Brazil.  I was still holding the same shot glass in my hand and there was Marsim hugging me and telling me how excited she was to see me again!  It was the few first hours in Brazil and she had just given me the present that she got from Russia.  We soon met Talita and went out on what was going to be the first of many street parties in Brazil.  After that, the sensual and vibrant lifestyle of Brazil had got us.  The scenes I was in started fast-forwarding on a rollercoaster ride down the east coast fuelled by alcohol, heavy partying and beaching! We experienced the most celebrated feast in Brazil i.e. Carnival, partied in the best clubs, visited beautiful tropical cities like Rio, Salvador and Floranapolis, went through natural wonders like the wetlands of Pantanal, the abysmal caves of Bonito and the unreal falls of Iguazzu until I woke up on the border of Uruguay at 4am in the morning surrounded by five new persons – Mark, Kristina, Fabian, Nick and Fi.

I shook myself back into reality, put the shot glass away and kept unpacking my backpack.  I couldn’t help but being transported back in time again as soon as I spotted my snorkel mask between all the shirts and bits and pieces.  I wore it and soon found myself diving into the sea at night while it was pitch black.  As soon as I dived, the water lit up with millions of tiny green sparkles all dancing around me.  The sky was in turn sprinkled with millions of white sparkles and the beautiful blue hues of the milky way.  There was Kristina and she asked me “Isn’t this the most amazing thing you’ve seen in your life?”.  We were in Cabo Polonio – Uruguay swimming into the sea crowded with fully-charged florescent plankton.  I felt that nice travelling feeling as I got out of the water and greeted the rest of the group.  This was my first travelling crew and soon I also felt that shit feeling while I was telling them bye at the border of Argentina to continue travelling solo.

Back in my room in Malta I found the box of a mobile.  I held it and swishhhhh ... there was Mark infront of me laughing and telling me “That’s the box mate… you can claim it on insurance”.  A day before that he was feeling sorry for me not getting any action so he offered me his smart phone, and installed tinder for me.  That night in Buenos Aires - Argentina I went on a massive bender and came back to the Milhouse hostel with full shame, waking Mark up to give him the bad news.  “Dude you can’t believe it … someone stole the mobile phone that you lent me” .. he just laughed and told me to claim it on insurance.  That night I couldn’t sleep so I did some antics by getting naked and locking myself in one of the cages used to store backpacks.  Mark gave me a sleeping pill and I passed out in the cage.  I was feeling my liver about to give in during the massive benders we had in Buenos Aires.  Mark and me partied hard there, went to Lollapalooza, tango nights and outdoor parties until we decided to start a healthy lifestyle and flew down to the edge of the world in Ushuaia.  The scenes started fast-forwarding again up the peaks of the Andes, upon mighty glaciers and inside tents on cold nights in Patagonia until I saw myself again giving my last farewell to Mark - my 2 month travelling brother.

Oh wow, time to start unpacking the shirts and the first one on top was a red shirt saying ‘I survived the W trek’.  I found myself in a bar in Torres del Paines, talking to probably the drunkest guy in Chile.  My Spanish had already started taking shape so I could hold a drunk conversation.  He asked me “Me gusta tu camiceta, la quieres cambiar conmigo?” (I like your shirt, wanna swap with mine?).  As much as I loved the shirt I was wearing, I loved his shirt too.  I had just finished the W trek – a 6 day trek into the most amazing scenery of Patagonia and the world.  I wanted those six days to be stuck with me for as long as possible, so I said “Claro” and we swapped shirts.  Around me there were the familiar faces of all the people who finished the trek.  Oh – Itai, Solenne, Laura, Jose, Eduardo!  This was going to be my next travelling crew all the way up to Santiago – the middle of Chile.  Together we started exploring the amazing fjords of Southern Chile, the crystal clear lakes and forests of Bariloche and Bolson and the volcanoes of Chiloe and Pucon.  Finally we made it to the party center of Chile - Valparaiso.  Here the crew had grown up to over ten people with Thomas, Antoine, Bertille, Adele and Stephanie all joining in as we conquered our way up Chile.  The fossilized salt, I found in the top pockets of my bag, warped time again a few weeks forward all the way up to the desert of Atacama.  Here I was solo again exploring the dry alien landscapes and the surreal mountains and lakes of this desert until a jeep ride later I was in the vast salt flats of the Salar de Uyuni.  Exploring Bolivia indeed felt like travelling to a completely different continent, as now the indigenous influence was much more obvious than the previous four countries. I could see it in the way the people look and act, the traditions, the food etc.  I could feel that life here became slower and rawer.  I wasn’t close to the sea anymore; instead I was now in the dense jungle lying down with a puma by my side.  I could again feel that adrenaline when she chased me to play and all the affection she gave me.  I was now with my other adventure buddy.  This time not a human, but an ocelot – exploring untouched pieces of the jungle, cutting new trails and discovering hidden trees and places.  It wasn’t only cats I was sharing these experiences with. There were my partners in crime Celine, Stef, Will and Max running rampages down forgotten Bolivian towns, drinking and enjoying being sick of Jungle fever.  More adventures followed, and I was by now exploring the remotest of the Bolivian villages until entering the Amazon for a survival trip and partying one last time in the great capital of Bolivia – La Paz – the sin city.

Only few last things were left in the backpack, but the memories, all these items were bringing back, were nowhere to stop.  A yellow euro football shirt saying, “I scored in LOKI” brought me into the backroom on top of a bar somewhere in Cusco - Peru.  I was presented with a choice of 4 tshirts, and I told Jacob “Yeah I like the yellow one”.  I wore it, went downstairs and started my first shift behind the bar into the craziest hostel in the world.  A whole intense month packed with bloodbombs, beautiful friendships, beautiful girls and massive parties ridiculous amount of parties.  I was revisiting all this chaos, until time slowed down again and I found myself at Cuzco’s airport picking up my dad, my travel buddy for the next three weeks.  Together we climbed to the lost city of Maccu Picchu, explored deserts, sea side villages up to the summits of the Corradilera Blanca and down into the deep waters of the Galapagos islands where we danced with turtles, hammerheads and sea lions.  I left my dad and went back in Loki - Mancora - Peru to work as an events manager.  Another intense month and a half, were with my partners, Lucio and Ewelina, we took up the events of this hostel to new proportions with massive parties and fun activities.  I could see the birth of the Pirates of Mancora here, were weeks consisted of sunset drinks on our boat, pirate parties, treasure hunts and rowdy benders. I was seeing hundreds of faces coming and going until in the end it seems that I had too much blues to deal with and I left.

I was back in my room, finished unpacking my backpack and organized everything.  I was pretty much settled now back home here in Malta.  Slowly I also got used to the little things, which I found shockingly different at first.  For example it seemed strange to reply with a ‘what?�� rather than a ‘che?’ or being able to flush toilet paper down the toilet.  I went to my studio to play drums for the first time after one year.  As I expected, I was sooooo rusty.  I couldn’t even finish a drum fill, or keep a straight rock beat.  At some point I started playing some samba and salsa rhythms and without knowing I went into an hour trans of full-on Latin drumming.  I don’t know from where all the drum patterns and rhythms were coming, but I just kept banging my heart out onto the drum kit.  Unconsciously the Latin rhythm was now fully running into my blood stream.  All those salsa and samba sounds that I was exposed to, anywhere I went in south America, were slowly making their way into my unconscious.  I came out of the studio happy about my impromptu performance still with the shirt and a necklace in my hand.

Oh and that necklace.   One last item to take me a few months back.  I found myself in Banos – Ecuador near the famous swing at the end of the world. I was observing a stand of a craftsman and was intrigued by this ring made out of precious stones weaved into each other.  A friendly man called Camillo approached me and said he was from Colombia.  We talked for ages and finally asked him how much money for the precious ring.  It was too steep for me, but then he showed a necklace, which was actually a coin cut into two parts, forming two necklaces that fit into each other.  He explained the meaning of the symbols, and told me to keep one part for me, and give the other part to someone special.  I knew exactly whom I would give it to.  The girl that without knowing convinced me to leave Peru and follow my heart up to Ecuador.  The girl who inspired me so much in everything she did.  My travel buddy and also my soul mate.  We travelled all of Ecuador together were every day was more exciting than the previous one.  We climbed volcanos, bungee jumped, cycled and visited the beautiful colonial cities of Ecuador.  We carried on and crossed to Colombia for some daring adventures, horse riding, chilled nights in the middle of nowhere, camping adventures in the lush deserts and hills of Colombia, until we pushed our boundaries to go where no one dared going. We travelled to Venezuela to discover a country falling to pieces, but with a very strong sense of identity and awesome natural phenomena like the relampago.  Our days together were coming to end so we visited the whole north coast of Colombia in the Caribbean sea, hopping from one beach to the next sleeping into postcard perfect places.   My dream eventually came to an end and eleven months down the line I bid farewell to this great person and this great continent.

Of course thinking about this one-year dream brings a lot of blues, but I was lucky enough to live my dream.  At some point there comes the wake up call, which will show you that perfect dreams don’t last forever.  You can snooze as much as you like, but finally you have to wake up. Once you wake up you can either feel like shit because it was only a dream, or otherwise thank god you’re awake again, live the day and look forward for the evening to start living your next dream!

That was my Latin American Dream.

I am now looking forward to live my next one.

Thanks to all the readers of this blog for the massive support you gave me.  Everyone likes stats so here’s a few:

Days travelled: 326

Number of Countries: 9 –

Brazil (45 days), Uruguay (9 days), Argentina (18 days), Chile (33 days), Bolivia (60 days), Peru (82 days), Ecuador (25 days), Colombia (38 days), Venezuela (7 days)

Kilometers travelled (excluding incoming and outgoing flights): 28,330.5 km

Hops: approx. 100

Highest altitude: 5750m - Vallajuanhu summit (Peru)

Lowest altitude: -35m - Galapagos (Ecuador)

Northest: 11.2882° N, 74.1517° W - Tayrona (Colombia)

Southest: 54.8019° S, 68.3030° W - Ushuaia (Argentina)

Methods of transport: bus, minivan, ferry, taxi, train, motorbike, flight, horse

Longest single bus ride: 24 hours - Santiago to San pedro De Atacama (Chile)

Longest hop: approx. 36hrs - San Ignacio de Velasco to Rurrenabaque (Bolivia)

Outdoor activities: Sandboarding, Surfing, Kayaking, Rock climbing, Paragliding, Trekking, Mountaineering, Diving, Ice climbing, Bungee swing, Cycling, Quadbike, Horse riding, Caving

Days camping: 22 days

Number of treks: 18

Tierra del Fuego (Argentina), Perito Moreno (Argentina), Fitzroy (Argentina), Torres del Paine (Chile), Cajon Azul (Argentina), El Cane (Chile), Samaipata (Bolivia), Rurrenabaque (Bolivia), Salkantay (Peru), Rainbow mountain (Peru), Laguna 69 (Peru), Mount Vallanuranju (Peru), Galapagos (Ecuador), Macchu Piccu (Peru), Quilitoa loop (Ecuador), Cotopaxi (Ecuador), Tayrona park (Colombia), Salento (Colombia)

Bike Rides: 7

El Bolson (Argentina), Valle della muerte (Chile), Valle della luna (Chile), Death Road (Bolivia), Paracas (Peru), Cuenca (Ecuador), Banos waterfall loop (Ecuador)

Longest trek: 6 days – Torres del Paine

Top exciting experiences:

Wildlife (Bolivia, Peru, Galapagos)

Mountaineering (Ecuador)

Survival Jungle Trip (Bolivia)

Death Road (Bolivia)

Horse Riding in San Augustin (Colombia)

Top parties:

Salvador and Rio carnival (Brazil)

Lollapalooza festival - Buenos Aires (Argentina)

San Paulo (Brazil)

Desert Party (Chile)

Peru Independence Day (Peru)

Cartagena Independence Day (Colombia)

Top drinks:

Caipirinha (Brazil)

Terremoto (Chile)

Wine (Chile)

Pisco Sour (Peru)

Michelada (Colombia)

Bloodbombs (Loki - Peru)

Top food:

Steak (Argentina)

Cevice (Ecuador)

Casuera (Chile)

Brazil beach food (Brazil)

Tallarines (Peru)

Top places to stay:

Pousada Xama (Pipa - Brazil),

Casa del arbol (El Bolson - Argentina)

Loki (cuzco, mancora - Peru)

Rose Cottage (Otolavo - Ecuador),

Hotel Campestre Las Heliconias (Zetaquira - Colombia) 

Top natural shows:

Torres del Paine sunrise (Chile)

Flocks of birds in Islas Ballestas (Peru)

San pedro - Valle della muerte sunset (Chile)

Relampago (Venezuela)

Flourescent Plankton (Uruguay)

Top places to visit:

Galapagos Islands (Ecuador)

Macchu Piccu (Peru)

Foz do Iguazzu (Brazil / Argentina)

Salar de Uyuni (Bolivia)

Torres del Paine (Chile)

Top beaches:

Cabo Polonio (Uruguay)

Custeno beach (Colombia)

Jericoacoara (Brazil)

Ilha grande (Brazil)

Baia del la Tortuga (Galapagos - Ecuador)

Top colonial architecture:

Cuzco (Peru)

Paraty (Brazil)

Cartagena (Colombia)

Colonia del Sacramento (Uruguay)

Villa de Leyva (Colombia)

Top cities:

San Paulo (Brazil)

Rio (Brazil)

Buenos aires (Argentina)

Valparaiso (Chile)

Quito (Ecuador)

Cartagena (Colombia)

Top songs:

Los Autenticos Decadentes - La Guitarra

Enanitos Verdes - Lamento Boliviano

Ráfaga - Una Cerveza

Molotov - Puto

A.N.I.M.A.L - Familia

[aion-rsa]

Kings of a Dead World: Why We Tell Sleep Dystopia Stories in an Age of Climate Change

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

This piece is sponsored by

Author Jamie Mollart laughs while admitting this, but the idea for Kings of a Dead World, his new dystopian novel about a world put to sleep to conserve resources, came to him in a dream. And why shouldn’t it have? “Sleep on it” is the common advice for a human being pondering a big choice or change, with the promise that a good night’s sleep will allow them better perspective to write a novel, make a life-shifting decision… maybe even save the world?

Over fifty years ago in Welcome to the Monkey House, Kurt Vonnegut vividly described a grossly overpopulated Earth like the tightly-packed drupelets of a raspberry. Mollart’s bleak near-future bears these familiar hallmarks, further complicating overpopulation with rising water levels, dwindling fossil fuels, and, most damningly, individual countries’ failure to halt the global climate crisis on their own terms. The solution, then, requires a global sacrifice: The majority of the world’s population spends three months in a chemically-induced, coma-like Sleep, with one month Awake in which they make up for that lost time. Everyone, that is, except for the Janitors, who live by natural circadian rhythms: monitoring the Sleepers’ vitals, as well as conducting worldwide Trade to deliver Creds into their accounts so that they have some earnings to spend in their limited Waking hours.

As a way to curb consumption, it makes sense in theory, and has Kings of a Dead World joining a subgenre of dystopian or otherwise speculative fiction in which sleep can potentially solve seemingly insurmountable societal problems: David Fincher’s seminal film Fight Club, Karen Russell’s quietly devastating novella Sleep Donation, Christopher Nolan’s dreamlike Inception, and so forth. After all, there’s something incredibly alluring about the idea of closing your eyes and trusting that the world will fix itself while you snooze. It’s the same passive self-improvement your body undergoes during the normal stages of sleep, but on a colossal, collective scale: the ozone layer restitches itself, the stocks go up, the Earth gets a break from billions of footprints. It’s almost like rewinding time.

But that’s the thing, Mollart says, when Den of Geek speaks to him about his new book: “Time’s like a false constraint, isn’t it? You’ve got the sun coming up, the sun coming down—there is an obvious set of divisions of how people spend their time. But the whole hour and minute thing—we’ve made these false constraints that we as society have put onto things. It’s humans grappling with what’s in front of them in nature, isn’t it? It’s this whole thing we can’t control, so we try to control it by putting our own constraints on it.”

False or not, these societal constraints have created an inverse relationship between sleepers and wakers, their movements balanced by time zones that dictate when half of the world ends the day while the other half is just beginning. In fiction, this dynamic is even more pronounced, with characters moving through the dream realm at cross-purposes to one another, whether it’s the Inception team planting ideas three layers into the slumbering subconscious, or Tyler Durden puppeting the Narrator’s body for cross-country flights to found Fight Clubs all over the country. Kings of a Dead World alternates between the perspectives of Ben, an octogenarian whose age belies his revolutionary fighting spirit, struggling to take care of his sick wife Rose during their brief time Awake; and Peruzzi, a Janitor who has the Sleeping world as his playground yet suffers an existential lack of purpose.

Being the sleeper is easy, or so we think: Sleep Donation posits that donating sleep is as painless and noble as giving blood. That’s the party line for the Sleep Corps’ champ recruiter Trish Edgewater, who convinces the parents of newborn donor Baby A that she has a surfeit of the stuff, and to not give would be to doom the nation’s insomniacs to an agonizing, brutal, unnecessary death. For Baby A, or Washington Irving’s archetypal snoozer Rip Van Winkle, or the Narrator, they get to wake up into a changed world. It’s the people watching them sleep, moving through the insomniac hours, who have to do the actual hard work of breaking and reshaping the world.

In the Narrator’s case, Mollart says, “[he] can’t break out of the cycle that he’s in without inventing someone to tell him how to do it, which is just such a modern male thing. We’re rubbish about talking about our feelings; we’re rubbish about facing responsibility for ourselves.” Toxic masculinity is a recurring theme in Mollart’s work, from his prior novel The Zoo to his next project: “We’re the shit half of the species, and I just think male friendships are really interesting. Most blokes have one real strong relationship, often from your childhood, and you become really mirrors of each other. That’s kind of what the Tyler Durden/Narrator [dynamic] is like. Blokes egg each other on, [and] it’s difficult for men to show affection to other men, it’s just sad. As long as that continues, we won’t break the cycle of nonsense of male violence and the patriarchy that we’ve got unfortunately still.”

The Tyler/Narrator dynamic plays out in the relationship between fellow Janitors Peruzzi and Slattery: colleagues, quasi-friends, and partners in crime. While their decadent lifestyles spoil them with at-home gyms and Brave New World-inspired raves every three months, Slattery tempts Peruzzi into seeking out greater highs than pills and sex. Their explorations into the Sleeping world at first tap into a Fight Club-esque awakening of the blood, only to tip into Project Mayhem levels of voyeurism and violation in pursuit of confirmation that what they do actually matters.

Despite these outbursts, the Janitors remain a shadowy presence in the lives of the Sleepers, watching them but not motivating them to Sleep. That incentivization comes from this world’s new-old religious order: the chronological trinity of Chronos, Bacchus, and Rip Van. “In a world where you hit a cultural stop,” Mollart explains, “where it goes from this to this, it felt to me that you would go back to something quite primal.” He turned to ancient mythology for the personification of time (who oversees the Sleep/Wake cycles) and the god of partying (who rewards the Janitors for their hard work). But it was fairy tales that provided a folkloric Jesus Christ figure for the Sleepers in Rip Van, a figure who every extended Sleep cycle seems to preach, I did it, and you can too. I lost twenty years, you can give up three months.

Fairy tales, Mollart said, are “rooted in innate primal fears; they’re very much about things we worry about on a hunter-gatherer level, like getting lost in woods [and] wicked witches turning us into things. They’re very dark, aren’t they, but with this playful exterior.” His description sounds not unlike dreaming, in which the dreamer uses that otherworldly space to process waking events and subconscious conflicts.

But what about a Sleep with no dreams? “I wanted there to be a difference between forced Sleep and actual sleep,” Mollart says. “It shouldn’t be a thing where you get to restore your body and your mind. It’s like they’re turned off, literally turned off.”

Although the Sleep is initially presented as a solution for the sake of the common good, it becomes clear that it is more of a life sentence than a sacrifice. “It’s the actual stealing of time,” Mollart says, “time is stolen from them, rather than time you can do something else in. If they were having beautiful dreams while they’re Asleep, it would just take away a little bit of the fear of it. … There should be nothing. Not to get into the comparison with death and all that, but it’s little incremental bits of death.”

This is especially the case for Ben’s wife Rose, afflicted with an unnamed disease suggestive of dementia, in which she Awakes into different eras of her life. Because Ben never knows which Rose will Awake, or how panicked she will be—with any heightened stress levels forcibly putting her back to Sleep—their time together is so precious. Mollart likens it to currency, especially with Peruzzi as the have to Ben’s have-not: “He’s got so much time, but he doesn’t do anything with it, whereas Ben is the sort of person who’s working really hard to look after their family, and every penny counts. When you’ve got loads of something, you lose a sense of what it’s worth.”

Ben’s struggles to reach Rose mirror that of Inception’s Dom Cobb, who even in other people’s dreams is haunted by his subconscious’ projection of his dead wife Mal. He blames himself for getting her so immersed in dream-sharing that, despite living fifty years in the space of a dream, she believed upon waking up that she was still dreaming. That conviction, that she was stuck in a waking dream, led to her suicide. For Rose, some months she emerges having gone through fifty years of Sleeping and Waking with Ben; others, she’s young and scared and doesn’t understand why her body is being turned on and off like a light switch.

Despite being a universal aspect of the human body, sleep itself is such an intensely individualistic experience. Even if interlopers can infiltrate dreams in Inception, or if a nightmare can taint a sleep supply like in Sleep Donation, a given night’s sleep still feels like it is intimately owned by that person. This quandary mirrors our society’s approach to the climate crisis: “One of the whole problems with climate change is it’s just too big, you can’t picture it,” Mollart says. “It’s so big that you can’t understand that recycling more or not eating meat or not using single-use plastic will have a difference, because the problem’s too big. I think it’s that sort of mentality, that we can only project so far out from ourselves; and I think when you’ve had things taken off you, you very quickly resort to looking after yourself and those close to you. It’s human nature—not very nice human nature, but that we all do.”

Trish promises the Harkonnens that the Sleep Corps will not overdraw Baby A’s sleep supply, painfully aware that she’s saying so “at a moment when people are plunging their straws into every available centimeter of shale and water, every crude oil and uranium and mineral well on earth, with an indiscriminate and borderless appetite.” When sleep becomes yet another resource to be exhausted, Russell shows readers, the individual will be exploited supposedly for the greater good, in reality robbing the next generation of their future.

“Our fathers were our models for God,” Tyler tells the Narrator while branding his hand with lye. “If our fathers bailed, what does that tell you about God?” While Kings of a Dead World unpacks toxic masculinity, it contextualizes that misbehavior within this greater trauma of parental abandonment and explores how to break the aforementioned cycles of violence caused by a refusal to engage with one’s feelings.

Outside of fiction, that’s witnessing our planet’s youngest generation openly speak out about being burdened with an irreversibly damaged world with a shrug in place of an apology. Their unfortunate position fits the second half of that oft-quoted Fight Club monologue: “You have to consider the possibility that God does not like you. He never wanted you. In all probability, he hates you. This is not the worst thing that can happen.” By acknowledging their shit situation instead of trying to ignore it, the next generation is trying to find a way forward.

Despite Kings of a Dead World being more of a cautionary tale for mass sleep, Mollart acknowledges that, on an individual level, sleep can certainly be a positive force for change.

“It actually is in Fight Club, isn’t it?” Mollart says. “In a very messed-up kind of way. The whole bringing down of society happens because the sleeping version of him is more proactive than the waking version—and he goes about things in a very fucked-up way, but his intentions are good. The ending scene with Pixies’ ‘Where Is My Mind?’, where all the [credit card companies] get blown up, is supposed to be a positive, uplifting ending. It’s like he’s dreamt—well he has dreamt the whole thing, weirdly—and then he wakes up and it’s this fresh start. He’s got rid of his demons, he’s with Marla, and their society’s monetary evils have been wiped out.”

That distinction between sleep and waking is crucial. Dystopian sleep stories are not meant to be soothing lullabies, especially when threaded with narratives about climate change. They are meant to depict the nightmarish future that cannot be pushed off—not by escaping into symbolic dreams, not by punting the issue to children and grandchildren. Sleep should be utilized for its initial purpose of recharging—but at some point we have to complete the cycle by waking up.

Kings of a Dead World is available June 10 in the UK from Sandstone Press. Check out the full synopsis below…

The Earth’s resources are dwindling. The solution is the Sleep.

Inside a hibernating city, Ben struggles with his limited waking time and the disease stealing his wife from him. Watching over the sleepers, lonely Peruzzi craves the family he never knew.

Everywhere, dissatisfaction is growing.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

The city is about to wake.

The post Kings of a Dead World: Why We Tell Sleep Dystopia Stories in an Age of Climate Change appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/34IVzkX