Saturday, May 26, 2018
LEE MÁS Nace el primer festival de ciencia ficción feminista de España: Ansible Fest Beatriz García 24 MAY 2018 - 23:12 CET Amadrinado por Úrsula K. Le Guin, en espíritu y potencia literaria y feminista, el AnsibleFest se celebrará en Bilbao los próximos 21 y 22 de septiembre con charlas, paneles sobre ciencia ficción y feminismo, proyecciones, talleres, una feria editorial, e incluso ludoteca para los más pequeños. Imagina un dispositivo de comunicación entre planetas lejanos capaz de superar cualquier barrera espacio-temporal. No, mejor no lo hagas; Úrsula K. Le Guin, una de las madres de la ciencia ficción, ya se nos adelantó –como en casi todo-, describiendo la invención del ‘ansible’ en su novela ‘Los desposeídos’ (1974). Un artilugio tan potente que unos años después un grupo de autoras de ciencia ficción recibió el mensaje y creó en 1977 la Wiscon, la primera convención feminista de ciencia ficción y fantasía que se celebra cada mayo en Madison (Wisconsin). Y la onda expansiva traspasó nuevas fronteras, más veloz que la luz; las ideas saltaron de un libro a otro, de una cabeza a la siguiente, hasta llegar a Bilbao, la nueva Madison del fantástico feminista, donde en septiembre tendrá lugar la primera edición del AnsibleFest. Y como no podía ser de otra forma, todo empezó con un ‘What if…?’ “La idea surgió de cañas entre Arrate Hidalgo y Laura Gaelx, charlando sobre libros y proyectos. En estas situaciones somos de ponernos a decir cosas como: “¿Y lo que molaría montar…?” y lo del festival de repente no lo vimos tan imposible. Estaban las ganas, algo de experiencia y, sobre todo, la sensación de que a la gente ya le estaba haciendo falta un espacio feminista para hablar del poder transformador de la ficción especulativa sin tener que pasar por el aro de la mesa “de mujeres” de las convenciones al uso. Lo bonito de empezar a pensar AnsibleFest fue que ya partíamos de ideas más complejas que las bases que aún hay que pelear en el mainstream (“las mujeres escriben ciencia ficción”, por ejemplo). Nos ha venido bien que Arrate tenga la suerte de llevar cinco años yendo a WisCon, porque en cierto modo podemos aprender de sus aciertos y errores y traer la energía de una institución feminista tan legendaria en el mundillo”, explican las organizadoras del festival, entre las que se cuentan traductoras, editoras, escritoras y, sobre todo, amantes de la ciencia ficción. “Las autoras de ciencia ficción tienen todavía hoy una visibilidad casi nula. Solo hay que ver lo que pasa cuando alguien dice: ‘No hay mujeres escribiendo ciencia ficción’ y alguien contesta: ‘Pues sí: Ursula Le Guin’. Está muy bien, pero hay cientos más”. Una de las grandezas de la literatura de género es este poderoso ‘Y si…’, que da la posibilidad a autores y lectores de explorar futuros alternativos o las posibles consecuencias de las decisiones que tomamos como sociedad y las opresiones que padecemos, algo que ya afirmaba la escritora Úrsula K. Le Guin en relación a la situación de las mujeres. Para las cuatro fundadoras de AnsibleFest, la ciencia ficción es política porque trata de nuestro lugar en el mundo, pero, al final, lo que nos mantiene en vilo es la historia que se narra. “Lo bueno de la literatura fantástica es que puede eliminar o moldear los ejes de opresión del mundo real, creando universos imaginarios tan atractivos que su elemento político te llega de forma mucho más directa: ‘¿Y si no hubiera género asignado al nacer? ¿Y si existiese una utopía matriarcal en simbiosis con el océano a punto de ser invadida…?’No es solo una plataforma de análisis, sino que expande nuestra forma de sentir y de pensar gracias a ese famoso ‘sentido de la maravilla’. Y apuntan que, a pesar de los numerosos referentes de escritoras desde los inicios del género – ‘Frankenstein’ de Mary Shelley, sin ir más lejos, es considerada la primera novela de ciencia ficción de la historia-, aún hoy su visibilidad es casi nula. Octavia Butler: Esclavitud, cicatrices y viajes en el tiempo UNA DE LAS GRANDES FICCIONES FEMINISTAS RECOMENDADAS POR ANISIBLEFEST. “Solo hay que ver lo que pasa cuando alguien dice ‘No hay mujeres escribiendo ciencia ficción’ y alguien contesta, con toda su buena intención, ‘Pues sí: Ursula Le Guin’. Que está muy bien, y hay que leerla y reeditarla más, ¿pero dónde están James Tiptree, Jr. (seudónimo de Alice Sheldon), Eleanor Arnason, Nalo Hopkinson, Octavia Butler, Pat Murphy, C.J. Cherryh o cientos más? (Y eso quedándonos en Norteamérica y en los 90). En este caso habría que hablar quizás de una triple invisibilidad en el ámbito estatal por ser mujeres, escribir género y no estar traducidas. Perdemos una genealogía que nos llega en fragmentos. El bombazo de Ann Leckie bebe mucho de las sagas de space opera de C.J. Cherryh, por ejemplo. ¿No querríamos poder leerla a ella también?”, resumen. ¿Una segunda época dorada de la CF feminista? En España existen iniciativas para ampliar el alcance de autoras hispanohablantes y extranjeras, como La Nave Invisible, el grupo de Goodreads ‘Leo Autoras Fantásticas’ creado por la escritora Felicidad Martínez, la antología ‘Alucinadas’ que edita Palabaristas y este año publicará su cuarto volumen, y también numerosas escritoras comprometidas con el feminismo como Lola Robles, Cristina Jurado, Layla Martínez o Elia Barceló, que en su obra ‘Consecuencias naturales’ (1994) denunciaba la infantilización de las mujeres. Y aunque ser mujer y escribir ciencia ficción no equivalga necesariamente a hacerlo desde una perspectiva feminista que rompa con los clichés del género (y sociales), AnsibleFest admite que hay cada vez más conciencia de la importancia de la inclusión y un mayor protagonismo de personajes femeninos, tanto en la literatura como en el cine, a pesar de que les preocupe “la fagocitación capitalista del feminismo”. “Las historias están cambiando, ampliándose y haciéndose más complejas, abordándose desde identidades que cuestionan los feminismos de segunda ola (es muy interesante leer, por ejemplo, las críticas que se le hace al clásico de Russ, ‘The Female Man’, desde una perspectiva transfeminista)”, dicen. Y también las obras de destacados representantes de las nuevas corrientes de ciencia ficción decolonial y queer, como Rebecca Roanhorse, J.Y. Yang o Sheree Renée Thomas, son buena prueba de ello. “¿Y si en AnsibleFest…?”, les pregunto, retándolas a que imaginen un final utópico propio de un festival de ciencia ficción feminista? A lo que ellas contestan: “Y si no escuchamos un solo ‘no todos los hombres’ en todo lo que dure el festival. FIN”. Habrá que asistir para comprobar si esta historia más que utópica es oracular. Ojalá que lo sea. La biblioteca a de AnsibleFest Hemos pedido a las organizadoras que nos recomienden algunas obras de ciencia ficción feminista para ir abriendo boca de lo que se avecina los próximos 21 y 22 de septiembre en Bilbao. Toma buena nota: En cómic nos gusta mucho ‘Bitch Planet’ de Kelly Sue deConnick y Valentine De Landro, y la serie de grapas ‘Paper Girls’, de Brian K. Vaughan y Cliff Chiang. En cuanto a novelas, tres publicaciones recientes de corte marcadamente feminista que recomendamos son ‘Parentesco’ de Octavia Butler, ‘Nueva madre’ de Eugene Fischer y ‘Nueva Amazonia’, de Elizabeth Burgoyne Corbett. Feliz lectura…
Posted by DANIELBLOOM at 7:43 PM
Thursday, May 24, 2018
[The year is 2096. The setting could be anywhere. You won't be alive then. Read on:]
On Tuesday morning her husband went into town on his bicycle. His boss had messaged to him to meet him at ten forty-five at the office, or what was left of it. Word of mouth started up that morning by spreading for the first time the incidence of what was being called "warming sickness" was infecting people in the village. Sylvia had been concerned about her husband going there. “Do be careful, Bernie,” she said. “I mean, about all this infection. Do you think you ought to go?”
But Bernie could not bring himself to tell her again that the infection was there all around them; either she did not or she would not understand. “I’ll have to go,” he said. “I won’t stay longer than I’ve absolutely got to.”
“Don’t stay there for lunch,” she said. “I’m sure it’s healthier down here.”
“I’ll come straight home,” he said.
A thought struck her. “I know,” she said. “Take those throat lozenges with you that we got for my cough, and suck one now and then. They’re awfully good for all kinds of infection. They’re so antiseptic.”
It would set her mind at ease if he did so, she implied. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said.
He biked to the office deep in thought. It was no longer a matter of days now; it was coming down to hours. He did not know what this office conference was to be about, but it was very evident that it would be one of the last military duties of his career. When he biked back again that afternoon his service life would probably be over, as his physical life soon would be.
He put his bicycle against a wall and went inside to the office. There was practically no one in the building; he walked up to the anteroom and there he found his boss in uniform, and alone. His captain said cheerfully, “Hi, fella.”
Bernie said, “Good morning, sir.” He glanced around; the secretary’s desk was locked, the room empty. “Hasn’t anyone shown up?”
“Not that I know of. I’d say they're all taking the day off.”
The door into the chief's office opened, and the big boss stood there. The smiling, rubicund face was more serious and drawn than Bernie had remembered. He said, “Come in, gentlemen. My secretary isn’t here today.”
He went in, and was given a seat before the desk.
They all stood in silence for ten minutes. Finally the captain said, grey faced. “Very good of you to wait,” he said. “I’ve been a bit unwell. . . .” He did not resume his seat, but remained standing by the desk. “This is the end of a long association here,” he said. “We have had cause to be grateful to you very many times, and in return I think we’ve taught you something out of our experience. This is the end of it.” He stood in thought for a minute, and then he held out his hand, smiling. “All I can do now is to say good-bye.”
Bernie took his hand. “It certainly has been good, working under you, sir,” he said. “I’m speaking for the whole group when I say that, as well as for myself.”
They left the office and walked down through the desolate, empty building to the courtyard. Bernie said, “Well, what happens now, sir? Would you like me to come down to the village?”
The captain shook his head. “I’d say that you can consider yourself to be relieved of duty,” he said. “I won’t need you any more up here.”
“If there’s anything that I can do, I’ll come very gladly.”
“No. If I should find I need anything from you, I’ll get in touch with you somehow.
"How are you two holding up," the boss asked. “I’m all right. So is Sylvia — I think.”
The boss turned towards Bernie's rusting bicyle. “You get back to her, right now. There’s nothing now for you to stay here for.”
“Will I see you again, sir?”
“I don’t think you will,” said the captain.
There was nothing more for them to say or do. They shook hands, and went their separate ways.
In the village, Bernie visited his mom and stood by her bed. He himself was not unwell, but the old lady had fallen sick on the Sunday morning. He had managed to get a doctor for her on Monday but there was nothing he could do, and the doctor had not come again. The daily maid had not turned up, and Bernie was now doing everything for his sick mother.
She opened her eyes for the first time in a quarter of an hour. “Bernie,” she said. “This is what they said would happen, isn’t it?”
“I think so, Mom,” he said gently. “It’s going to happen to me, too.”
“Did the doctor say that was what it was? I can’t remember.”
“That’s what he told me, Mom. I don’t think he’ll be coming here again. He said he was getting it himself.”
There was a long silence. “How long will it take me to die, son?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “It might be a week.”
“How absurd,” said the old lady. “Much too long.”
She closed her eyes again. He took a basin to the bathroom, washed it out, and brought it back into the bedroom.
Later, in the bedroom Bernie found his mother lying on her back with her eyes closed, the bed very neat and tidy. He moved a little closer and touched her hand, but she was dead. On the table by her side was a glass of water, a pencilled note, and one of the little red cartons, open, with the empty vial beside it. He had not known that she had that.
Tuesday night the baby began crying at about two in the morning, and it cried almost incessantly till dawn. There was little sleep for the young father or mother. At about seven o’clock it vomited.
Outside it was raining. They faced each other in the grey light, weary and unwell themselves. Sylvia said, “Bern — you don’t think this is it, do you?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “But I should think it might be. Everybody seems to be getting it.”
She passed a hand across her brow, wearily. “I thought we’d be all right, out here in the village.”
He did not know what he could say to comfort her, and so he said, “If I put the kettle on, would you like a cup of tea?”
She crossed to the cot again, and looked down at the baby; she was quiet for the moment. He said again, “What about a cup of tea?”
It would be good for him, she thought; he had been up for most of the night. She forced a smile. “That’d be lovely.”
He went through to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She was feeling terrible, and now she wanted to be sick. It was being up all night, of course, and the worry over the baby. Bernie was busy in the kitchen; she could go quietly to the bathroom without him knowing. She was often sick, but this time he might think it was something else, and get worried.
He could not keep up a guise. “I’ve just been sick,” he said. “I don’t suppose it’s anything.”
“Oh, Bernie! So have I.”
They stared at each other in silence for a minute. Then she said dully, “It must be those pies we had after dinner. Did you notice anything about them?”
He shook his head. “Tasted all right to me. Besides, the baby didn’t have any pie.”
She said, “Bernie. Do you think this is it?”
He took her hand. “It’s what everybody else is getting,” he said. “We wouldn’t be immune.”
“No,” she said thoughtfully. “No. I suppose we wouldn’t.” She raised her eyes to his. “This is the end of it, is it? I mean, we just go on now getting sicker till we die?”
“I think that’s the form,” he said. He smiled at her. “I’ve never done it before, but they say that’s what happens.”
The doctor tried to calm everyone's nerves.
“How long is a bit?” Bernie asked.
“You might get ten days. Then you’ll get it again. I don’t think there’s a second recovery. Tell me, is Sylvia very bad?”
“She’s not too good. I’ll have to get back to her pretty soon.”
“She’s in bed, is she?”
A spasm shook her, and he helped her to the bathroom. While she was in there he came back to the sitting room and stood looking at his baby. It was in a bad way, and there was nothing he could do to help it; he doubted now if it would live through the night. Sylvia was in a bad way, too, though not quite so bad as that. The only one of them who was healthy was himself, and that he must not show.
Presently she said, “Bernie, how is our child?”
He got up and crossed to the cot, and then came back to her. “Jen’s quiet now,” he said. “I think she’s much the same.”
“How are you, yourself?” she asked.
“Awful,” he said. He stooped by her, and took her hand. “I think you’re worse than I am,” he told her, for she must know that. “I think I may be a day or so behind you, but not more. Perhaps that’s because I’m physically stronger.”
She nodded slowly. Then she said, “There’s no hope at all, is there? For any of us?”
He shook his head. “Nobody gets over this one, dear.”
“What do we do, Bern?”
He thought for a moment. “I’ll go and fill the hot-water bags and put them in the bed,” he said. “Then you put on a clean nightie and go to bed and keep warm. I’ll bring Jennifer in there. Then I’ll shut up the cabin and bring you a hot drink, and we’ll have it in bed together, with the pill.”
She looked up at him with tears in her eyes.
“Will you do what has to be done for our baby?”
He stroked her hair. “Don’t worry,” he said gently. “I’ll do that.”
He filled the hot-water bags and put them in the bed, tidying it and making it look fresh as he did so. Then he helped her into the bedroom. He went into the kitchen and put the kettle on for the last time, and while it boiled he read the directions on the three red cartons again very carefully.
He filled a thermos jug with the boiling water, and put it neatly on a tray with the two glasses, the brandy, and half a lemon, and took it into the bedroom. Then he wheeled the cot back and put it by the bedside. Sylvia was in bed looking clean and fresh; she sat up weakly as he wheeled the cot to her.
He said, “Shall I pick her up?” He thought that she might like to hold the baby for a little.
She shook her head. “She’s too ill.” She sat looking down at the child for a minute, and then lay back wearily. “I’d rather think about her like she was, when we were all well. Give her the thing, Bernie, and let’s get this over.”
She was right, he thought; it was better to do things quickly and not agonize about them. He gave the baby the injection in the arm.
Bernie had this premoniton:
He was to get into bed with Sylvia, mix the drinks, and take the tablets out of the red cartons. “I’ve had a lovely time since we got married,” she would say quietly. “Thank you for everything, Bernie.”
He would then draw her to him and kiss her. “I’ve had a grand time, too,” he would say. “Let’s end on that.”
They would then put the tablets in their mouths, and drink.
She slept very little. In the course of the night she visited the bathroom four times, and drank half a bottle of brandy, the only thing she seemed to be able to keep down. She got up when the alarm went off and had a hot shower, which refreshed her, and dressed in the red shirt and slacks that she had worn when she had met Bernie first of all, so many years ago. It seemed like an eternity. She made her face up with some care and put on an overcoat.
With the other women in the village, Sylvia knew they were doomed. “There’s nothing now to go on living for,” she said.
Sylvia opened her bag; the red carton was still there. She uncorked the bottle of brandy and took a long swallow of the neat liquor; it was good, that stuff, because she hadn’t had to go. At some point a new spasm shook her suddenly, so that she had to stop for a minute, white as a sheet, and took a long drink of her brandy.
Sylvia sat there dumbly watching the sea on the horizon, holding the medicine bottle on her knee. This was the end of it, the very, very end.
Presently she looked at her little wrist watch; it showed one minute past ten. Her childhood religion came back to her in those last minutes; one ought to do something about that, she thought. A little alcoholically she murmured the Lord’s Prayer.
Then she took out the red carton from her bag, and opened the vial, and held the tablets in her hand. Another spasm shook her, and she smiled faintly. “Foxed you this time,” she said.
She took the cork out of the bottle. It was ten past ten. She said earnestly, “Bernie, if you’re on your way already to the next life, wait for me.”
Then she put the tablets in her mouth and swallowed them down with a mouthful of brandy, sitting in front of the wide wide window.
Posted by DANIELBLOOM at 10:53 PM
Wednesday, May 23, 2018
In ''cli-fi trends'' column, interview with gay, Jewish novelist [and NPR guest] Sam Miller about his distant future cli-fi debut "Blackfish City"
In ''cli-fi trends'' column, interview with gay, Jewish novelist [and NPR guest] Sam Miller about his ''distant future'' cli-fi debut "Blackfish City." https://chireviewofbooks.com/2018/05/23/blackfish-city-sam-j-miller-interview/ … …
Posted by DANIELBLOOM at 9:36 PM
Tuesday, May 22, 2018
I talk to a member of the Cloughjordan Ecovillage, in Tipperary, Ireland. What is life actually like in a community like this. Is daily life very different from your average life in a small Irish town? How do you join, and does someone decide if you get in or not? And what exactly is ecological about the ecovillage? Climate Change Fiction We then move from an ecovillage to climate change fiction, or “clifi”, a whole subgenre of literature that explores the possibilities of a future affected by climate change. Writers are imagining dystopian futures with water scarcity or rising sea levels, with desertification, agricultural catastrophes or the spread of new diseases. Others are highlighting the utopian thinking needed to mitigate against many of these issues. From Kim Stanley Robinson’s Mars trilogy, and his many utopian works, to Frank Schätzing‘s best-selling novel The Swarm, to films like The Day After Tomorrow, there are many ways of representing and exploring climate change. What is clear, though, is that this is most certainly an issue that needs to be explored, and climate change fiction is a particularly good way of representing the timescales involved. Guests My guests this week are Prof Tom Moylan and Prof Peadar Kirby. ralahine_logo Words To That Effect Ep18 utopian literatureTom Moylan is Glucksman Professor Emeritus in the School of Languages, Literature, Culture at the University of Limerick. He is Founder and Co-Director of the Ralahine Centre for Utopian Studies, where he is also one of the editors of the Ralahine Utopian Studies Book Series. His full bio can be found here The Ralahine Centre for Utopian Studies can be found here Peadar Kirby is Professor Emeritus of International Politics and Public Policy in the University of Limerick. He has published widely on Ireland’s model of development, on Latin American politics and political economy, on globalisation, and on climate change. He is a director of the company developing Cloughjordan ecovillage, Co. Tipperary, where he lives. His full bio can be found here. His latest book is The Political Economy of the Low-Carbon Transition: Pathways Beyond Techno-Optimism, co-authored with Dr Tadhg O’Mahony, recently published by Palgrave Macmillan In early 2017, Transitioning to a Post-Carbon Society: Degrowth, Austerity and Wellbeing‘, co-edited with Ernest Garcia and Mercedes Martinez-Iglesias, was published by Palgrave Macmillan. It has a chapter on Cloughjordan ecovillage as modelling the transition to a low-carbon society. You can find out more about the Cloughjordan Eco Village on their website here Music Music this week was by Forrests. You can listen to more and buy their music here forrests polydrug ep (words to that effect climate change fiction episode) Track Listings Polydrug (Polydrug EP) Corridor (Polydrug EP) WTTE Newsletter A fortnightly email with articles, links, new episodes and more. FIND OUT MORE There was also music from Saso. You can have a listen to their music hereSaso - mysterium words To That Effect ep18 utopian literature Hermetic (Mysterium) Mysteria (Mysterium) Secret Ministry (Exitudes) Works Mentioned Kim Stanley Robinson: Mars Trilogy Kim Stanley Robinson: Science in the Capital Trilogy Paolo Bacigalupi: The Water Knife Frank Schätzing: The Swarm George Miller (dir.): Mad Max: Fury Road Roland Emmerich(dir.): The Day After Tomorrow Lisa Garforth: Green Utopias: Environmental Hope Before and After Nature Gerry Canavan & Kim Stanley Robinson (eds.): Green Planets: Ecology and Science Fiction Donna Harraway: Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene Looking for more science fiction to go with your utopias? This episode is on Irish Science Fiction and this one is on brain myths and science fiction Or how about an episode on transhumanism, science fiction and immortality and a very different type of utopian (or dystopian future) If you enjoy the episode and want to find out how to support the show then click here for more information. (William Edward Hickman Episode) Support the show on Patreon Want to build your own utopia? Let me know in the comments below or check out the Words To That Effect Facebook Page The show is on Instagram too!
Climate Change Fiction
Posted by DANIELBLOOM at 9:11 PM
3/ Second, I was struck by how many submissions (in my batch, at least) were from geographical regions I would consider underrepresented in what I would define as the #clifi genre (more on this in a moment). I read stories from Nigeria, India, Malta, and South Africa.
4/ Geographical diversity was accompanied by some topic diversity, including the gendered dimensions of climate change, climate injustice in the Global South, multispecies relations in the Anthropocene, and more
5/ To be sure, over half -- I'd say 65% -- of the stories I read dealt with what I would call familiar (and arguably overused) #clifi *tropes*: (post)apocalyptic visions, resource struggles, technological advances that nevertheless cannot deliver salvation, etc.
6/ But those stories that did not engage with such themes offered, in my opinion, an interesting glimpse into the ways in which writers/artists are grappling with #climatechange differently than in the past.
Posted by DANIELBLOOM at 9:08 PM