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| Bibliotorial... Well, here it is summertime again. Someone outside just passed by and remarked to a neighbour, "Hot, isn't it?" and the reply ws, "Yes, but you don't need to shovel it!" - not so long ago, we were in the midst of more winter than enough, to the point we were thinking of renaming Scarborough "Snowberia"... On some of these hot, sunny daze, it's reading time in the shade when there's time, and one of the best new books I've seen in in a long time is called To Say Nothing Of The Dog, by Connie Willis, who won Hugo and Nebula awards for Doomsday Book, one I hadn't heard of, but will watch for. To Say Nothing Of The Dog is a time travel of sorts, and while too often books on this theme are little more than a repeat of what one has already read elsewhere, this particular story is not so at all. It's a wonderful travelogue of Victorian English life, full of humour, misadventure, and delightful characters - most of them, anyway. It isn't often a book like this crosses one's path. I also purchased a copy of The Postman, by David Brin, another Hugo/Nebula award winner. Seems like those who choose these awards are onto something, though I haven't actually read The Postman yet. I liked the movie, though, which is why I decided to try the book. I've found in the past books that films have been based on are generally better than film versions, and I'm curious to see if this is the case here. Hopefully, you will have found some good reading, too, and the time and a shady tree to go along with it. In the meantime, enjoy this issue of Tuhe Bibliofantasiac. If you're not sure what you might be reading this summer, maybe our reviews will help you find something. Deadline for material for our next issue is sometime around the end of September, so if you spend your time writing short stories, poetry or reviews, don't forget to include us in your mail-outs. Write: The Bibliofantasiac, c/o C. F. Kennedy, 39 Claremore Avenue, Scarborough, Ontario M1N 3S1 Canada; or if you're in a hurry and have the resources, send something via electronic mail, to: tangle@interlog.com And have a good summer. No doubt the snow will find us again before we even know it... THE RECLINING YEARS by Dorothy B. Thompson Sure, old age ain't for a sissy - So Betty Davis always said. Don't get mad, or throw a hissy; Just spend lots of time in your bed. Now I'm moving in slow motion All my joints ache, two chins sag; Nicer living by the ocean - Hard work no longer is my bag St. John's Wart helps my depression Advil for my aches and pains. I hate this old age oppression None listens though, if one complains All those foods I used to love so At present, bring on stomach cramps End the day with hot milk cocoa Insomnia plagues grams and gramps I used to be a bit taller And, straighter, too, as I recall Use some blush to mask the pallor Then, buy some handrails to install Can't remember where my specs are But, recollect all childhood days I used to wish upon a star... Now I garden, and feed the strays. CRIMINAL BALLADS by Martin Dibbs Is it beyond a heart of wood and tin To feel the pull of love's content? Is it unknown that passions strain within And long for things beyond the mind's consent? Must we believe that all is done When silence takes us in our sleep? Or might we conceive some newfound sun To light our darkness cold and deep? Is it not right to dream and hope Of better times and clouds of gold? The slender threads that bind in rope Bring strength beyond each separate fold. So we must ask as night contains each sin, Is love beyond a heart of wood and tin? Is it beyond a heart of oil and salt To suffer the throes of ardor's fire? Is there no place for love's revolt Save in the pit where souls conspire? Can we not shout in heaven's face, With all of the rage we must endure, The words that our reason can't displace Nor through our dreams sweet peace ensure? Can we not cry to gods of night Our tear stained sins for all to hear? Is it not only wise but right To battle the demons that we fear? So we must ask through life's tumult, Is love beyond a heart of oil and salt? DOWNDRAUGHT by D F Lewis Torture played a large part in the word game. Plumbing was simply one form of Architectural Hygiene, stairwells and flues being examples of others. Some houses in that area backed on to cobbled ginnels; they were called tunnelbacks by some or back-to-backs or two-up- two-downs. Rodney was faced with a terrible dilemma, when he took part in more than just a rôle-playing game: a game that was virtually reality, indeed more real than reality ever was. Where words became what they were. His family home was one such tunnelback, with regularly blocked chimneys and unplun-gerable sinks. Even the fat formed itself into geometrically exact shapes at drain level. The crowd came at two. On the dot. There was much raucousness, multi-coloured counters in leather bags/ multi- faceted di(ce) wagged around by even drunker wags and cads and bounders. They knew that Father Christmas couldn't thread the chimneys in poor areas, because the flue-walls were constricted like sick veins. The joke of one game was to unclog them and there was a board a bit like snakes and ladders, a bit like ludo, scrambled into a slow- motion computer screen that was losing its re-booting even as one tried to pump up the power. Rodney was dungeon-master. Where chimneys had their roots. Which was a place of torture before history was learnt in school as recycled reality. Drains needed ventilation just as much damp courses. A drip slowly dangled from the start-with-a-dice-throw-of-six square and wound sinuously along the ungrooved hatching of the counter's route. Only one or two perforations tried to stem its worming flow. Then one of the wastrels chimed in with a scenario quite anathema to the Christmas spirit. Santa was coming up into the plug-hole by mistake. Rodney's head exploded because there wasn't any overflow or sick-bag for synapses. Torture was never what it was in real time and self-inflicted during a game was downright daft. Two Poems by Leah Lopez Puppet Master A message of bleakness is sent through the empty wind. It darkens the blackness this midnight. The heat from his whispering breath makes me cringe, Because I see no shadow in the moonlight. Disposition or dead instinct Keeps me from running. My eyes scorched from his whispering demand don t blink . I recognize and embrace his cunning. I let him in to be distinct. Now, I m dancing for a Puppet Master. His hand and my soul are linked. He sends his declaration of disaster. Carried through the vacant air, It s sent to suppress my sleeping asp. Accompanied by the weight of his deadly glare, He attempts to finally own what he can never grasp. His only fear I secretly discern, But I tremble at upsetting him. Punishment is not my greatest concern, But that this time I may succeed and lose him And the daylight may cripple me. The puppet can stand but can she dance? Without him I will be free, Can I take that chance? ==== Weeping Willow In a search to find my quest I found a safe place to rest. I lay under a giant weeping willow, Away from the rushing billows Of danger and fright That are hidden in the night. I hide my tears in the weeping willow, Beneath her drooping limbs I bury my callow. Her leaves drape my insecurities And a gentle breeze unveils my purity. I know it is for me she weeps in silence She sees inside the mental violence. But there is nothing she can do, So she holds my pain until it s through. The clouds now join our weeping tears, The rain's darkness brings out our fears. When I thought I was alone And I would shout a bitter tone, My weeping friend still stood by me To shelter me better than any other tree. Poetry by Wayne MacDonald Once he knew his own name And had to play by no-one's game It didn't matter who ‘they' thought he was He didn't care who ‘they' were or not There was no way he'd be caught Trying to be human was his only cause Now he's lost in the fray The battle must've went that-a-way And all of his hopes and dreams are departed Listening to people talk so much Reminds him of how out of touch Everybody is to the point of being disheartened He wishes he could get away But you know what ‘they' say: You must go with the flow to your own destruction So he must learn not to be himself, To pretend he is really no-one else But instead to become some new invention They say the birds are flying west And get lost and can't find south Humanity, too, is seeking for direction If it cannot be steered right It will head out to find the night Come morning it may at least be its own reflection When the cold winds blow And there's no place to go Oftimes he's wanted no more than simply to go with them It would be good to be a bird Or to roam with a herd Of wild horses living under no-one's system... |
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