Losing Bodily Organs

Because of the pernicious and persistent growth within my body (see previous post), I must undergo major surgery. The surgery should excise the growth, the carcinoid tumors, but the process will entail some incidental casualties. I’ll probably lose some organs and parts of organs. These are organs I have little understood and formerly gave scant thought to as they labor ceaselessly in the murky obscurity of my abdominal cavity. Now, with their loss imminent, my attention belatedly turns their way. I’m thinking of my Appendix, a portion of my Ascending Colon, some Lymph Nodes, my Mesentery Structure, my Gallbladder, and possibly some fragments of Liver (I’m treating these organs’ names as proper nouns because right now I feel like personifying them). For decades, these organs have toiled ceaselessly on my behalf. My disregard of them is perhaps testament to their amazing functionality and ceaseless labor in the task of keeping my innards well and happy. Before they suffer injury or perish in the tumult of my upcoming surgery, I would like to acknowledge their yeoman service.

Dear Appendix, you dark and secretive cul-de-sac hanging off the junction of my small and large intestine. Your purpose seems to remain largely unknown, even to medical science. Some call you a useless vestige of a bygone stage of evolution, but I know different. Surely you serve a purpose, though it may be elusive. The evolutionary process either repurposes or prunes away unneeded body parts, useless organs are not retained. Your presence as nothing more than a defunct relic would not have been endured all these millennia, especially since you sometimes cause trouble—and (let’s face it) trouble is what you’re mostly known for. But recently I’ve learned that one role you may likely play is to maintain gut flora during times of extreme illness. The idea is that, when sickness purges most of the gut’s beneficial bacteria, you serve as a refuge for a remnant population, which later restocks the intestines. If that is so, then I’m glad to know that you’ve been there for me all these years, even if I never needed that particular service. An even more veiled function of yours may have to do with immune function as a component of the lymphatic system. Although I don’t pretend to understand this, I can appreciate you for it nonetheless. So, thank you, Appendix, for whatever it is you’ve been doing within my dark recesses. You’ve given me no trouble, and I’m sorry to see you go. I will miss you, if for no other reason than just knowing that, like a good friend, you’ve been there for me year after year.

Ah, dear Ascending Colon, passing upward on the right side of my abdomen. I know your purpose—or part of it anyway: to extract moisture from the waste coming out of my small intestine. It’s a vital role, and I always thought I couldn’t live without you. So it was quite a shock to learn that you would have to go—at least part of you, probably most of you. I couldn’t believe it when the surgeon told me I’d be losing you, and it was even more astonishing to hear him say that the rest of my colon will learn to compensate and that, after recovery, I’ll likely not even miss the absent section. But I will miss you. And what will fill the gap—I mean physically replace the missing section? Answer: the surgeon will just stretch the small intestine up and stitch it onto the remaining colon. Incredible! I still have trouble picturing this, but so it shall be.

And Lymph Nodes, dear cute things (though I’m not sure what you actually look like). Such a pleasant-sounding name. And what is it you’ve been doing all this time? Well, I know it’s complicated. You’re part of my lymphatic circulatory system (distinct from that more renown circulatory system of blood). Perhaps I’ve not fully appreciated your vital role in the operation of my immune system, but I’m pleased you’ve been there all this time. I’m also really glad there are so many of you, and, though I stand to lose some of your number, I’ve been assured that others will remain to pick up the slack. I’m sorry that the malignant old carcinoids are so attracted to you. And though I’ll carry on without those of you who go, I’ll miss you and always be grateful for your service on my behalf. Thank you, Lymph Nodes, one and all.

And what about the Mesentery Structure? Honestly, that’s a new one on me. I’m just getting to know about you. My understanding is that you’re basically the tissue connecting my intestine to the abdominal wall. You’re also the home to the Lymph Nodes I’ll be losing, so you’ll also suffer some indignities. Well, Mesentery, I’m sorry for the trouble, and I’m not sure how this will come out for you. You’re strong, no doubt, and we’ll tough it out together, even if we don’t come out whole. Thanks for holding on.

Dear Gallbladder, you mysterious (to me) sac of fluid. When I thought of you at all over the years it was only in vague terms; you were just part of the general mess of nondescript viscera. I’m sorry to say that, until recently, I didn’t even know where you were—tucked into the folds of my Liver (whose location I also wasn’t quite certain of). I knew next to nothing about you—only that you stored bile and sometimes got clogged with “stones” that give old people pain. Well, you’ve never given me any pain. In fact, I suppose you’ve been doing your job well and are continuing to do so. I now know that your job consists of storing and concentrating bile produced in the Liver and sending it on to the small intestine as needed for digestion. I suppose some of those gurgling noises I’ve heard coming from my belly region were really you squirting your bilious juice in just the right amounts into my digestive tract. Oh, I know they say that I’ll get along fine without you, that the bile will be delivered anyway, and that other components of the system will learn to compensate for your absence. They say I won’t miss you—but I will. Call me sentimental, but I already feel your loss. I’ll sacrifice you, so that I may go on living, and that’s just the way it is, because, if you stayed, you’d be in danger of getting clogged as a side effect of the medicines I’ll need to take to maintain my health. It’s a cruel thing, and I’ll grieve your passing. So, thank you, Gallbladder, for your excellent service over these many years.

And my Liver—oh, goodness! I never thought you would be touched, but touched you already are. Apparently the carcinoids have gotten to you, traveling there via the lymphatic highway. The hope is that there are just little spots on the surface, which the surgeon can just scoop out. He says that the nature of carcinoid tumors is such that this can be done. And though some chunks of organ will be lost, the damage should heal over, and all should be well. That’s the hope, anyway. Still I’ll likely have to receive periodic octreotide injections from here on out to hold any remaining slow-growing remnants of the disease at bay. It’s a gritty hope, dear Liver, so hang in there. Thanks for your good work, and I look forward to having you around and functional for a good long time to come.

I have trouble imagining this looming somatic cataclysm. So much will be rearranged, remodeled, and removed. Perhaps I’m hindered by my tendency to think of the organs involved as individual entities, to anthropomorphize rather than regard them simply as components of a whole, one beautiful organism—me. But I can’t help it. In fact, I could go even further; I could consider the individual cells. Thank you, myriad Cells that comprise my organs and devote yourselves each to your particular minute process. Thank you for your steadfast service. I mourn your demise. Silly as that may sound, thinking this way comforts me. I contain multitudes, and I care for them all. Can I really lose so much of my insides and still live a normal life? The eminent surgeon has said it is so, and I’ve decided to trust him. Still, it’s mindboggling. It’s distressing. I hope this all works out. I hope all these sacrifices are not in vain, for my body already aches. I’m frightened and also hopeful. I’m trying to come to terms with all this. It seems I’m about to undergo a metamorphosis and be forever changed. But perhaps, when the ordeal is over, I’ll look back on it and regard the makeover of my insides as not such a big deal. Whatever the outcome, right now I’m here with these apprehensions and thoughts of pending loss.

Carcinoid Comeback

Basic Story
On December 20th, I'm having major surgery at Oregon Health & Science University (OHSU) in Portland. I have a slow-growing form of cancer called carcinoid tumors and the related syndrome. It's spread in my body, and some intestine and other stuff will probably have to come out. Depending on the extent of what the surgeon (Dr. Rodney Pommier) finds once he gets in there and starts mucking around, I will probably be 5 to 10 days in the hospital. Leela will be there with me (I'm so grateful for her!). My surgeon believes that, even given the most extensive scenario, after a few months of recovery, I should still have a fully functional digestive system and not be limited in my activities. Hearing this astonished me, considering the breathtaking scope of the pending procedure. And, most encouraging of all, the cancer will likely be, if not cured, in abeyance for the long term. Meanwhile, I'm apprehensive and, yes, frightened. Fortunately I am currently pain free and feeling well, and my activities aren't limited. My only symptoms are frequent facial flushing (which some of you may have noticed, since it's been going on for a while), transitory dark-purple splotches on my forearms (which I normally keep covered), and some minor intestinal distress. I'm glad to discuss this with anyone.

More Details
About 11 years ago, I had this same kind of tumors I in my small intestine, which nearly killed me due to internal bleeding. At that time, 40cm of small intestine was removed. I recovered quickly and have, until recently, remained symptom free, so I thought I was pretty well done with it.

Alas, that was not so.

This year my annual blood test revealed an elevation of a telltale marker. This prompted my oncologist (ever the cautious one) to have me undergo a series of scans. The final scan turned up a ~2cm mass in the tissue that connects the intestines to the abdominal wall (the mesentery). He thought this could probably be removed through a small incision in my belly button (like last time) and the process would be pretty simple. So he sent me to Dr. Rodney Pommier at OHSU in Portland, who happens to be the West Coast's premier expert on carcinoid cancer (a specialty among specialties, it seems).

"Not so simple," Dr. Pommier said as Leela and I sat in his exam room on October 5th. The presence of the cancer in the current area indicates that it has most likely spread. The mesentery structure is dotted with lymph nodes, and the lymphatic system can act as a highway for cancer cells. Major exploratory surgery is necessary. Carcinoids are fairly slow growing and, in some other ways, unlike other forms of cancer, but it can still do you in. It could be in my liver or the ascending portion of my large intestine or both. This time I don't have the intestinal bleeding, though I do have the rather benign symptoms mentioned earlier. The surgeon will cut out whatever needs removing during the same operation as the exploration. The procedure is booked as a "diagnostic laparoscopy, intraoperative ultrasound liver, bowel resection, possible cholecystectomy, possible liver debulking." I'm glad to talk about this with anyone. I think it helps to talk.

Flicker Bash

Today Leela and I were standing in our dining area talking when we heard a bird’s distress call. Just as we turned to look outside — WHAM! It hit the large window next to us with great force and fell. Then immediately after, another bird flew at the window and veered away. It all happened so fast, we couldn’t identify either bird, but we assumed the second was a pursuing hawk. Leela ran down and found a dead flicker in the flower bed below. Bright blood oozed from its head, its neck broken. She put it on display in our Common House, so that others might appreciate its beauty.

These are the same birds that rat-tat-tat with great effect on the metal rain gutters of our buildings during their season of territorial feistiness.

Leela's Dragon

For more than a year, maybe two, Leela has been working on an ambitious multi-media yard-art project. It’s a dragon of Asiatic persuasion. She’s been through much uncertainty and anxiety over it (breaking clay pieces, failed materials, starting over, etc.). But she finally finished it this week, and the result is quite striking. It now graces (and guards) the garden gate behind our Coho home.

The head, feet, and fins are ceramic. The hair on head and tail-tip is copper wire. The scales are pennies — about $40 worth, individually polished and coated with weatherproofing. The body is constructed of flexible, ribbed plastic tubing of different diameters, and is coated with a hard-to-get plasterlike substance normally used by taxidermists and museum-diorama artists. I’m sure I’ve omitted some of the other miscellaneous materials.

She named the dragon Yu Wei, which a couple of our Taiwanese friends say means “Jade the Great or Powerful” in Chinese but could also mean other things. Since it’s a female dragon, there are no precedents, since Chinese dragons are traditionally male. (Click on individual photos to enlarge.)

 

 

In-Your-Face Portrait Machine

Last month at some kind of event at the Corvallis Arts Center, Leela and I stumbled into the surreal world of Betty Turbo and her "In-Your-Face Portrait Machine." This is what the machine looks like:

Note elbow of artist behind machine.

Here's how it works. When you approach the machine, the little window opens and a smart-phone-like device, wielded by a surprisingly human-looking hand, takes your picture. Then the window closes and you adjust the manual settings: 1) Regular Weird or Ultra Weird or somewhere in between, 2) Lo or Hi Flower Power or somewhere in between, 3) Sunny Skies or Rainy Days or in between. You put a donation in the slot and wait patiently. Finally your portrait emerges.

Leela and I gave it try, adjusting all manual settings in the middle. While waiting for our portrait, we perused the other artworks of the mastermind behind the Portrait Machine. Betty Turbo seems to have built an empire on weird pop-culture imagery with a really edgy twist (see her Facebook page for more insight). She offers greeting cards, chapbooks, and other such items.

At long last, the Portrait Machine, that wonder of cardboard technology, emitted a convincingly electronic gurgle, and out slid our picture. Here it is:

Leela & Austin rendered by In-Your-Face Portrait Machine

Thank you, In-Your-Face Portrait Machine (and Betty Turbo, too)!

My Rick Perry Moment

Now that Rick Perry has again entered the presidential race, I want to take this opportunity to clarify that I currently have no relations with the man, business, political, or otherwise. However, I feel I need to explain an incident in my past that involved him. It was only a brief encounter, but in these days of heightened scrutiny of public figures, who can say what trifling matter might be blown out of proportion in order to fill the headlines? If Rick Perry's encounter with me, for whatever reason, should become a problem in his upcoming campaign, then it's incumbent on me to at least have my side of the story out there. So here it is:

While he was governor of Texas, Rick Perry used to jog the Town Lake trail in downtown Austin (maybe he still does). Being a long-time Town Lake trail jogger and walker myself, I used to see him there from time to time. And when I worked at the office of a here-unnamed state agency that was located right next to Town Lake (now Lady Bird Lake), I'd often go out on the trail during my breaks or lunch hours. On these outings, I'd often encounter Woode Wood (first name pronounced Woody), the singer-songwriter who made a name for himself busking along the trail. Besides playing his music and selling his CDs there, Woode talked to everyone and had an easy way of making friends. Every other person who walked or jogged passed seemed to be a personal friend. Woode was sincerely interested in everyone; he remembered their names, their stories, even their dogs' names.

Anyway, I was in the habit of stopping to visit with Woode, and one time (this would have been in 2005 or '06) we were standing beside the trail talking, when along trotted the governor in shorts and sweaty t-shirt. When he saw Woode, he actually stopped, smiled, and said, "Hi, Woode! How's it going?" Somehow I wasn't at all surprised that Rick Perry numbered himself among Woode's friends. After a bit of initial chat, Woode introduced me to Rick (yes, they were on a first-name basis). We shook hands (yes, I've washed it since), and Woode mentioned that I was writing a book about my dad, who was a WWII aviator. Rick waggled his head in admiration and voiced approval, saying, "Yeah, that generation, they got it right." I wondered briefly what the "it" was that he deemed they'd gotten right. I also refrained from reminding him that the generation in question had four times elected Franklin D. Roosevelt (practically the patron saint of modern political liberalism) as president.

The only other bit of the conversation I remember was when Woode asked the governor: "So where's your detail, Rick?" (detail meaning his body guards). Rick glanced over toward the nearby Congress Avenue Bridge and said, "Oh, they're up there somewhere."

This idle chit-chat went on for quite a while, just as if three regular guys were hanging around with nothing better to do than shoot the breeze. I remember thinking: Doesn't this man have important state business to take care of -- like regulating abortions and deregulating other stuff? But Woode was by then a pretty well-beloved Austin character, and maybe Rick instinctively knew that being seen hanging out with the Town Lake Busker could pay off in the long run. So for the moment, he was not the state official but the savvy politician trying to show himself as a man of the people. And we, I guess, were his props.

But I was also a state employee, and, unbeknownst to Rick (if not to his all-seeing, all-knowing detail), at that very moment I was on the clock and overdue for returning to my office. So before Perry (alas, he and I are no longer on a first-name basis) could get around to asking me what I did for a living, I excused myself and moseyed on.

For the record, Woode later confided to me that, although he liked talking with Rick, he didn't agree with his politics. "But he's a really nice guy," Woode hastened to add. Of course that seemed to be his appraisal of just about everyone. Yeah, that Woode, he got it right!
~Austin Bruce Hallock

3805 Red River Street, Austin, Texas

An old friend just alerted me to the news that a permit for demolition of the distinctive "Streamline Moderne" style house at 3805 Red River Street in Austin had been filed in May of this year. (See article about it here.) I have a couple of memories about this place.

The first memory is of driving by the house with my grandfather, whom we called Boppo. For some reason Boppo abhorred the sight of the place. He once commented that you couldn't pay him enough to live there. Being a kid, I immediately asked if he'd live there for a million dollars. "Lord, no!" he replied. "Not for any amount." And no matter how much I upped the stakes on subsequent drive-bys, Boppo stuck with that principled declaration. "Two million?" "No way!" Three million?" "Well, I'd have to think about it for a while, but probably not."

Second memory: The only time I ever entered that house, was to attend one of Tom Pittman's fabled jam sessions (as noted in the article). It was 1988 or '89. I actually played bongo drums there with the famous Austin Lounge Lizard band member — him and a bunch of other partiers. I was never asked back, and I wouldn't have gone anyway — not for a million dollars.

Crater Lake Baptism

Last week, Leela and I visited Crater Lake, Oregon's only National Park. The place is magnificent, truly one of the foremost natural wonders of the North America. It was formed some 7,700 years ago when Mt. Mazama, then the tallest peak in what would later become Oregon, exploded and then collapsed in on itself, leaving a near perfect bowl some six miles across. Over the years the bowl filled with rain water and snow melt to form the clearest, purest lake in the world. I won't go on about this, nor will I foist a lot of pretty pictures on you -- only a few showing us in the foregrounds to verify that we were there. If you want more info or pictures of the lake, just google or wiki them.

This undoctored, raw photo may look fake for a couple of reasons: 1) the water is too blue and 2) Leela is too beautiful. Well, the water really is that blue, because it's so clear.  And Leela really looks that good (of course a little foreground flash helped keep the shadow off her face). Still, it looks as though she's posing in front of a studio backdrop, doesn't it? (Click photo to enlarge.)

A 33 mile road circles the crater rim. We drove it twice, stopping at several places to hike and view the many interesting features associated with the area's volcanic history.

Everyone looks good at Crater Lake. (Click photo to enlarge.)

There's only one access point to the lake surface, and it is reached via a very steep 1.1 mile hiking trail. There the Park Service operates the only boats on the lake, and I highly recommend the tour. The boats were brought in by helicopter. Near the boat dock, you can also take a dip in the 52 degree water, and on this fair day we saw several people doing just that. Here, after nearly five years living in the state, I baptized myself as a true Oregonian.

We spent three nights in the area -- two in a sorry roadhouse in Chemult, a wide place in the road about 40 miles away. For the last night we splurged. Because of a cancellation, we were able to get a room at Crater Lake Lodge, a giant CCC-era structure of stone and rustic logs right on the crater rim.

We slept well in the near total darkness, but we arose for about an hour at 2:00 AM to go outside and view the stars. Unfortunately, a light haze had settled in and rendered the viewing rather unspectacular. At daybreak, we realized the haze was smoke from nearby forest fires, evidently a common occurrence at the park. We were leaving that day and felt lucky to have had the two full days of perfect weather.

Crater Lake enveloped in smoke haze.

As we departed the park's south entrance on that Saturday morning, we passed a line of vehicles about a mile long waiting to get into the park. We felt sorry for those people whose weekend visit to the park would include the smoky haze.

CoHo Ecovillage Now Visible on Google Maps

Our home, CoHo Ecovillage, is now visible on Google Maps. When I looked about a month ago, it was still showing up as an overgrown field. Now you can actually see the layout of our buildings and grounds. I think the satellite photo was taken sometime last summer, as it doesn't show the photo-voltaic panels that were installed on the roofs of the residential buildings in October and November of last year.

Below I overlaid some labels on the Google map photo (click on it to enlarge). The building where we live has three other living units. All that greenery on the east side of our property is a very steep hillside. The image makes Crystal Lake appear very close to us, but it's actually some 40 feet below. Crystal Lake is more like a bog or swamp than a lake.

Click on image to enlarge.

My Actinic Face

Two weeks ago, I visited the dermatologist. I asked about the splotches that have been appearing on my face. He told me they were actinic keratoses, precancerous growths caused by years of sun damage. Very common, especially in fair-skinned people. He said there was a 20% chance they could become malignant. He prescribed a two-week, twice-daily course of a topical cream called Fluorouracil USP 5%. It's a powerful drug, which is actually used for chemotherapy in another form -- very toxic. The drug targets fast-growing cells. He said it would make my face red and it would feel like a bad sunburn.

The first few days, I hardly noticed any effects. Gradually my face got redder and I began to feel the burn, but it was still quite tolerable. Rash-like redness began to spread. Shaving hurt. The stinging intensified, and I started looking pretty gruesome. I gave up on shaving. Sleeping was difficult. The last couple of days were excruciating. It hurts to smile or open my mouth to eat. I frighten children. When I'm in public, people avert their eyes. I need a burka. As of today, I'm done with the treatment, so I had Leela take these photos. I understand that I should start healing up pretty swiftly now.

 Here's an extreme close-up of my cheek:

 Notice the strange patterns created by the lesions.  Also note the layer of subcutaneous cells screaming in agony.  Oops! Oh, that's a picture of the carpet we bought in Turkey -- must have mixed up the photos.  Hard to tell the difference.

Moral of story: Avoid the sun and stay away from dermatologists!

Balcony Garden

We've had flower boxes on the outside of our balcony railing since our first year at CoHo Ecovillage (see my September 6, 2008 post for photo). This year we added four more boxes to the inside of that railing, and Leela planted them with lettuce. Out of reach of the slugs and most other ground-level pests, the stuff has been growing like crazy. And since it's readily visible and accessible from our kitchen, we're good about remembering to harvest and eat the bounty. Even so, it's a challenge keeping up with it right now.

I'm guessing we can keep growing such greens in these boxes right through the winter, thanks to the full southern exposure and ambient building heat.

Bag Aloft

Yesterday while walking, I watched an empty black plastic bag swirl between lanes of traffic on Highway 99W in South Corvallis. The turbulence sent it upward, above the extra-tall utility poles. There the churning quit, and just when the limp form seemed about to drift downward, it continued rising. I paused, hat brim shading my upturned face. Would it fly twice as high as the utility poles?  Yes, quite readily. And it kept ascending -- at an increasing rate. More swiftly than a released toy balloon, it bobbed and fluttered skyward. Caught in an updraft, I assumed.

How high would it go? I decided to continue watching until it fell -- or vanished from sight. It was already wondrously high and maintaining its rapid rise. As there was little breeze, the bag made modest lateral progress. Also it didn't spiral upward, but rather levitated more or less on a straight course. Was the ascent abetted by a trapped pocket of sun-heated air?

It quickly became a black speck against patchy gray clouds. I watched for a minute, two minutes, three, more. It passed a high-flying bird. Had I not witnessed the bag's take-off, I might have mistook it for a crow at this point.  My neck grew sore, and still the bag soared. If I averted my eyes, I might lose track of it; so I maintained a fixed gaze. I was determined to follow the wayward piece of debris. Had it become a proxy for my own restlessness? Yes, something in me wanted to be up there. The receding mote shrank to near nothingness, and I couldn't tell whether I still had a fix on it or I was now experiencing a trick of vision. When the specter mounted to heaven through a gap between clouds, I abandoned my vigil and strolled on, rubbing the back of my neck and repeatedly squeezing shut my strained eyes.

"Preferred Reality" -- short story published in The Potomac Journal

The Spring 2011 issue of The Potomac, an on-line "journal of poetry and politics," contains a short-short story I wrote titled "Preferred Reality."  The Potomac features non-fiction pieces on current social themes, as well as poetry and fiction.

Austin of the Senses

I landed for a brief stay back in Austin, the city of my birth and the seat of my clan, diminished as it now is (the clan, not the city). This was my third visit there since moving away three years earlier. Emerging from the air terminal, I was confronted by the humid warmth. Even though it was mid-February, I had expected this; the resilient heat cannot be long held back by any cold front. However, I did not expect to be struck by the color of winter in Austin. It is browner than what I have become accustomed to in Oregon's wet Willamette Valley. Austin's lawns and fields were parched, the trees mostly bare. One might expect winter in a higher latitude to be more bleak than that of Central Texas, but our Pacific Northwest pine trees and continual drizzle seem to keep more green on the landscape throughout the cold season.

Austin is a big sprawling city -- growing fast, the greater metropolitan area now approaching two million. Alert for familiar sights, sounds, and smells, I walked the trash-strewn streets and breathed the vehicle exhaust, reeking of thwarted desires. I found the dusty shops filled with toxic sweets and wrappers ready to be discarded. I noticed these things readily, but they are everywhere in this world; they are not unique to Austin. I was seeking indicators that for me would render the locale distinctive. Every city wants to be known as different, weird in its own special way, but it seems that the harder the inhabitants strive for uniqueness, the more alike their cities become. For me, Austin's vaunted music scene is the same as a hundred others. Its beloved weirdness is but human nature running its peculiar but predictable course in these confusing but media-unified times and has nothing to do with the specialness of place. Across the nation, the neon insignias of commercialized regionalism all look alike. So I sought more subtle cues, unintentional signals that trigger the senses but not necessarily the frontal cortex, indicators not devised with the tourist industry or commerce in mind, unlauded accidents of place.

And I found some of these indicators. The grackles I have always admired and enjoyed for their raucous ways and sheer great numbers. In my northern home, I yearn for their sound more than for any band or singer of that live music capital. And other birds caught my attention with their once-familiar notes; the contentious piping of the mockingbird and the plaintive call of the mourning dove are distinctive reminders of my former home. The whirring plaints of the cicadas are silent during winter months, but I imagined I heard them through the roar of traffic.

And something in the air caught my attention, a subtle aroma. So faintly did it register that I hesitate to call it a smell. Yet I was continually sensitized by it. Something slightly sour, something damp, it was a constant presence as I strolled the downtown streets, especially during the first couple of days of my visit, before I became habituated. I thought of bat guano, but was not satisfied that that was the only ingredient. I walked into Pease Park, away from the confines of the bats, and the smell persisted. There beside the soft stone banks of Shoal Creek I recognized what it was: limestone. In Austin, the mineral is all about -- in building façades; in walkways, walls, and fences; and under the shallow soil. In the park limestone outcroppings dominate the hillsides and creek banks. The mild acids in the water and humid air must react with the soft stone's alkalinity to produce the pungency that calls me back. Whatever the precise mix of aromas (perhaps accompanied by certain light, barometric, aural, and visual cues), the sensation was here particularly strong. In the part of Oregon where I live, the soil is acidic and duffed with pine needles, different from that of Austin, and not associated with a long personal history.

In the park, I found a secluded spot and took a leak. My stream of piss splashed against the stone and gave forth a confirmation of my hypothesis. This was a smell I knew from distant childhood. My grandfather's used car lot on Red River Street had been carved out of a soft sedimentary hillside. As a child I played there, peeing freely against the cliff behind the back row of cars. The smell was not particularly pleasant, yet for me evocative, though in a vague way. Memories of memories of memories.

Signage Conundrum

As a conundrum, I offer this set of signs from here in Corvallis. The situation is not as impossible as it may seem. One can actually exit the one-way, dead-end street, which is only half a block long, through an intersecting alleyway or an adjacent parking lot, but I suppose neither are considered thoroughfares in the circumscribed world of traffic signage.

Sprouted Chocolate

In January I attended a sprouting workshop held by Susan, one of our cohousing neighbors. During the introduction, she informed us about the amazing variety of things that can be sprouted. The workshop was spread over two consecutive Saturdays. In between we were to sprout some things on our own. Thinking about her initial claim that many things one might not suspect could indeed be sprouted, I got the idea for sprouted chocolate. I enlisted Leela's help. We bought some Hershey Kisses (dark chocolate variety). I picked off some little rosemary leaves. Leela heated up a hot pin and poked a melted hole in the top of each kiss while I stuck a perky sprig in each one. I took a plate full of the sprouted chocolate kisses to the class, and it was a hit.

Yesterday, Susan was head chef for the communal dinner. She decided the menu would be predominantly sprouted fare: tortilla wraps (with sprouted grain flours), sprouted corn tortillas, hummus (with sprouted chickpeas), sprouted lentil spread, sunflower seed spread, alfalfa sprout salad with oranges, dates, and sprouted walnuts, extra green sprouts, sprouted beverage. She asked me to bring my sprouted chocolate specialty. Here's what it looked like:

SKY FULL OF DREAMS Now Published

For the past five years, I've been working on an aviation biography of my late father, Bruce K. Hallock. Now I'm happy to report that SKY FULL OF DREAMS is finally published and for sale on line. My publishing Web site, ElevonBooks.com, contains a direct link to the Amazon sales page plus some additional information about the book, including a photo gallery.

Maybe the matter-of-fact way I've stated this makes it sound like no big deal. Well it is -- to me, anyway. Writing the book was only half the job. In order to publish this book, I formed my own publishing company, learned about print-on-demand publishing, and set up the distribution scheme. Each of these tasks involved myriad subtasks and lots of learning. I'm very happy with the result -- the book as well as the publishing company, which I can now use as an outlet for other projects.

Other OryCon Oddities

The programming at science-fiction conventions always seems to offer a few delights beyond the expected panels and presentations focused on writing, publishing, and things fanish, and the two OryCons I've attended have been rich with these. At last year's convention, for example, I attended memorable presentations on archery, the dynamics of violence, caring for horses, living off the land, and of course selected science topics. These are all subjects of potential interest to writers of SF and fantasy (readers hate it when writers get basic stuff about horses or physics wrong). This year's programming also contained a bunch of sessions on this sort of "background information," but I only had time for a few. Here, listed randomly, are some highlights gleaned from various panels:

>I heard the discrepancies between the Voyager probes' predicted and actual course described as possible "rounding error in the floating point processor that's simulating the universe."

> Someone said that, according to all the current models of plate tectonics, the Rocky Mountains shouldn't exist.

> Much talk about the inadequacies of the Drake Equation, which purportedly calculates the potential number of extraterrestrial civilizations in our Milky Way galaxy, for example:

• It only considers the possibility of carbon-based life forms. What about other forms?
• Galactic centers are now known to be inhospitable to carbon-based life like us; so that rules out a bunch of stars.
• What about Europa-type planets and other possible abodes of life like planetary crusts that may exist outside the so-called Goldilocks zone?
• Just what is intelligence, anyway?

> At a very interesting panel on metallurgy, the discussion turned to the possibility of refining metals without using heat. Someone mentioned that Brazil nut trees draw radium from the soil and concentrate it in the nuts, making them register significantly higher than the background level on detectors.

I love these little nuggets. I go home and look them up. Ah, sure enough, that's true about Brazil nuts! The Rocky Mountains -- you can check it out if you want.

POD Publishing

At OryCon, I attended several panels and presentations on publishing. My interest in this topic has a couple of sources. First, I want to sell stories and novels to existing publishers. Second, I want to publish a few things myself, i.e., be a publisher.

Print-on-demand (POD) technology and internet marketing now make it easier than ever for anyone to be a publisher, but that's not news. What was news to me was the extent to which many commercially viable small presses (as opposed to home-based, hobby-style entities) and even large publishers are relying on POD. The quality of the physical product is now practically indistinguishable from books printed by the traditional offset method, and for small print runs of trade paperbacks, POD makes economic sense. Of course the quality of the editing and the layout is another matter. I saw some beautiful POD books, and a saw some sloppy ones.

I attended a presentation by Robert Plamondon, who runs a one-man publishing company called Norton Creek Press. Most of his titles are nonfiction on the topic of caring for chickens. Some are authored by him and some are old titles now in the public domain. He's also published his own science fiction novel and a formerly out-of-print role-playing-game book that he'd authored, which was originally published by a traditional press. His chicken books sell best. I think he said he'd sold four copies of his novel to people other than relatives and friends (they were readers who liked his chicken books). Nonfiction is always easier to sell.

I found Plamondon's presentation especially interesting because his publishing business is similar to what I've envisioned for myself -- not hugely ambitious, but not amateurish either. He also uses Lightning Source (LSI) as his printer. My aviation biography of my dad is just now ready to publish, and I'd already decided to use LSI. So I was gratified to learn from Plamondon and other small and mid-size press people at OryCon that I'm on the right track with LSI.

More on OryCon>>>

Flash Fiction

At OryCon 31, I attended a panel on "flash fiction." The panelists were writers and publishers of flash fiction. I didn't know what to expect. I supposed flash fiction might be fiction that's produced rapidly -- in a flash. But it turns out flash fiction refers to stories of extreme brevity -- typically under 1,000 words, although there is no widely accepted length limit. There are lots of markets for flash fiction now -- some paying, most not. A few are print publications, but most are on the internet. Some actually offer their readers a daily e-mail containing a complete flash story.

Of course short-short fiction has been around as since Aesop's Fables, but it seems the form has taken on new life (fits right in with our busy lifestyles and short attention spans). People are even doing Twitter fiction now, which is limited to 140 characters (that's characters, not words!). Someone commented that short fiction in general (not just flash) is currently undergoing a sort of resurgence. I heard a lot about flash and short fiction in general at the convention. Lou Anders (editor guest of honor) said that the cutting edge belongs to the short form. He foresees something like the iTunes model for short fiction.

Anyway I found the idea of flash fiction exciting, as I've been doing my own form of it for some time. Every day I try to turn out a complete piece -- usually fiction -- usually not presentable, trash-ready. My form of flash fiction is indeed produced in a flash. It's a practice, just something to keep my juices flowing, but once in a while I turn out something that, after some polishing, might be acceptable for a flash-fiction market. So I was rapt; I wrote down a dozen or more markets mentioned during the panel. I haven't checked them all out yet.

On to the next OryCon post>>>

Science Fiction Fading, Urban Fantasy Twinkling

Science fiction's star is fading. Not in the movies or on TV or in the gaming universe, but the books are selling less and less. Of course this has been evident for some time, but it's more obvious with each passing year. Fewer titles are being published, and print runs are smaller than ever. Lou Anders, editorial director of Prometheus Books' science fiction imprint Pyr, was editor guest of honor at this year's OryCon, and I saw and heard a lot from him. He's smart, articulate, and very frank.

He says he's not attending the World Science Fiction Convention next year. His convention-attending budget is limited, and WorldCon just isn't worth it any more -- it's gotten too small. World Fantasy Convention attendance has also dwindled to the size of a regional convention. He says both conventions should try having a YA guest of honor (sounds good to me!). On the other hand, DragonCon and Comic-Con International are much more worthwhile, and Anders said he was delighted to find how receptive the attendees of these conventions are to books.

Anders is very enthusiastic about books and literature. At the Sunday morning "Coffee with the Editor" gathering, someone asked him what he's looking for. Anders replied that he's looking for the person who can translate urban fantasy to a historical setting. Well, it made sense when he said it, but now I'm thinking: Isn't that already being done? I guess I missed something there.

By the way, if you're wondering what urban fantasy is, the below-average urban-fantasy setup generally runs something like this: I'm a vampiress with a tattoo and an attitude, and my boyfriend is a werewolf, and the CIA needs our help to combat some unspeakable evil, but a bunch of personal issues are in the way. Come to think of it, that sounds a lot like real life for a lot of people -- if you leave out the part about the CIA and the evil threat.
The readers of UF are mostly women; guys are reading less of everything than they used to. This in part explains the sorry state of written SF, which historically has had a high percentage of male readers.

More on OryCon.

OryCon 31 -- General Observations & Steampunk Stuff

Over the Thanksgiving weekend (Friday--Sunday), Leela and I attended OryCon in Portland. The event is billed as "Oregon's premier science fiction convention." I had attended last year, but this was Leela's first year as an official attendee. The convention was held at the large Portland Doubletree Hotel, and featured a variety of programming, generally focused on science fiction, fantasy fiction, and spin-offs thereof. In addition to the fans, many authors, editors, publishers, and producers attended. Total attendance was about 1,400.

General Observations

Before moving to Oregon, I had been a regular attendee of Austin's ArmadilloCon, which I considered Texas's premier science fiction convention. For me ArmadilloCon is special in that its focus is more literary than most other SF conventions, which tend to have a heavy emphasis on movies, TV, comics, gaming, costuming, etc. So I was a bit leery of OryCon at first, but after this year, I've found that OryCon suits me quite nicely. OryCon's programming seems more diverse than ArmadilloCon; so you see a lot of costumes and much programming that (to me) seems extraneous. But all this does not come at the expense of the literary programming; there were more panels on writing, publishing, and related topics than I could possibly attend. In addition, OryCon provides quite a bit of what I call "background" programming that may be of interest to writers -- panels in which scientists, historians, sociologists, etc. discuss issues in their fields as they relate to science fiction and fantasy.

I noticed a lot of young people at OryCon. From grade-schoolers to teenagers, they were more in evidence than I remember at ArmadilloCon. Over the years, I've heard a lot of moaning at ArmadilloCon about the need for new blood in SF, that the old guard is aging, and so on. Well, I didn't get that feeling so much at OryCon. Of course it's the gaming, the costuming, and media SF that draws the young folks, but that's okay with me. The whole scene just seems more vibrant with them around.

And I really enjoy seeing all those costumes. Even if you're not into dressing up, it's fun being around it. And the costuming is what most attracts Leela; she attended several panels on costuming. Who knows -- maybe I'll do a costume next year! Which brings me to…

Steampunk

Steampunk is huge this year! Steampunk is a literary sub-genre of fantasy and SF that typically features a pseudo-Victorian setting and includes elements of SF or fantasy. In these altered Victorian realities, one might find a dirigible fitted with sails; a steam-powered, clockwork robot; or a vampire having tea with the queen. Steampunk also revels in anachronism and often posits alternate futures in which electricity and the internal-combustion engine have not superseded Victorian-era technology. Although steampunk is retro in its costumes, props, and sets, it's always created by contemporary writers and artists, and often informed by edgy modern sensibilities. So stories by Jules Verne and Arthur Conan Doyle are not steampunk, even though they are science fiction and fantasy of the Victorian era (in other words, the real thing is not the real thing). On the other hand, modern stories featuring Sherlock Holmes or Captain Nemo's Nautilus may be steampunk. Remember The Wild Wild West TV series and movie? That was steampunk. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang might be proto-steampunk. Get the idea?

I've been aware of steampunk as a literary movement for a while but was astonished to see how it had suddenly come to dominate the costuming scene. Everywhere I turned at OryCon, I was running into guys and gals decked out in alternate Victoriana. Gears and old-fashioned gauges are prominent motifs, perhaps suggesting that the character is part machine or at least in close touch with a mechanical sidekick. Headgear includes bowler hats, top hats, pith helmets, and aviator helmets. And then there are the goggles -- elaborate brass and leather creations, some festooned with jewels, extra lenses, gears, and mysterious filigree. I saw one pair that was illuminated from inside by dancing arcs of red light. Yes, brass goggles seem to be the steampunk emblem. They're seldom worn over the eyes but rather up on the hat, as if the character has just emerged from the laboratory where he has been concocting unearthly wonders visible only with the aid of special lenses. Even people who don't bother to get fully costumed in tails and lace and petticoats often don a bowler banded with weird goggles. It's just something you put on to show you're part of the party, like a cowboy-grunge hat at South-by-Southwest. Here, I took some pictures:


Begogled steampunkers. [click photo to enlarge]

One woman, whom I called the Steampunk Princess, had brilliant, red, wavy hair flowing down past her shoulders. This was topped by a tall, white, begoggled pith helmet. Stunning! Later I learned the hair was a wig. Alas, I failed to get her photo.

The winner of the group costume category at Saturday's costume ball, was titled something like "Passengers and Crew of Her Majesty's Airship Somethingorother." Some of them are in the photo collage above.

Where do you get these goggles? Well, you can make them yourself simply by painting and adding accessories to swimming goggled or motorcycle goggles, or you can purchase them from someone in the Dealers' Room at OryCon or similar conventions. A seller of steampunk gear told me he had been in the business of making custom horse tack, but when the recession hit, all that business dried up. His daughter, who was into Goth, suggested he try making some accessories for the Goth crowd, since they like leather. So he did, and he started going to conventions to sell the stuff, and since there's some overlap between the Goth and the Steampunk worlds -- well -- one thing led to another, and here he was standing behind a table arrayed with the strangest eyewear to be found anywhere. I guess Steampunk is recession-proof.


More steampunkiana and assorted fantastica. [click photo to enlarge]

But not everyone was doing steampunk. There was still to be found a sprinkling of barbarians, ghouls, medievalites, spacers, and aliens. I think I saw a couple of Klingons lurking behind a door and a Battle Star Galactica officer looking very lonely. But not a single Spock ear in sight!

Then there were the white-haired science-fiction fans like me, who enjoyed the masquerade but mainly as a diversion between panels and other presentations on literature and science. More about that in the next post...

Leipzig String Quartet

Last night Leela and I attended a concert on the campus of OSU -- three varied works masterfully performed by the Leipzig String Quartet. The first and third offerings were classic works by Mozart and Brahms, both elegantly rendered and warmly received. The second was String Quartet No. 3 "Jagdqartett" by Jorg Widmann (born 1973). It began with all four musicians vigorously swishing their bows in the air and then yelling. The piece progressed through blatantly dissonant runs, aggressive sawing at the strings, odd percussive flourishes, and more rhythmic hollering. It was a very energetic piece, and for me, the spectacle of these virtuosi executing it with such precision alone made it worthwhile. I did, however, feel sorry for the instruments; at the end, all four bows were partially shredded (thankfully this was just before the intermission). As for the piece itself, I must credit my boisterous parrot, Ava, for helping me attain, over the years, a profound appreciation for iconoclastic musical conceits of this sort. Two old men sitting next to me obviously had not benefited from any such tutelage. As the piece came to an end, the two conspicuously withheld their applause. Then one said to the other in a voce hardly sotto: "Just as sh*tty as I thought it would be! Typical contemporary German crap! I want my money back."

Recent psychological experiments have shown that people tend to appraise products more highly when the cost is higher, even in cases where two otherwise identical products are offered for evaluation. For example experts will insist that the wine poured from an expensive bottle is superior to the same stuff served in a bottle featuring a cheep sticker. Well, perhaps this doesn't apply to musical performances. By implication, the gentleman who wanted his money back paid something for the concert. We, on the other hand, got our tickets free from a friend, and I left thinking I would have gladly paid the full $25 ticket price for this experience. More data needed.

Cleaning Trance

In November of 2007, we were still in the midst of getting our Eva Street home ready to sell. We propelled ourselves through an intense period of long days spent packing possessions, getting rid of excess baggage, and sprucing up the old house. I got in the habit of cleaning stuff that I hadn't much bothered with before -- baseboards, corners of closets, window sills, etc. It seemed I always had a couple of cleaning rags going.

Around Thanksgiving we took a break and drove our first truckload of stuff up to Corvallis. We only spent a few days, then returned to Austin to continue packing and divesting ourselves of the old place. During that brief visit to our new hometown, we ate at Sunnyside Up. In the restroom while drying my hands, I noticed that the light-switch cover was very dirty. Without thinking, I started scrubbing it with the wet paper towel I'd just used. I'd cleaned half of it before I realized the absurdity of my action and stopped.

Today Leela and I dined at that restaurant again, and once again I visited the restroom. Remembering my cleaning trance of over a year ago, I noticed that half of the light switch cover was still dirty. So I thought: What the heck! And just cleaned the rest of it.

Brother, Can You Spare a Buck

Last Saturday on NPR's Weekend Edition, I heard a wonderful story on the history of the Depression-era song "Brother, Can You Spare a Dime." Pianist and composer Rob Kapilow took an in-depth look at the song to explore "why it was so successful in its time, and why it still speaks to listeners today." It's worth checking out. Both the audio and the transcript of the story are here on the NPR site. I suggest listening to the audio, because the story is "illustrated" with example passages from the tune.

Anyway, I couldn't get the song out of my head; so I decided to update the lyrics:

Once I built a Web site, made it shine.
Man, it brought me good luck.
Once I built a Web site. Now it's dyin'.
Brother, can you spare a buck?

Once I had a boutique in the mall --
Wind chimes, candles, wooden duck.
Once I had a boutique -- that was last fall.
Sister, can you spare a buck?

Once I owned a mansion in a nice suburb --
heated pool, gas grill, steak of chuck.
Once I had a mansion. Now I'm on the curb.
Brother, can you spare a buck?

Once in desert camo, God, we looked great,
Full of that with-or-against-us.
Half a million limbs we had to amputate.
And I was the kid most zealous!

Say, don't you remember? They called me "Dude."
It was "Hey, Dude!" you used to holler.
Why don't you remember? I just need some food.
Say, buddy, can you spare a dollar?

Copyright, Austin Bruce Hallock, 2008

My Big Wildcrafting Triumph

Wildcrafting is the practice of harvesting uncultivated plants from their natural or "wild" habitat. I provide this definition because I was not familiar with the word before moving to Oregon. I guess I was wildcrafting blackberries all summer, but to tell the truth my ambitions did not extend much beyond that. This changed today.

Yesterday I went for a walk in Willamette Park along the river in the early morning fog. After several days of solid rain, the sun had finally come out the day before, and more clear days were in store. Passing a large moss-covered oak tree, I noticed, about nine or ten feet up the shady side of the trunk where a large branch had been removed, a white, hemispheric mass about the size of my head. Its surface was not smooth but stranded in a way that looked familiar.

Over the past few months, Leela and I had been experimenting with various mushrooms, mostly obtained from the local farmers' market. It seems our area is rich in mushroom varieties. One of the varieties obtained from the market that we'd liked very much was the lion's mane, which is what I thought I'd seen in the tree. The ones we'd bought had been cultivated, though, and the one wildcrafter who sells at the market never had lion's mane. Today I told the wildcrafter what I'd seen, and she became very excited. She confirmed that it probably was a lion's mane, because nothing else looks quite like it. She said she'd never found one in the wild. She wanted to know where it was. She wanted me to take a picture.

Leela and I promptly pedaled our bikes out to the site. It was still there. We'd brought a stick to try to knock it down, but that crude tactic proved unnecessary. I hoisted Leela up on my shoulder, and she was able to retrieve it. It was incredibly heavy -- maybe five pounds. It had absorbed a lot of water. I put it in a sack and carried it in my pannier back to the farmers' market, which was still in progress. I wanted the wildcrafter there to confirm what it was before we ingested it. She declared it "a magnificent specimen" and wanted to hold it. I allowed her to do so. She said mushroom gatherers tend to miss them, because they're always looking down. It took an amateur to find this thing.
At home I cleaned it (you're not supposed to wash mushrooms, just brush them off, I've learned), sliced it, and sauteed it with olive oil, a little butter, garlic, and some red wine at the end. Of course the sauteing brought out great quantities of moisture. The aroma is fantastic -- nutty, buttery, and kind of vanillaish. We ate it with rice, toasted walnuts, and salad. We could only find one neighbor to share it with on the spur of the moment. Even so, there was enough left for two more generous meals for Leela and me.
A little searching on the Web, turns up lots of pictures and info about lion's mane (Hericium erinaceus). Wikipedia has a nice picture of it growing on the tree (mine looked even better on the tree, but we were too excited about getting it down to take a picture first). It's valued for its medicinal properties as well as its culinary charms (there's evidence of anti-dementia effects and the ability to stimulate nerve growth). One site said it's highly prized in Chinese medicine, and at one time could only be eaten by the emperor -- that's me.