Vote For Something That Matters: Books!


I try here at Clotho’s Loom to promote these guys a few times per year–they’ve done a lot to increase the visibility of Indie Authors, and I’ve never heard of them never asking for a dime from anyone.  Goodreads provides forums for writers and readers, hosts giveaways, allows one to rank books on any number of reader-generated lists, and make friends as with any other social media.

So take a few moments off from following those other less-vital campaigns, and see if you can’t discover your next several reads, while helping keep literacy alive in America.

P.S.  I don’t have a book in the running. . .this year. . .

Stephen Colbert Follows Suit; But Is the Joker a Card or a Player?

Republican Presidential candidate Jeb Bush chats with Stephen on the premiere of The Late Show with Stephen Colbert, Tuesday Sept. 8, 2015 on the CBS Television Network. Photo: Jeffrey R. Staab/CBS ©2015 CBS Broadcasting Inc. All Rights Reserved

Review by Google“>Shawn Stjean

It’s literally true that men’s suits are tailored too small these days, and visibly obvious as the veteran comedian struggles to fill the large seams of David Letterman’s/CBS’s Late Show.  For years following his apprenticeship as a correspondent on Jon Stewart’s Daily Show, Colbert ran his own Comedy Central program back-to-back with Stewart’s, and the pairing guided liberals through the American media landscape with satire akin to a crime that, a few hundred years ago, anyone from Jonathan Swift to Benjamin Franklin’s brother could have been tossed into prison for.

Neither The Colbert Report nor The Daily Show ran perfectly: at just a half-hour per episode, four episodes per week (when we were lucky,) only four hours of content stood on offer, and half that devoted to increasingly lightweight interviews with authors promoting books, celebrities on junkets pimping movies, with an occasional human rights’ activist or even president thrown in.  But although a few real questions made it through, they were not often answered, with Stewart reduced to posting extra content online.  Still, these retirements left a couple of hours that America could ill-afford to lose: the foibles of politicians mocked, the mis-doings of the corporate power structure targeted.  I haven’t been this disappointed by a major player cashing out since Borders bookstores folded.  Colbert, in his persona as a staunch reactionary, remained impervious for a decade or so to the slippery slope we’re all on; meanwhile, his mentor couldn’t help but take it more personally.  Perhaps both men wished to move on before machinery of the 2016 election season really got cranked up: Trump and his clown-car of other knaves meant to distract us for a year and more from the real players dealing from the bottom of the deck.  I’m sure Stewart had grown weary of his part in the charade.  Meanwhile, Colbert, slightly shifted to the left and into the palatial Ed Sullivan Theater, remains in the game–sorta.

More great talent flushing.  Letterman wasn’t really kidding with all those jabs at “the Network” over the years.

Others will replace the discards, of course.  John Oliver, who stood in for Stewart-on-leave and now gets a half-hour per week on HBO’s Last Week Tonight, has proven something of a wild card.  He devotes a sustained 15-minutes (watch the program–this is more than anyone else) to one of our nation’s social problems, anything from the plight of chicken farmers to prison system injustices.  He doesn’t dilute the content with interviews, either; while these must have been the cost of doing business on basic cable, HBO can afford the ante.

But it appears as if Stephen Colbert has begun to tread the path of greats like Drew Carey and Craig Ferguson, whose diminution into ever-lower-stakes venues confront us all with the cost of extended play, even when The Price Is Wrong.  His expanded format requires Colbert to interview even more now, and even though his presence is edgier than Letterman’s (he and Oliver flipped each other the bird this week,) and he has the cred to draw celebrities with the gravitas of Tom Hanks now, it’s mostly going to consist of “good fun.”  At least he’s retired the worn-out Letterman staples such as the Top Ten list–and viewers may miss Dave’s flannel, dry wit and relentless repetition of a gag until the laughs came.  Stephen, by contrast, flashes like sharkskin and shows as many teeth.  It’s part of his schtick to represent himself as wealthy enough to buy the pot, but I have to wonder if the muscles at the corners of his mouth aren’t already aching, his armpits chafing.  How long can he keep up the bluff?

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British Infiltration: Rockers Ryker Sear, Lux Lisbon Fight the War for Discoverability


Ryker Sear is fronted by Regan Vincenza and James Torselli

Review by Google“>Shawn Stjean

I’m about as far from a London music-scene insider as an introverted teacher from east-coast US with few social media connections can be; and yet, they found me.  And if these up-and-coming bands can root me out and evoke a review, they’re a lot closer to the mainstream than maybe even they know.  That’s the beauty of the great artistic endeavor in the 21st century: if you’re a writer, a painter or illustrator, a musician, a prophet or pundit–whether you’ve got battle scars or henna tattoos–you can scream your message to a global audience.   If you’ve got the the talent, the brains, and the balls–not necessarily in that order–then dare to deafen the masses!

I admit I’m a little concerned over the ultra-competitive gene such an electronically facilitated/driven marketplace will breed into the DNA of the younger generation.  Social Darwinism is never pretty, and social-media-darwinism (SMD) won’t likely class it up (“she with the most friends, wins”).  But maybe there are enough followers to go around.

Sure, you’ll have to give your art away for awhile, which is how they found me.  But ask yourself: is that any worse than an office internship, or signing five figures deep into student loans, or pulling an oar on the good ship EvilCorp until your passage is paid?  As Lux Lisbon themselves put it, “Money doesn’t make a man a man.”

Maybe it’s worthwhile to describe the tactics by which this war can be fought by the guerrilla non-elite.  My publishing imprint has a Twitter account which is completely automated, to the extent that all I do is choose people and entities to follow back–and if they have anything to do with books, or art in general, I do.  That way, I don’t dilute the imprint “@GlasDaggrePubs” with a bunch of unrelated connections–hoping to attract more writers and artists.  Now, the folks across the pond, being undoubtedly more savvy at the game than I, followed me, and I followed back.  They then thanked me with a follow-up reachout, by name, and offered a link to some free tunes–which I ignored.  Here’s the key: persistence.  The next day, Stu from Lux Lisbon e-mailed me directly, with a cleverly worded message that the link had been broken, but would now work.  A harmless fabrication, there, I suspect.  But, I decided to spare the bandwidth for their new EP, which is routed through their website with plenty of YouTube video links.  Never a single Ask for money.  And now, the crucial requirement, without which no amount of promotion can save an artist:  Much as one would do with a car radio, I decided to give three songs only a listen–for about thirty seconds each.  If nothing grabbed me in that amount of time, case-closed and on to the next thing.  Well, on the third random press of the old electronic jukebox button, “Show Me the Money” got its hooks into me.  So yeah, the talent end of the equation is, and always will be, the necessary bullet in the gun.

Standouts from the Get Some Scars EP include “Demons You Show” (good enough to feature an alternate, acoustic duet version to anchor the album) and “The Devil Got Me Dancing” (instant classic–trust me.)  Stuart Rook and Charlotte Austen trade lyrics clearly influenced by early Springsteen in their relentless resistance to one-and-two syllable words, but more importantly, simplistic meaning. Someone in this outfit happens to be an inventive videographer, as well, and they’re tech-literate enough to offer multiple download formats for all your devices. Check it:

A year earlier, the initial process followed by Regan from Ryker Sear had not, details aside, been dissimilar.  She kindly offered me some merch when I wrote to praise a the free video (and remember, I’m nobody special) which I declined on principle until I could at least write a review (both bands have cannily maintained online stores–I agree, screw the middle-man, he earned nothing!)  And, that last vital requirement reveals itself: you’ve gotta be deadly patient–I mean Viet-Cong patient.  Discovery happens, but like songwriting–any kind of writing–it’s slow process and one-soldier-at-a-time recruitment.

Ryker Sear have got HD videos up on Vevo: Soundcloud: and of course the inevitable YouTube host through their own site: “To the Ending” alone is a great track, a great music video, and deserves airplay here in the States better than 90% of what’s getting it on the commercial stations glutted with tired 80s/90s recycled junk that never was very good in the first place. “Forever Criminal” makes a worthy follow-up. Unlike the lyric-agile tongue-twisting and acousti-fused material of Lisbon, Regan Vincenza’s voice weights her tunes in equal proportion with a punchy percussion and juiced-guitar riffs that will make Sear‘s body of work more appealing to the traditional rock crowd.  Their EP is 2012’s Tell Me Why, with free single release “Forever Criminal” promised for this October 13.  The material of either band may not sound fully cooked in the ears of music-industry professionals, but then again, it hasn’t been commodified, homogenized, and neutered yet by pros, either.

Remember, youngsters, you may not be raking in much on the front end, but you’re also not paying a mortgage payment to the Man in promotional fees, letting an agent take his blood-pound, or signing deals that will lock you up for another three albums, like the rock legends of old had to do.

As for you fans, you need to know that these guys have fanbases still modest enough in size to be appreciated, up close and personal.  Write the band members–they write back!  Years from now, as every twerp with an iPhone17 is bragging to his pals about his great musical taste, you’ll be able to say you’ve been following the greats since the 20-teens.

Do your best, and the money takes care of itself.  Heat the oven, and the bread will bake.  Or, as I like to opine when in a metaphor-mixing mood, sweat always rises to the top.


Lux Lisbon is Stuart Rook, Charlotte Austen, Tom Cooper, Jamie Shaw. EP cover.

Evil Archetypes of Pop Culture: Satyrs, Succubi, and Other Sexual Predators/Book Review: Crea DelRand’s “Lure of the Prairie Monster” and Monster Erotica


King Kong (2005) can be read as symbolic landscape hosting the battle between reptilian/predatory aspect of the Freudian Id and the life-force aspect of the Id.

Review by Google“>Shawn Stjean

For this eighth entry into the blog’s most popular essay series, I’d like to change up the format and combine a review of a particular writer’s work with my more general, cultural analysis.

First, as you read what follows, you must understand one thing.  I’m a man.  Which means: it’s okay if I’m completely wrong after this sentence ends; just don’t expect me to admit it.

As deep as we all are into the era of postmodernism, when a “new” genre gains popularity, it’s a safe bet that it addresses some old need in a refreshed manner, rather than having recognized a facet of human nature no one’s ever uncovered before.  The rise of Monster or Creature Erotica in not only the marginalia of video game and porn sites, but in the mainstream book culture, signals such a resurgence.

One of the most overlooked episodes of Homer’s eighth-century B.C. epic the Odyssey, excised from most high-school textbooks, concerns the adventure of the protagonist on the isle of Circe, the witch/exiled goddess.  Pedigreed as the daughter of the sun, we may safely infer that the Olympians have not banished her because she conforms to their idea of a “good girl.” Hermes, whose phallic stone herms can to this day be found all over the peninsula, explicitly instructs Odysseus to threaten Circe with his sword and rape her (though most translators employ poetic euphemisms).  Turns out, however, that Circe is a willing victim, and much of her mysterious power blooms from yonic symbolism–the island itself, her voice, her weaving, her drugs that turn men into beasts.  A full year after his “victory,” the hero is still there, in what his men call a “trance,” and the crew must nearly riot to tear him from her arms.  Although Homer casts the details more subtly than most mythmakers, overall this looks like a satyr/naiad seduction of a mortal (or incubus/succubus, if you prefer more medieval terms.)  We humans constantly wage cold war with the demands of our Freudian Ids, (to complete my jargon-journey into the twentieth century,) and they, as incarnations of powerful desire, are absolutely capable of knocking us down, sucking the air from our lungs, and drowning us–at least for a time.  And, most frighteningly, all without us necessarily acknowledging it’s happening, at the conscious level.

Now, the shadowy Id–often mischaracterized as our “evil” self–also comprises our very life force, the power that gets us out of bed in the morning, keeps us seeking and striving and sowing and reaping all day, so its cyclical ascendance over the ego (our manufactured identity) and superego (our “moral” self) needn’t be a terrible thing.  If we can break the spell.

DelRand’s story (packaged as an inexpensive e-book on Amazon and other e-tailers, and sampled on her over-18 blog treads the edge between fantasy and realism, as undoubtedly much of the genre does. Heroine Tess isn’t fulfilled by her sexual encounters with “ordinary” men.  To be clear, the problem lies in intimacy and sensitivity, not physical dysfunction or performance issues.  A century ago, her dissatisfaction would have been diagnosed by male doctors as some variety of female pathology: frigidity, perhaps, or nymphomania.  I suspect the genre’s writers–many of whom are women, though pseudonyms abound–have often used this motif as a convenient plot device. However, monster erotica can be interpreted, as here, in the vein of social criticism.  Our culture groups its inhabitants in so many ways: by race, religion, ideology, age, income bracket.  Naturally gender and sexual orientation could not escape polarization, either.  Tess’ tale begins post-coitus with her lover, an alpha-type who’d rather break up with her than confront her unarticulated needs, lest he have to confront some inadequacy of his own.

DelRand swells the fantasy structure in her second act, when Tess awakens–minor SPOILER follows–to find herself grown to many times the size of her “small self” (a phrase I read as code for “inhibited, repressed, oppressed self”).  Now she can mate with the titular monster, described by locals as “Godzilla” but suggested by the narrator more in terms of a giant primate, like King Kong.  Thus can her empathy and identification with him as Other be <ahem> worked out.  She’s been, after all, complained of by her erstwhile boyfriend as a kind of monster herself.  So, while for the local (male) farmers the roaming monster could be a psychological projection of some other evil, for Tess–I don’t think this too much of a stretch–he functions as a means to embrace and love her wild, Jungian animus: her own male side.  However, the ending of the tale comes, perhaps like sex itself, predictably and yet a bit abruptly–dare I say unsatiatingly.  But maybe that’s the point.

One need not embrace theoretical feminism to recognize the tragedy of a culture that pollutes something as natural as sex, to the extent that many normally functioning adult males will admit to having tried Viagra for no reason beyond innocent curiosity.  The problem comes down to the fact that few men and women talk openly about sex: why pornography centers around the penis but rarely features male faces, for example, or why its dominant fetishization is so often facial ejaculation.  Who could blame a woman who interpreted this cliche’ climax as revealing a lust for degrading domination of women, perhaps out of frustration over his powerlessness in other aspects of life (like the competitive workplace.)  It’s just as likely that a man’s base instinct to enjoy such an act comes out of the same deep-seated need for total acceptance by his partner.

Vulnerability over the need for acceptance and love seems obvious when considering women (threat of rape, 9-month extended periods of pregnancy, regular menstruation being accepted parts of daily life) but not so much for men.  Yet DelRand approaches it with the male line “You need so much. I can’t give you enough. You know, it’s terrifying to a man to be with a woman who needs more than he does.”  As a man with many male friends, however, and at the risk of burying the point, I’d urge this writer to resist and revise such mouthpiece material.  Most of us guys would have lashed out, in various stages of anger or frustration or humor, “You’re such a horny bitch/wench/slut!” (a slur being the quickest way to defuse someone else’s legitimate complaints/requests, and evocative of a ever-present double-standard).

So, from my admittedly limited engagement with the genre, the monster-porn fantasy seems to me to fulfill the unconscious female desire to regress the male into his simpler, more primitive form, one perhaps less verbally articulate but more intuitively responsive, undamaged by the demands of his acculturated ego.  Also, of course, as the still from King Kong hints, the feminine need for security, safety and protection by males (correction–the right male) from violent, unsavory predators seems equally served by such fantasies.  DelRand’s monster folding Tess into his gentle palm, an homage to the famous effect from the Kong movies, illustrates this need. In short, there’s a lot more going on than sex here.

Perhaps it’s a dangerous assumption that the target audience for such non-violent erotica is primarily female, but the subject is too broad not to limit it somehow.

For those interested, the subject of fantasy sex need not be male-forbidding.  Jon Norman’s underground 1970s-and-beyond Gor series–a counter-Earth orbiting the opposite side of our sun–explores many of these themes from a man’s perspective, especially of sexually inhibited men and women freed of cultural brainwashing.  Though not technically of the more recent Monster Erotica subgenre, this sci-fi set of cult classics–particularly the first half-dozen of the series–might strike a chord with fans, though undoubtedly too masculinist and chest-thumping for many in the  audience, a sort of analog to the Harlequin Romance.

By the way, some of these authors produce their more mainstream fiction under other identities, for reasons of the marketplace.  I imagine this to be an excellent means of stretching one’s writerly muscles: sex, especially, is notoriously hard to write without invoking unintentional laughter (as many anxiety-causing topics do, cf. gallows humor).  It makes sense, then, that purposeful humor would be a staple of these stories–and a good laugh vents repression and discomfort, too. So it’s a genre meant to be fun.

Well into the nineteenth century, novels themselves–any fiction–were a source of guilty pleasure in Europe and America.  A gentleman would either posture himself as above such “nonsense,” or at minimum be discreet enough to hide such books among the compartments of his home.  Certainly wives and daughters would have the decency to conceal theirs.  And now, as then, if fiction were more compelling and attractive than truth, we have no one but ourselves to blame.

Purchase links:


Giveaway and Review Copies of Clotho’s Loom


What’s better than FREE?

We run several giveaways for paperback copies of Shawn StJean’s novel Clotho’s Loom per year, hosted by great sites like Goodreads and LibraryThing.  Check at the bottom of this site’s left-hand column for the current link!

For a review copy, also search left for the author’s contact information.

“Both a military action-adventure and a surreal exploration of the human unconscious, Clotho’s Loom uses a sniper’s mission overseas as a framework for old-style allegory, symbolism, irony, and a host of other literary devices in the tradition of Hawthorne, Poe, and Melville.”

“Avengers Resemble. . .”: Marvel’s Mega-Series, What the Kids Are(n’t) Reading, and Political Allegory


Review by Google“>Shawn Stjean

Marvel Studios has achieved something almost frighteningly big with its 21st-century film releases, Avengers: Age of Ultron only the most recent: not merely a franchise, but essentially an ongoing TV-type mega-series, with a cast of hundreds and a monetary value inestimable.  No longer content to re-boot and re-hash origin stories, filmakers can now rely on a continuity that allows story and character arcs to develop over years.  And that grandmaster of the long game, Joss Whedon, as he has done with all the other shows he’s run, has got all the pieces in motion and can pass the baton to whomever shares the vision.

Fans of Buffy and Angel would have to be dim not to recognize Whedon’s trademark setting of the “Big Bad” behind the scenes, scheduled to emerge 2/3 into a “season” as a major threat to the small group of heroes, while discreet episodes detail the rise-and-falls of minor bad guys all witlessly advancing a grand scheme.  Themes are also put into place, some of which resonate indefinitely (see the excellent final season of Angel), and some of which seem abortive or merely fun.  Avengers 2, for example, deploys a consistent but confusing array of Judeo-Christian religious allusions.  Perhaps a Jim Starlin could suss them into something coherent–recall he’s the creator credited with the Thanos/Warlock death-and-resurrection mythology that Whedon has anticipated–so I’ll leave that task to him or others like him. And the Avengers is also a family drama.  More pertinent today would be to trace some political implications of the elements in this latest sequence of films especially.

Students in first-year college English courses become familiar with Jonathan Swift’s method in “A Modest Proposal,” in which he bitterly attacked both the British and Irish gentry, nearly three centuries ago, for their roles in the starvation of the Irish working class.  In outlining a plan requiring the Irish to eat their own children as a solution, Swift employed enough levels of irony to take a four-hour night-class to unpack, and Whedon follows suit.  Keep in mind that the point of political allegory is not only to insulate the social reformer/artist/critic from counterattack by distancing her from the social criticism (“It’s just a kids’ movie,”) but to tell two stories at once: on the literal level, the Marvel Universe contains a host of “enhanced” individuals who struggle with their abilities, each other, and their enemies; on the figurative level, these characters face the moral ambiguities that we all face every day, of living in the most politically and technologically powerful nation on the planet.

Turns out that the small-screen extended narrative structure works well for social criticism, which has always been deplored as “bad art,” going back to ancient Greek tragedy.  A series of interlocked stories allows the social critic/artist to diffuse the attack, both time-wise and target-wise.  Marvel’s favorite theme is government abuse of power, and SHIELD stands in for whatever agency you like to hate, or all combined (FBI, CIA, NSA, ATF, and so on.)  In Whedon’s Firefly, they called it the Alliance.  Character mouthpiece for these attacks has by default become Captain America, a man frozen in ice at the end of WWII and awakening to a world where technology threatens constantly to supplant human values of liberty and justice.  “This isn’t freedom,” he insists to Nick Fury in The Winter Soldier (a subtitle hearkening back to investigations into Vietnam War crimes in which American veterans testified,) referring to SHIELD’s hovering platform that murders “hostiles” from orbit, in a clear nod at the US unmanned drone program.  Cap will complete that unfinished statement in Age of Ultron, as Fury’s helicarrier rises to evacuate the imperiled civilians of a floating city: “This is what SHIELD was meant to be.”

The reform agenda may be as mystifying to some as the religious elements.  Subtle touches like casting Robert Redford (who portrayed Watergate investigative journalist Bob Woodward in All the President’s Men and the betrayed protagonist of Three Days of the Condor, among other anti-establishment vehicles) as the puppetmaster World Councilman, though a neat bit of irony for those in tune, will be lost on the young.  Mark Twain, a virulent social critic in the late 19th century, was deplored by some contemporaries as “selling out” by covering up his artistic reform with low humor.  Above all, these films chronicle action.  And let us never forget that mega-corp Disney pulls the strings, to the tune of billions of dollars.

At times, though, Whedon’s/Marvel’s criticism becomes pointed, as when Ultron himself declares “Men always create what they fear. . .Invaders create Avengers.”  Aside from a cheeky reference to another of Marvel’s super-groups, I can’t help but hear in that the director referencing the unending cycle of violence that has come with America’s involvement in the Middle East.  Though the reference could apply, for all I know, to the destruction of the Alamo–endless revenge cycles are a very old story.   But not a subtle one–nor is the free-fall collapse of a skyscraper visually linked to the 9/11 collapse of the World Trade Center.

Contrary to Cap, Tony Stark would like to see machines take all work out of human hands, whether it be robotic weapons for the military, or the Avengers themselves: “I see a suit of armor around the entire world,” he announces in Age of Ultron.  Naturally, he’d hold all the codes, because at bottom he’s a fascist who doesn’t believe in deciding by referendum.  Instead, he keeps his own counsel and custody of the tech–which makes him and Nick Fury uneasy allies–and relies on personal charm to persuade Bruce Banner to help him create Ultron (in the future, watch for him to work his seduction on Peter Parker.)  Echoing Neville Chamberlain’s doomed vision of “peace for our time” after his 1938 meeting with Hitler, Stark can’t see his own God Complex, creator of a Frankensteinian metal army in his own image.  Opposing him, temperamentally and verbally, is Steve Rogers, extending his deep misgivings about secret agendas into this episode:

“How can you beat that?” challenges Stark, implying some threats are too imposing to be met with anything less than equally destructive force.

“Together,” affirms Cap.

Stark scoffs openly.  “We’ll lose.”

“Well then, we’ll do that together, too.”

From the audience’s perspective, it’s hard not to align with Cap’s self-reflexive naivete, his belief in democratic principles, and he has the right of it.  If we really do live in a republic, then we can’t relinquish moral decisions to machinery, whether of government bureaucracy or armed soldiers; “Ultron thinks we’re the monsters.  This isn’t just about beating him–it’s about whether he’s right.”

Ultron (Iron Man’s doppelganger) insists we should, as humans, evolve.  Is he right?

After all, we’re willing to let the supposedly better-informed tell us who our enemies are, direct evidence be damned; we’re willing to allow them to kill them for us, a few civilian casualties be damned; we’re even willing to let machines execute the so-called criminals without charge or trial, and our leaders brag out of television screens about it.  Never mind all the thousand little tasks machines daily take out of our hands, so that we may do worse mischief with them, or let them lie idle, or tap endlessly on cell phones.

The trouble with mechanistic thinking is that it can’t account for certain equations.  As Dostoevsky wrote, “2+2=4 is a very fine thing, but sometimes 2+2=5.”  And that’s Humanity for you–illogical, emotional, idealistic, cynical, intuitive–at our best, more than the sum of our parts.  But Stark’s robot AI, as obsessed with building ever-more-powerful anthropomorphic bodies as Iron Man himself with upgrading his armor, can’t see such distinctions.  “Ultron can’t tell the difference between saving the world and destroying it.  I wonder where he gets that from?”  Yes, abandoning freedom in defense of security–it would be as pointless as eating one’s own children.

Artists like to play disingenuous or directly disavow the political implications of their work, of course–a more famous case being J.R.R. Tolkien denying that The Lord of the Rings was not a re-(pre-?) telling of the nuclear denouement of World War II (his stated defense was that his good guys didn’t use the Ring of Power.)  Joss Whedon, famous for his Whack-a-Mole interview responses, would no doubt evade likewise.  But, in a sense, readers matter more than artists.  The values of Marvel Comics and films still make it through to the kids, however clothed: It’s disastrous to keep secrets from your friends, or to do a bad act in a service of a good ideal;  people can change, albeit painfully; and loving someone sometimes means having to push them off a cliff.

We might anticipate where all this is heading–we’ve witnessed, in spite of a visible concern for civilians in the way, a vast amount of property damage follow in the Avenger’s wake, especially the Hulk’s.  In 2016, the next Captain America fim, entitled Civil War, will likely dramatize the governmental response to this, with Stark and Rogers’ antagonism boiling over: “I don’t trust a man without a dark side.”  “Maybe you just haven’t seen it yet.”  The theft of Wakanda’s vibranium stores (stripmining of natural resources) prepares us for blowback from Wakanda in the upcoming Black Panther film.  I also wonder if the Scarlet Witch’s addition to the cast might bode some shades of House of M and Avengers Disassembled.   Asgard only knows that Marvel has an embarassment of riches in macro-event-mythology, to draw from.


Memorial Day 2015–May We Continue to Earn the Freedom Others Have Sacrificed For


It’s been a few years since I posted any material from the novel that gives this blog its name, but I thought today would be fitting to include this bit, as we remember the men and women who have defended our freedom.  Here, a lawyer who is eighty years old and more remembers his younger days.

Excerpt from Clotho’s Loom (2012):

“You see, this is not my first time around the

block. The firm wasn’t always so fortunate or selective

in its clientele, especially in the early days. My father

didn’t want to see me drafted into Germany or Italy. He

lost his own father and two brothers in the Great War,

and had to do things himself he wouldn’t talk to me

about. I know that poison gas burned his lungs, in the

trenches: it crippled, and eventually killed him–fifty

years later, true, but he should have lived longer.  He

was ten years younger than I am now.”  He stared out

past the immediate vicinity of blocks and buildings for a

moment, something catching in his throat, and Nexus

recognized that pause–for she had a husband who also

had a father in a veteran’s cemetery, out there

somewhere. “Whenever I studied his ravaged face, and

the face of every man like him, I knew for each and

every one, there were three dead men I couldn’t see

standing behind, and that I owed my very way of life to

them. I always felt restless in that Cambridge library,

while other men my own age defended me against the

new fascists, but Father wouldn’t hear of me seeking a

commission. I took my degree, I came here. To the

homefront, he said. ‘To fight on the homefront.’”

He returned his gaze to the more shallow

tableau before him—just another day, many would have

thought. Much had changed, naturally. But Wright had

the faculty of perceiving the town much as an old man

sees his wife of many years—still that young bride he

married, years before.

“In Mr. Domino I found—or assumed, I

suppose—a kindred spirit. Oh, we’re temperamentally

at odds, I admit. He escaped dreadful devastation as a

lad, and it wasn’t his lot to serve in Vietnam. I was

happy for him—my adopted brother, in a way. As his

last act, Father got him out of it somehow–I never

inquired. Never insisted. What right had I to? But I

could see him, even as a young man, fighting a war

every day. His fire. I could harness that. Later, he took

it out on the corporations, and in those days that was a

good thing. We did volume: had a lot of blue-collar

work come through, class-action and even some anti-

trust stuff. Us versus Them, we used to say.  It was

smashing to be young.  We could even afford pro bono

cases, a few: got money for disabled GIs. All together,

lucrative enough to keep us going, and still on the right

side. Domino ran our little army: he was a soldier like I

could never be.” Wright seemed at the point of finishing,

as if the series of recollections wearied him.

“I just pick the wars, but he fights them. And

now, you,” he added, turning toward her again with

hope, or as much hope as anyone who has seen the

better part of a century can have.