Kathleen, Kage and the Company

Kage Baker was familiar with various breathing aids. As you get older, you either need something yourself or someone you know finds themselves hooked up to the tanks and tubes of assisted respiration. She quite hated the idea of something on her face, though; she was grateful to the end that she never needed it herself.

It’s miraculous that she didn’t – bronchitis was one of her hobbies for years, but once it was licked it never came back. Somehow, Kage avoided emphysema or COPD or that patron monster of informercial attornies, mesothelioma. Avoiding the last was especially noteworthy, since we lived for over a decade in an ancient, weird cottage literally covered with asbestos tiles … but then, we never made a habit of going out and snorting lines off the walls.

Anyway, her lungs were kind and didn’t give her problems as she aged. Neither have mine, actually – my lungs are fine. My problem is that I have obstructive sleep apnea, and my epiglottis blocks my airway at intervals while I sleep. My heart, burdened as it is with with chronic heart failure, is unable to pump hard enough to oxygenate my blood sufficiently with what little oxygen I get. My lungs do what they can, but for months  my brain has been slowly turning to pudding.

But today I got my CPAP – my continuous positive airway pressure mask! Kimberly drove me to the office, as I was too groggy to feel safe; it also seemed like a good idea to have someone with a functioning brain listen to the instructions. The mask is a multi-purpose wonder. It’s designed to deliver nice breathing air at an increased pressure to my nasal passages as I sleep, and literally force oxygen down my bronchia. This does two nifty things: makes sure my airway cannot close on me in my sleep, and gets a good adequate amount of air down to my lungs.

The fitting for the mask was rather amusing. The room where the respiratory techs met me was full of shelves loaded with various mask models – some of which were evidently intended for use on the surface of Mars. Or maybe came equipped with IR goggles for use in the dark – some looked like giant fly masks. There was one that looked for all the world like a burka face piece, in a camo print: the mind boggles. Luckily, one of the techs looked at me, and said doubtfully, “You have a tiny nose …” So I got a tiny mask, which basically only covers my sub-standard nose. I don’t care; it’s light, comfortable and works fine. There are straps enough to keep a war helmet on my head, and a long hilarious hose on a swivel that runs to the air pump.

The pump is also small. And, to my delight and astonishment, it is practically silent! I will not become a noise hazard! In fact, I’ll be less noisy than I was, because this will stop me snoring as a side effect. It’s got a satisfying number of lights and buttons, to control air pressure and duration and hydration; and I’ve been sternly tutored in all necessary hygiene. And I’d like to think that 50 years of reading science fiction has given me a head start in air mask cleanliness anyway.

I’ve taken two naps today – one with mask, one without. I wanted a trial run and a control, to see if any immediate difference is noticeable. And it is! I woke from the maskless nap feeling like a bowl of mashed potatoes dropped on the floor – ie, normal; but with the mask on, I woke feeling all sparkly and alert.

In the meantime, the whole set up business has been incredibly easy. I can sleep normally, I can move my head on my pillows, and I can scare the cats if they come to lovingly sit on my face in the night … I just open my mouth and relax my glottis, and WHOOSH! A hurricane roars out of my mouth and the kitties will be flying.

No end of fun, and I haven’t even slept the night through yet! I can hardly wait to see what I feel like tomorrow.

Kage Baker belonged to that school of thought that believes in metaphysical sensors and alarms.

You know, the ones that go off, usually in inanimate objects, as soon as a large sum of money comes one’s way. Tax returns, lottery prizes, royalty checks, the unexpected 20 bucks found in your jeans’ pocket – any of those wonderful landfalls that arrive, deliciously free of strings or obligations, out of the sympathetic blue. Memos from the Faerie Godmother department. The sixpence for cleanliness left in your shoe.

These gifts are all matched by the invisible and incredibly accurate alarms attached to your car, your roof, your computer system, your health. Because no sooner do you get an unexpected chunk of money, but something that cannot be ignored goes wrong. The advance on a novel arrives? It coincides with a hole in the roof and the arrival on an El Nino, and squirrels are soon swimming in the attic. Your brake lights come on when your tax return is delivered. Even the forgotten $20 can turn your toaster into an incinerator.

Twice, Kage was admiring an unexpected royalty check at her desk when her monitor went black. She considered this getting an undisguised middle finger from Fate, and proof of the general theorum.

One of the (many and absurd) reasons Kage eschewed doctor visits whenever possible, was that she was sure the Invisible Money Alarms also monitored one’s health. Seeing the doctor for something minor would inevitably inspire something major to break down: go for a cold, end up with bronchitis. Consent to a course of therapy for arthritis, and end up with osteoporosis. As soon as you cleared up your real heartburn, some actual cardiac condition would be revealed. I argued against this strenuously, but the fact of the matter was – it often did work that way for Kage.  And since she forgot nothing, ever, any instance was engraved in the accusing stone of her memory …

Not me, though. Until Kage died and my warranty apparently ran out, I had enjoyed pretty robust health. Since then … I hardly need the Invisible Alarms after my cash and my ass; medical disaster just follows me around like a depressed limpet, moping and clinging.

The last several months I have been grimly pursuing a solution to worsening sleeping disorders. What used to be simple, occasional insomnia has worsened into a revolving door of narcoleptic nap attacks and being awake for days on end. The unifying factors in this demonic do-si-do are constant shortness of breath and exhaustion. Even during that portion of the cycle where I sleep for 18 out of 24 hours, I wake up feeling as if I’ve been hiking up a mountain all that time.

I finally scored the sleep study ( diagnosis: sleep apnea and insomnia. Surprise! Not … ) and have been waiting for the Royal Tailor or whoever does it to fit me for my Magic Sleeping Princess Mask. And, absolutely true to Kage’s Theory of Invisible Sensors, my sleep arrhythmias have gotten extravagantly worse as I waited.

I now fall asleep while reading, writing, eating a sandwich.  I’ve been having dreams of running and climbing – badly, of course; I run (and lose) desperate races, often from ludicrous monsters and/or clutching baby animals … running from a stampede of giant sloths clutching ducklings to my heaving bosom? Really? I’m frantically climbing mountains to meet landing aliens or catch escaping spies; I’ve even dreamed of chasing the daylight terminator line across the plains of Mercury.

The one common denominator is that I cannot breathe while all this derring-do goes on. I pant, I gasp, I drool, I fall down and pound on my own chest to try and get my lungs working. They don’t. And then, over and over, I wake up crouched on the edge of my bed, drawing huge desperate breaths of what feels like tapioca into my lungs. Usually, there is a worried Corgi staring at me, and a tiny avian voice asking cautiously, “Hello? Hello?”

Animals can tell when a human is ill. They just can’t always do anything about it …

Anyway, as relief has gotten closer and closer on the horizon, my breathing has gotten worse and worse. Pulling up my pants has become an adventure in respiration: someone else’s adventure, with far too much luggage and big nasty hobnailed boots, straight down my bronchial tree. Kimberly, bless her, has found me slanted pillows on which to build a sort of pyramid in my bed – I can sleep almost sitting up, and so both breathe and rest a little. I am nonetheless mostly brain-dead during the day, but I am still breathing.

But now! Oh, chords of heavenly music, and waves of pearly light! The CPAP office has called and my appointment is tomorrow! I shall be fitted for my mask, learn all the secrets of hoses and generators and filters, and rejoin the ranks of people who can breathe at night! I shall also apparently become a source of noise, but we’re all hoping it’s a sort of white noise and others can sleep through it – it can’t be worse than the asthmatic drowning in oatmeal impression my unassisted breathing has become.

So now, only one big question is foremost in my mind, Dear Readers: do I go with the faux Bain mask? Or do I make one with the new black and silver scales I’ve just ordered?

I think it’s gonna be dragon scales. I think I can have good dreams behind a dragon mask.

I mean, who would not?

Kage Baker – yes, even Kage Baker, Queen of productivity and determined teller of tales – had days when her power plant went down.

Sometimes a belt snapped, or the mill race was full of displaced fish and water hyacinth, or jellyfish had taken over the warm waste water outlets. Sometimes the dam burst and the Cherokees escaped from Fort Mudge.* It all depended on what level of power she was exploiting that day.

I believe that I myself run on hot gas and coffee. However, over the last adventure-packed weekend, I think I have blown off several of my gas shells and have not yet formed a new nebula. The caffeine, my backup generator system, has failed to kick in to take up the slack. It’s warm dreamy afternoon with a sweet breeze blowing; the bones of my skull have softened, and my brain is leaking out my ears …

I also have a new Jim Butcher book. I really should read it before June 3rd, which is when the new Stephen King book comes out. When that happens, most other activity comes to a stop while I indulge in folie a deux with Mr. King.

Gonna go eat watermelon and enjoy wizardly politics with Harry Dresden. See you tomorrow!

# See Walt Kelly at Amazon:  http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_0_10?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=walt+kelly&sprefix=walt+kelly%2Caps%2C408

Kage Baker was a great admirer of those who master crafts.

She was picky about what she considered a worthy “craft”, though. Summer afternoon projects at the grammar school down the hill did not make the cut. All those badly (and barely) whittled balsa wood and Tinkertoy race cars; pleated fans; log cabins made of popsickle sticks – good enough to keep a dozen neighborhood kids busy for a few hours, but not up to Kage’s standards. Most of those masterpieces only went home because they’d been accidentally glued to their maker’s hands.

None of the crafts recommended in ladies’ magazines in our adulthood were acceptable, either. Kage already knew how to strip and re-paint wood – we learned how to do that to anything from enormous wardrobes to moulding in our childhood, via direct parental instruction. Both Kage and Kimberly could apply gold leaf, devise a fake wood grain, make florist’s foam into hewn rock … not me, though. There’s a reason I took up knitting: I’m a disaster at most other skills. Textiles sing to me. Everything else mumbles and won’t give me its right name.

Anyway, dolls made of yarn and styrofoam and fabric scraps didn’t do it for Kage. She illuminated manuscripts and designed costumes, built custom carry-alls for folding cots, made props and carved a ring of small menhirs to surround a sacred well. In her actual spare time, she built model ships. She always meant to work up to a ship in a bottle – but then she wouldn’t have been able to touch it when it was done. She liked to reset the sails from time to time on the finished ones …

Late in her life, she decided to take up darning. This was so she’d have something to do while she was sitting in our Parlour during Dickens Fair. All my ladies (and some of the men) like to knit, crochet, tat and bead things at quiet moment; we have a family table where we sit when the joint is not jumping and work on our various projects. Kage got interested in darning eggs, and decided to take up an adjunct skill to my knitting. Besides, Fair people go through socks at a dreadful rate, and it was skill that would have been useful and fascinated the customers. She ran out of time, though.

I think I may now have found something that would have interested her. God She knows, it’s enthralled various people looking over my shoulder at the pattern, and at least one other knitter – so I will give it a try.

I have had pointed out to me (thank you, Athene!) a pattern to knit scale mail gloves.

All of you, Dear Readers, know what chain mail is. Most of you probably know what scale mail is as well; but for the rest of you – it is mail whose fabric is made not of conjoined metal rings, but of overlapping metal scales. In pieces designed for actual battle, the scales are connected with metal rings, or fastened to leather with same. It’s an intermediate armour between chain and plate – it’s also lovely to look at and usually nicely supple.

My knitted pattern is to make gloves that are pretty much just decorative. I intend to knit them, though, out of Lion’s Brand Stainless Steel, which is a high quality wool that has a steel thread plied into it: so they will not be only pretty. The first pair will be for me, so I can work out the bugs and take care of the “first item” law that makes you screw up the first slice of pie or first hand-knitted sock. No one else will have to put up with gloves with crumbled crust edges and leaking filling, hopefully.

Kage would have loved these. She would have wanted to be eventually accoutred like a veritable dragon, I have no doubt; and I’d have done my best to accommodate her. It would have been irresistible.

At the very least, a pair of good scaled gloves would have kept her hands warm while she typed. And the glitter would have delighted her – who knows what amazing stories might have poured through her hands, armoured in shades of scarlet and gold?

That would have so worth seeing …

Kage Baker was always filled with energy at public appearances. Glowing, fizzy, incandescent energy. I think she had an internal Van der Graaf generator that reacted to the exterior flow of energy to fill Kage herself with glowing sparks. Maybe it was in her hair.

There was definitely an energy exchange. Something flowed into Kage from a crowd listening to her; something commensal flowed back out and connected to every pair of eyes and ears. Watching her during a reading was amazing – she did all the voices, she did the appropriate hand jive, her very stance and posture would alter to make her taller, shorter, older, younger, male or female. As the excellent writer Rick Bowes once commented, “Last night, Kage Baker and I did a reading at the South Street Seaport Museum. Well, I did a reading. Kage gave a performance.”

Once at a Westercon (I think) Kage forgot the print out she meant to use in her reading. Faced with a packed meeting room, she took a deep breath – and made one up on the spot. It was riveting. People crept in from the corridor to sit on the floor and cluster along the walls, lured by the power of her voice. After a particularly fraught exchange between a sailor’s wife and the incarnate Sea, Kage paused – looked up at the ceiling – and said: “I’m not sure who wins yet. You’ll have to wait for the story to come out.”

The audience howled liked frustrated wolves. But they knew they had seen something amazing, a story literally being born from a writer’s mind. It became “The Two Old Women.”

That energy between Kage and her audience thrilled and exhausted her. She ran with her needle pushing red all through a Convention; then she collapsed on the way home. She’d lie back in the passenger seat and analyze the entire experience as we raced along, hands waving languorously in the air like kelp fronds, worn out to the tip of her braid.

Part of my job was to not be that devastated – whether by a Convention, a camping trip, or a weekend at Faire, the timing called for Kage to be a sessile organism while we got home. Then I would vegetate once we got the luggage indoors – Kage, re-energized, got to unpack and make dinner. Or at least think of something for dinner, which was a task usually completely beyond my powers after a long weekend and a protracted drive; I just hoped something edible would deliver itself to my lap, and maybe feed itself to me …

Today I drove home from BayCon, from Santa Clara in the Bay Area. That trip can be a mad adventure, running for the border with what you can carry and listening for the hoof beats and howls behind you … or it can be so almost automatic you suspect you’re running on rails. I left early enough in the morning to miss all traffic on both ends; starting in Santa Clara and finishing in Los Angeles, you can end up driving from the  Great Dismal Swamp into Br’er Rabbit’s Briar Patch.

But it was a peaceful; nay, an idyllic drive. The light was crystalline and revealing, spot lighting every swelling apricot and almond on the passing orchards, every line of poppies and lupine on the hills where the oats have gone to golden beards. There were sheep and late lambs, cows and late calves; I saw a hawk sitting regally on her massive fortress nest high in a roadside oak. Infant orchards still in white swaddling have spread over yet more slopes, and corn and sorghum are rising tall into massed green armies, bristling with spears.

And I was not, quite, exhausted – tired, yes, but still buoyed up by the energy of the Con. Maybe I don’t burn as high or insanely as Kage; pretty sure I don’t, actually. But I burn high enough to power my sojourn on the road, and maybe pick up a hitch-hiking story along the way …

A good day. A good drive. And good, now, to be home.

Kage Baker slogged determinedly through many the Monday of a 3-day weekend. Most of them were Memorial and Labour Day weekends at Renaissance Faires – those days when the performers were insanely energized; when instead of husbanding our strength, we poured it out in double measure and sucked in extra from some other dimension, just to  accomplish Monday.

We’d danced and acted and sang and paraded and drunk for two full days already. Most of the intervening nights, too – some of us, in our heedless young strength, would go all weekend and never sleep. Monday was just another altered state, where the show went on regardless of who had to be peeled out from under a table or poured back into their costume.

Dawn of the Dead, we called it.

Conventions can be amazingly similar. Cons are often held on 3-day weekends, so as to get that extra day of partying and posing, of wearing your Royal Manticorean Navy uniform, of arguing how the outcome of WWII or the Peloponesian War would have played out in the alternate universe of your choice. Someone flawlessly accoutered as a Dendarii Mercenary two days ago is now wearing Jayne’s ear flap cap over Predator dreadlocks, furry Sasquatch slippers, and a tail of slogan ribbons 3 feet long. Much trading of pins, tags, badges, medals and items of clothing has taken place. The lines for coffee are Threat Level Red zones. Most panels outnumber their audiences, a majority of which are either still drunk or frankly asleep.

Dawn of the Dead, they call it.

The folks at a Con also soldier on through fatigue and blurred vision – the show must go one, after all. And the line between performer and audience is much softer and blurrier at a Con that at a Faire. Sure, the folks who paid at the door are there to buy things in the Dealer Room, and play the enormous, hand-crafted mutli-player games in the 24-hour Gaming suite. The avid readers are looking for their favourite authors, to argue over plot points in their latest books. Panels in every science related subjects are set up – with as many real writers and scientists as possible – in order to promote discussions among the interested. There are DIY classes on topics from making proper steam punk goggles to threading E-cord through the tail of your Furry suit.

Those folks who come to partake of all these goodies from the the folks selling, talking, demonstrating, and lecturing are just as much a part of the show as the vendors and panelists. Often more so – the participants in the Burlesque Saturday night were volunteers. I think … even the young lady in the leather pauldron and chiffon kilt. Certainly, the large group of Star Fleet personnel, in appropriately colour-coded uniforms, were audience members: though their progress through the lobby was a show in itself. Even better was the Regency Dance party later, where the ladies of the group showed up in Dress Uniform prom dresses, still with Star Fleet emblems and in departmental colours. Kudos to you, ladies!

You pack as much living as you can into a Faire, or Convention. It’s a dreamland, it’s a sacred place, it’s where you always wanted to be but cannot stay in more than the length of this precious weekend. You don’t waste that intense living on sleep or ordinary activities. You came there to see, to be seen, to argue the topics no one else your family cares about, to lecture about space tethers and DIY solar cells to people who already want them. You come to sing with, and preach to, the choir.

So, tired as we were, me and my fellow panelists and quite a lot of interested auditors all came to my last two panels today. The panelists perked up into quite a simulacrum of life – the audience was full of questions and argument. We discussed asteroid mining, La Grange point habitats and alternate histories – and they were rich and interesting topics, every one.

I don’t understand why everyone (except me) is so determined to make WWII come out differently; nor why they insist on arguing their points in such repetitive detail … but the light in their eyes makes it very clear that this is one of the Great Good Times in their lives.  And hey, I’ve got my hobbyhorses, too. I am just as happy to ride my ponies in this rare space as they are. And so … I do sort of understand.

Now the halls are silent. Neassa and I were the only diners in the restaurant this evening – the waiters were lonely, and chatty. The elevators are suddenly always empty. Business men are checking in now, and looking warily at the few examples of green hair and alien naval insignia still around …

Time to go home. Or at least to bed, and then the long quiet road home tomorrow morning. Good night, Dear Readers.

Kage Baker was not a partier at cons. Not for her the glittering rounds between parties in crowded hotel rooms; she preferred bar tenders to bottles in a tub of ice. And she hated noise.

Besides, no matter how nice the Con folks were – and usually, they are as kind as can be to the folks on the Programs – Kage would get seriously worn out. A day spent walking back and forth between panel rooms, plus having to be “on” and under observation all the time – well, she didn’t thrive under the spotlight. She did what she promised to do, and she liked her fans, but she was never too upset if the turn out at a reading was low.

I enjoy the panels. I’m not in the spotlight as much as Kage was, usually, so maybe that’s why I have more fun. Or maybe it’s because it’s an easier performance that doing living history. And I frankly love to pontificate. (Surprise!)

However … I am majorly energy depleted these days. My stamina is right up there with a new-born kitten’s. And today I have had a very lively day, perusing the Dealer Room and meeting friends who tracked me down, as well as turning in three panels – which do take a bit out of you, if you’re doing them right. You know, actually talking out loud and answering questions and stuff.

And then I went to Regency Dancing! No, I wasn’t crazy enough to try to dance – I sit on the sidelines, in the traditional position of old ladies, and watch. I knit, and I guard shawls and purses, and I applaud. I do tap my feet pretty vigourously, though.

Anyway, I’m beat, Dear Readers. It was a grand day at BayCon, and I think I pontificated well. I got some laughs, I won and lost some amiable arguments, and I annoyed a World War II fanatic who didn’t think the Jews would have made much of a mark on the world stage except for giving rise to Christians. And I didn’t hit anyone with my stick. So I guess I’m in the black on something like virtue.

And now I’m going to bed, where I fully expect to sleep! Science fiction conventions are  magical places, you know …

Kage Baker loved to people watch. Faires were a prime watching ground, of course. Not so much the participants, whom she saw all all day in various states of costuming; the best entertainment was the customers.

The ones in costumes or parts of same were the most interesting, and it just got more so as the years went on. Renaissance Faires and Dickens Fair have become natural habitats for cosplayers and the costume-inclined in general. Most customers present an interesting range of what people who wear normal clothes choose to wear to an outdoor event – t-shirts, shorts and inadequate sunscreen – but it’s the ones who bothered to dress up that are truly fun. I presume they do it to be noticed, but they probably have no idea how much they get watched by the performers.

At a Con, though, costuming is much more serious. What you wear makes a statement – several statements, usually. It establishes your place in fannish culture and your fidelity to various iconic story arcs, as well as to the theme of the Con itself. Watching these folks perambulate around the hotel venue is a source of awe and wonder. Truly amazing skill is displayed on every hand; as well as on other limbs, which in dedicated persons can exceed the human norm ,,, exquisite fabrics are used, hand props are constructed with fanatic precision. The subject may be out of the wearer’s private iconography, or be a reproduction of a specific genre or character: but they all exhibit passion and a desire to make a statement.

Sometimes the statement is, I should not be trusted with a glue gun. But the fervor on view is still admirable,

Some things are always present: Star Wars, Star Trek, Browncoats, pirates. But costuming goes in waves, too, with fads changing all the time. Last year at BayCon, for instance, there were lots of faerie wings. All colours, all substances, some large enough to bear their owners aloft, I think, had they been attached to muscle instead of corsets and harnesses. This year, not so much … I’ve only seen two pair, and one of those was angel wings on the back of a beige trench coat. The symbolism there is obviously the show Supernatural. But aside from completing the Castiel look, the wings were almost supernumerary.

Kage always chose to demonstrate that she was deliberately a non-costumer type of person. She favoured tailored suits – I want to look like Agent Scully’s elderly Aunt, was her stated intent. For casual wear, she liked upscale t-shirts and Hawaiian shirts – she had a huge collection, featuring cars, cocktails, and tropical seascapes. To make her status as writer plain, she accessorized with all her Hugo and Nebula pins; you get one every time you get nominated, and Kage was rightly proud of her collection.

Between the people-watching, I actually went along and attended my assigned panels. The first was “A Shot Rang Out”, which is an improvised round-robin story telling gig, with lines from the audience that must be included in your spiel. After each turn, each participant selects a new prompt; you keep going round and round until you either run out of time, or off the edge of the world. It’s hilarious fun – especially if (like me) you’ve got 40 years of improvisational theatre under your belt … a few more people than usual lost their stirrups, but for mere writers and not Faire people, they all did very well.

The second panel was on hard science, and solicited our opinions of what books and movies had done a good job with their science facts – and which had conspicuously not. We all had different favourites among the good stuff, but the List of Shame was surprisingly unanimous: Independence Day. Armageddon. Core. Meteor. Volcano, Supervolcano and Dante’s Peak.

Maybe the unanimous choices weren’t so inexplicable, after all … Sharknado didn’t make the list, since no one believed any science at all had been used in making it.

But a good time was had by all, and the audience was gleeful in pointing out things we’d missed. I hope they also took away the point that research into real science is always good for a story.

Then I had dinner with some friends, a nice family time with old  Faire friends, in much more cleanliness and peace and quiet than we used to dine in. We even all remembered not to eat with our fingers or wipe them on our clothes. The varied citizens of the Galaxy wandered past our table as we ate, staring in wonder as we howled with laughter at old jokes.

I’m not so comfortable, being in the audience. I like to watch the strange, strange crowds go by – but give me a stage to perform on with my friends for a really good time …

And so to bed, and so good night, Dear Readers. Tomorrow: commercial space travel, DIY aliens, and alternate history. And the Dealer Room!

Kage Baker really enjoyed going to science fiction conventions.

She hadn’t expected to like them; in fact, initially she planned to avoid them. But even without her agent being incredulous at the idea, research did indicate that it wasn’t a practical idea. Luckily, she found them delightful – especially in California, where a significant portion of the Con-going population is also the Faire-going population.

The ambiance of cozy, comfortable outsiders building their play forts in the middle of nice hotels appealed to her. She loved the Dealer rooms, where all sorts of treasures could be found: jewelery and pirate coats. Old books and movies; Rock ’em, Sock ’em Robots and ray guns and steam punk goggles and little bags of raw semi-precious gems and wind up Godzillas that shot coloured sparks out of their mouths.

And she loved all the readers: especially so many, many people who read her books!  Panels turned out to be interesting opportunities to give and shape opinion: Kage liked her a good soapbox as much as any other wordsmith. She made friends among the other writers, and found that there really were a lot of very nice, smart, funny people she could meet and have a drink with in a classy bar.

I’d been reading science fiction since I learned how to read (Really. Zip Zip of Mars at age 8. I did not read early.) but I had never gone to a convention either. As Kage’s Seeing Eye Sister, I discovered they were a wonderful alternate Universe. And part of the deathbed geas Kage laid on me was that I continue to go. So here I am at BayCon, waiting for Neassa to join me with her additional brain power before I go on panels tomorrow.

BayCon is weird to the max. (That’s why I love it so.) And the hotel is helping right along this year. Last night my scallops and risotto were served in a puddle of bitter green arugula puree. This morning, I got fried anise root with my bacon and eggs over easy. I’m worried and to see what I’ll get with the oatmeal I intend to order tomorrow …

Sitting disguised as a little old lady with her knitting, I have spent a happy afternoon watching furries, pirates, old-fashioned cyborgs in hard-hat diving suits, lots of pretty young people wearing mostly chiffon and ink and pointed ears, small children with stuffed shoggoths and light sabers and Disney Princess shoes. A willowy young lady with green hair floated down the escalator with what appeared to be a sword with a burning blade in her hand: when she disembarked, it was revealed as a curtain rod wrapped in plastic, catching the sunlight. Why? Who knows or cares?

There’s enough gold braid, medals, peaked caps and outre weaponry to outfit 4 or 5 distinct space navies. Plus more old fashioned seamen with octopodi on their shoulder or hips or belt buckles. There are naiads and mermaids, too. And one man-tall Cthulu look-alike. And it’ll only get better as the weekend wears on!

They’ve been redecorating here at the Hyatt, and I’ve spent a lot of time today sitting  in the lobby, under the new and peculiar chandelier. I think it’s meant to give an appearance of airiness, or maybe floating sea-shells: dozens of tubes of perforated white plastic, housing light bulbs, all pendent from the ceiling on silvery cords. It’s pretty, at first look. But the more time you spend looking up at it, the more you realize that the tube-shells have the flat, matte white finish of plastic lawn chairs – you know, the one-piece molded ones, that crack apart after a summer outdoors? After a few minutes’ perusal, the chandelier begins to resembles some sort of insect colony; plastic caddis flies, maybe, or the egg sacks of polystyrene spiders. Something that will eventually hatch out into flip flops and visors and Slurpee cups.

Also, the lobby of the Santa Clara Hyatt is currently hosting an historic display on Alcatraz. I cannot really tell why; the hotel has no view of Alcatraz, or even the Back Bay. But the place is full of interactive displays and explanatory plaques. There are partial sets all over: the warden’s office. A prisoner’s cell. a wall with an escape tunnel chipped out of it. An authentic, Alcatraz toilet … that last one is preserved lid up, but with a transparent plastic shield over the rusty, chipped bowl. Considering the number of children I saw sitting on it, the reason is obvious. Especially since it’s set up right outside a bathroom.

Anyway, this doubtless educational display looks even stranger with the denizens of a thousand star systems wandering round in it. Elves and tattooed shamans go strangely with chipped concrete and iron cots. Of course, they are also pretty strange eating sushi in the hotel restaurant, or cheering at the baseball game on the telly behind the bar. It’s all part of the charm of BayCon.

I love to sit and watch and knit. I am knitting a tie, which makes inquiring people laugh. I don’t know why … Neassa, with better taste and a feel for the ambiance, is knitting a Tom Baker Dr. Who scarf, correct down to the duplication of the colours. No one laughs at that. Which is perfectly appropriate around here.

More from the kaleidoscope tomorrow, Dear Readers. I’m taking my anomalocaris as a mascot to my panels. That should fit right in.