Wil Wheaton wrote the other day about a very early experience in his life that helped spark a fascination with and love of the vastness of outer space. It’s beautifully written and brought a tear to my eye. (And hey, congratulations on having an asteroid named after you, Wil! Super cool!)
Wil makes a throwaway reference to “listening to Star Trek Power records on my portable plastic record player” and boy, did that bring back memories! I also had a little portable record player and listened to Power Records book and record sets on it, including a Star Trek one, “Passage to Mouav.” I listened to it, reading along with the record, so many times, it was probably more firmly embedded in my brain as *Star Trek* than any episode of the original series. But until Wil mentioned it in his post, I hadn’t thought about it in many, many years.
Looking at the book now, I’m not surprised it made an impression on me, with terrific art by an amazing trio of artist, Russ Heath, Neal Adams, and Dick Giordano, and a story that could easily be an episode of the TV series (and is a damn sight better than the worst Trek episodes, like “The Omega Glory” and “The Way to Eden”). Plus, cats!
Confession: even thought it would be years before I hit puberty, the Caitian communications officer Lt. M’ress made me feel “funny” inside, in the same way Julie Newmar’s Catwoman in the Batman TV series did.
“Passage to Mouav” was an early source of my growing love of science fiction–and imaginative fiction in general–and my growing fascination with space exploration and the dream of space travel. Finding it archived online makes me buzzy with happiness.
Except…seriously, what the hell is up with black Sulu and white Uhura? That’s messed up.
a broken wing, to sing, to sing
don’t fool thee of
don’t fool, don’t fool
a peach free plum, too glum, too glum
don’t drown thee out
don’t drown, don’t drown
in pools of perfect peach free plum
too glum for good
too glum, too glum
the fuse of green, unseen, unseen
too thrilled thee of
too thrilled, too thrilled
oh claws of clashing munchkin break
oh silly little seaside song
oh claws of cracking window winds
oh leaping little king of cats
a broken wing, to sing a song
don’t write me off
don’t write me off
a peach free plum, a drum, a drum
don’t sound me out
no sound, no sound
I first heard about the Museum of Lost Geographies from my cousin, Noah. We hadn’t seen each other in years, but he had come into town for my father’s funeral, and we were both eager to get caught up on each other’s lives. At first, we merely talked about jobs we’d had, places we’d travelled, relationships we’d been in since we last saw each other. Soon, though, we fell to talking about obscure bits of information and half-remembered stories we’d heard, just as we’d done when we were both much younger. Although now we drank beer while we talked.
“I was meeting a client in Chicago a few weeks ago,” he told me. “One of those guys who had hit it big during the Dot Com Boom then lost it all when the bubble burst. Some of those people had just gone for whatever corporate jobs they could find. Others had picked themselves up and rebuilt themselves, finding new ways to be entrepreneurs. But this guy was one of those who just lost it all. His spirit had been broken. He was the IT manager for a school system in the Chicago ‘burbs, but his heart wasn’t in it at all. We were meeting to discuss some software I was developing for the schools, but he didn’t even really care. When we met, he seemed to be barely paying attention to what I was saying. His eyes were constantly distracted and far away.”
“Probably just bored with his job,” I said. “I know a lot of people like that. I’ve been someone like that. I can sympathize.” (Continued)
hedgehog hiding broken finding
fire burning deep inside
an old gold razorsharp
anticipated bright design
but no design
no nothing signed
just true unlocked
or locked in fear
frozen finding porcupining
spiny shiny spur of love
ragged rhino phosporescence
fire smoking below above
but no design
no nothing left
just curlicued up
& out of fear
fever broken hedgehog shining
silver shivered deep inside
an old gold shaverblade
decided brightly needed now
just true unlocked
or locked in fear
but no more locked
undoored no fear
Before I woke up this morning, I was dreaming this:
I’m living in a small town in the Ozarks, where I’m friends with the sheriff. It seems like the night will last forever, the sun not rising, and weird things are going on in town. People call or come to the sheriff’s station complaining of feeling like they’re watched constantly, or they get lost walking short, familiar routes, or they can’t find their keys or a spoon or a bowl or some other small thing, but then later they find it exactly where it should be. I’m helping the sheriff and his deputies take all the statements, but we’re not sure what to do about these complaints.
Dawn finally comes while I’m at the station. A woman in her sixties wanders into town, accompanied by a young man in a three-piece suit. The woman wears a dark blue shawl embroidered with gold suns, moons, and stars, and carries a large handbag, holding it in front of her. She stops at the local mechanic’s garage to ask for help and then comes to the sheriff station. She claims she was driving through the mountains when she got lost and then her car swerved off the road and broke down just outside of our town. She says her getting lost and her car trouble was all caused by the evil machinations of Cthulhu. But wherever the woman and her friend go in town, the people around her suddenly freeze like statues. When she walks away, the people can suddenly move again and they gasp for air, since their paralysis stopped them from breathing. Only the sheriff and I are unaffected by her.
Throughout the dream, this song was also playing on repeat in my head:
i’m speeding up the tune
i’ve always liked it fast
i want to get there soon
don’t want to get there last
i don’t care that i’m old
this is the life i’ve led
i always liked it fast
that’s what my momma said
i’m lacing up my shoes
but I don’t want to run
i just want to get there soon
i don’t need a starting gun
i don’t care that i’m old
i don’t care what dying does
i never liked it slow
lightning’s in my blood
i never liked it slow
i always liked it fast
it’s time, i’ve got to go
don’t want to get there last
i don’t care that i’m old
don’t care that i’ll be dead
i never liked it slow
that’s what my momma said
let me catch my breath
now i’ll go fast as light
energy is my gift
& i can go all night
don’t want to take my time
i won’t linger in your eyes
a moment on the stage
a lifetime in your mind
i never liked it slow
i always liked it fast
it’s time, i’ve got to go
don’t want to get there last
so, baby, let me know
when i’m wanted back in town
in case they want a show
i will never slow it down
i’m speeding up the tune
i’ve always liked it fast
i want to get there soon
don’t want to get there last
i don’t care that i’m old
if you catch my drift
i never liked it slow
energy is my gift
— in response to the Leonard Cohen song “Slow”, from the album Popular Problems
