Asakiyume mita

So those two stories in Consolation Stories that I mentioned last entry--I think I’m going to write about them one at a time. Today will “This Is New Gehesran Calling,” by Rebecca Fraimow (on here as skygiants, though I have had the hardest time linking that name and her author name in my head).

I *loved* this story. I was so absorbed by every detail of it—it was truly wonderful, and perfect for the anthology. It’s about a pirate radio broadcast to a very far-flung set of refugees, and how the broadcast touches their lives—and the story manages to do that and show that so economically and yet without stinting at all—it’s so rich—and yet you can follow everything.

It starts like this:

There wasn't a New Gehesran anymore. Three years ago, the renaming had become official, in a municipal whirlwind of new-printed signage and digital batch-edits, but the people who'd packed themselves into refugee ships when the final city domes fell knew that New Gehesran had ceased to exist well before that.

Okay. Situation established. From there we go to an “intrasolar doublewide unit”—the spacefaring equivalent of a refugee tent, “barely bigger than a six-stall barn.” This one is housing two adolescents, two parents, and the sister of one of the parents. Tir, one of the adolescents, is playing with the radio dial:

“and here were the words, crackling but clearly distinguishable: ‘This is New Gehesran calling.’

The voice was jazzy, smooth, evenly paced – just like any other broadcaster on air, just as if they weren't calling up a ghost. ‘This is New Gehesran calling, so don't change the channel, because we're bringing you the freshest tunes, hottest issues, furious debates, plus! Special tonight! Did you lose track of someone during evac? Make sure not to miss our twelve-step guide to short-cut you through your search –‘”

Tir and Suki figure out the broadcast pattern, and soon the whole family is listening to these voices recalling a time when there was a New Gehesran.

Then the story shifts to the broadcasters, so we get to see what they’re like, and then to other listeners elsewhere, each shift making connections to earlier sections as the pirate broadcast brings the refugees themselves closer to one another. You feel like you, too, are among the listeners. You’re connected too.

Really I want to take you through it scene by scene—this is like when you buy someone the perfect present and you’re so excited about it that you want to open it for them—but *possibly* you would like an un-Asakiyume-mediated experience, so I'll exercise great restraint.

I’ll just say that there’s a scene where the broadcasters have brought together a group of elders to talk about making a traditional treat, poracake, and OMG, if you’ve ever been around people arguing about the authentic way to make something, acceptable substitutions (if any!), you will recognize the perfection of this scene.

And the ramification of that broadcast segment are delicious and heartwarming—truly a perfect consolation story.

(It might be a good time to mention again that the anthology is raising money for a COVID-19 appeal being run by a UK charity that supports the University College London Hospitals NHS Trust. The editor says, “It supports patients, families and frontline workers, as well as providing funding for new facilities and for research.” If you’re interested in buying it, the links can be found here.)

Anyone who drives the Massachusetts Turnpike between Westfield and Blandford enjoys the Cthulhu-esque ice that cascades down the rock face every winter. There are shades of blue, green, and gold in it, as well as white. I suppose you get similar in any cold place with rock faces? I always want to get a photo, but it's hard because it's not a place you can really walk to (being on an interstate and all), and if you're traveling in a car, you're speeding on by.

And yet! I got this shot the other day:



I was coming back from visiting my father for his birthday, and, simultaneously, volunteering for WAMC's fund drive. Here is pledge central! On the walls are framed doodles done by Pete Seeger.



( will only mean anything to listeners of WAMC )

While I was there, for every pledge of $100, Charlesbridge Press was donating three books to the Reach Out and Read program. This program gives books to doctors' offices, and the doctor then "prescribes" books to families with small children to encourage families to read together. This holistic approach to a person's well being (recognizing that family time and education are important to health) is popular right now--this article by Deborah Youngblood of the Crittendon Women's Union is about getting public services to work together (and getting them accessible at one point of contact) to help people climb out of poverty. Anyone who's ever suffered from a long bout of very low income knows that you spend your time moving from crisis to crisis, and on top of that, dealing with seventeen zillion different social services uses up *tons* of time, especially if you don't have reliable transportation. Having things accessible at one point, and interacting with each other, could make a huge difference. ... But I digress.

I'm off to jail later today. One woman and I were talking about "a" and "an"--how the rule that you use "an" with words beginning with a vowel is *mainly* true, but that there are exceptions, like "unique," that depend on the *sound* of what you're saying.

"You wouldn't write 'an unique book,'" I said.

"An-unique," she murmured. "That would make a pretty name."

"Yeah it would!" I said, imagining it. "It sounds like a ballet dancer's name."

Take care all. See you later this weekend.

On Marketplace, they said they have a place on their website where people can write in how the economy feels to them.

Well.

I think it's kind of dry on top, but damp underneath, and there are prickles at the edge that ooze if you break them, and that stuff gives you a hella rash if you get it on you.

How about you? What does it feel like to you?