It's funny, but I get into the habit of doing certain styles of writing in specific circumstances, and when I get into that habit, it's hard to break. For instance, in about 1991, I got into the habit of only being able to write the 'Raft' sequences from the radio serial 'West', in a semi-conscious stupor at dawn on Saturdays, with a goodly amount of scotch inside me. In 1986 I wrote the last draft of a novel on a typewriter, positioned on a tree stump in the middle of a paddock. For some reason with Northern Summer, I've got into the habit of only being able to write it by hand, in a small notebook, and I must be anywhere but at home. This is only the second out of eleven instalments that I've tried to write on the word processor. I'm determined to do it; otherwise I'm just going to have to decipher my own handwriting and transcribe it all anyway.
Second day of the Con. Alex and Flep hit the dealer's room big-time, buying mountains of stuff. I cruised in and out without purchasing a lot, but I was seduced into buying some of the 'Mad Racoon' comics. Whoever does them - sorry, but I've forgotten - they're a cut above the average furry fare. Uncle Erf, with multiple personality disorder, who is his own wife (and child), and who is subject to fits of hysterical jealousy which usually prompt him to storm out on himself, was definitely a favourite.
Some time during the day Flep and I went for a walk around Albany. The first thing I noticed was what appeared to be a vast, metallic toilet bowl or possibly a bidet, several stories high, towering over a part of the city skyline. I never managed to achieve a superior elevation, to determine whether this assessment was accurate. In fact Albany is notable for its baffling objects. One of the more pleasing was an abstract steel sculpture called 'The Portal', which Flep drew me to see, excitedly pointing out its Lovecraftian suggestiveness. Indeed there were several fairly impressive churches in the area, which helped foster this atmosphere (Albany, I think I can safely say, is an altogether more pleasant setting than Beuna Park, where Confurence was held last year. That particular locale is possibly the most desolate and oppressive place I've ever stayed.)
Flep and I wandered up to what must have been some local market or festival. I bought a souvlaki - a standard food item in Tasmania, but apparently a bit of an oddity in the US, or at least in Texas. I had to explain to Flep that it was... well, some stuff, with bread around it. On the way back we encountered a large, rectangular, artificial pond, in the center of which - and this was easily the most bewildering thing I saw over the duration of the con - a whole series of tables or market stalls had been erected. In retrospect my mind is trying to make some plumbing connection between this scene, and the giant toilet bowl, but without success. Also on the way back was an impressive, though otherwise ordinary equestrian statue (I would like to think it might come to life at night, and go prancing up and down the square, Bonzo Dog Band style.)
During the course of the day I met all sorts of very people, who were all very pleasant; Xydexx, getting out of a lift; PeterCat, Ruben, Tomas, Galen, Mishi, Rainshadow, Prismo (actually this was the night before). Apologies to those I've forgotten, or whose names I never learned. One worth mentioning, I think, is Silfur. This brings us up to the Masquerade/costume show or whatever it's called, where Silfur put on a spectacular, athletic and suggestive floor routine, which I seem to recall prompted something of a scandal in the post-con flamewars.
My meeting with Silfur had been quite accidental. A group of us had been just hanging out in our room on the first night, and he had walked in the door, because he "heard people giggling," or something like that. Only after he left did I realise this was someone who, at one stage there had been plans to billet me with in Toronto. When this had been in the offing, I'd sent him, by way of a personal introduction, one of my stories. I received a polite acknowledgement, but little else, via return email. I should admit, I think, that two more dissimilar people to Silfur and myself would be hard to find. We have about as much in common as Barbara Streisand and the Hoover Dam - less, in fact. He is effusive and carefree and highly social; I am choleric, melancholic, reflective, and rather more like Uncle Erf than I am Silfur. The point is though, that I am profoundly envious of his spontaneous physical expressiveness, and his openness and amiability. His routine at the masquerade was a terrific display of whatever that French phrase is that means 'joy of life', and I can't help wondering whether most of the outrage was borne out of disgruntled jealousy.
There was more to this day, but how can I be absolutely certain I've got my con days straight? Was this the day I met Carole Curtis, attended the plush sig, ate those funny cross-hatched potato chip things? I'd sneezed in several states, but I don't think I'd come in the USA yet. More disturbingly, what might the precise volume of semen ejaculated at AAC have been, given the lamentable behaviour of so many furries? Might it have filled that giant bidet? Should I have written this somewhere else after all, where I might not have had a couple of beers?
