I've been doing a lot of walking lately.
Not sure really what was the trigger for it, but one morning in early October I just woke up feeling like time might be getting short. One contributing factor: A friend not that much older than myself had a heart attack last winter. She always seemed to take good care of herself, but she drew a bad number anyway. She survived, and is quietly, but determinedly fighting her way back. I figured you could look at it two ways; either it was a sign that no matter what you do, you're still going to die and ought to enjoy yourself while you can, or perhaps it was a wake-up call to the fact that the actuarial tide had turned against me, and that stupidity was not a fit defense against the continuing passage of time. The genetic strikes against me loom large. One grandparent lost to cancer back in the '40s, another to heart disease, another to heart disease and diabetes -- the whole thing began to depress me so thoroughly that I put on my shoes and stumbled out into the street, trying to walk away from the future as fast as I could.
Five weeks and over 125 miles later, I'm still walking. Doing a little more exercise on the side as well. It feels good. I'm starting to see the return of muscles that sank beneath the sea of flab about twenty years ago. It's slow going, but I like it like that. I might be eating a little less, trying to cut down on the fat intake slightly, choosing the broccoli chicken instead of the Kung Pao, but nothing drastic, nothing I can't maintain. My metabolism doesn't seem to have noticed. I want to avoid shocking it awake, making it think that food in general is in short supply, and that it would be prudent to hold on to all the fat at hand. Mostly, I just try to walk it all off.
Fans in general ought to be excused for feeling their mortality a little more acutely this year. We've lost Charles Burbee, Bob Shaw, Ethel Lindsay, Redd Boggs, and several others of wide acquaintance in fandom. The only loss which didn't sadden me particularly was that of Burbee. I'd have been happy to have led a life similar to his, and who can deny that fandom will convey upon him a measure of immortality? But poor Sister Ethel, who had the rug pulled out from under her so quickly. Poor Redd, who let a relatively mild condition escalate until it killed him. And poor Bob, who always had a sadness in him behind the jokes and good humor, and who undeniably shortened his own life with alcoholism. Do I speak ill of the dead? I hope no one feels that way. They were all good souls, whatever petty foolishness or weakness they may have shown, as we all do. Remembering them with clear eyes, as perverse, frustrating, wonderful humans, is the best respect we can pay.
But I plan to go on doing what I can to outlive them by a healthy margin, all the same.
* * *
Science Fiction Five-Yearly seems to inspire this kind of rather moody, dour sort of article, doesn't it? Certainly this has something to do with its lengthy periodicity. In the old days, two or three fandoms and a bitter interregnum or two could rise and fall between issues. And SFFY assistant editor-publishers seem to have brought a wistful tone to their contributions and editorials, perhaps in an unconscious anticipation of the fact that stepping up to the plate for LeeH has been a kind of high water mark in many of their predecessors' fannish careers. In part, this seems only natural; you don't get to stick your finger into this particular fanhistorical pie until you've shown that you know your way around a stencil
or three. And most fans can only sustain the white-hot intensity of fanac that makes them a clear choice to edit SFFY for so long, before the withering fingers of oldandtired close around them. Bob Toomey is a special case, as he brought geographical proximity to his mixture of attributes. But how many fanzines has Terry Hughes published since his stint as SFFY editor in 1976? Dan Steffan and Ted White kept up Pong for a good while after November 1981, and their fanzine Blat! has been one of the highlights of the '90s so far, but it's hard to deny that they did slow down precipitously
after SFFY #7. Perhaps the disappearance of the vast majority of the copies Dan mailed out in 1981 granted him limited immunity; he did just run for TAFF and win last year, hardly the act of an over-the-hill gafiate.
No SFFY curse would have been required to spirit Patrick and Teresa Nielsen Hayden away after their turn in 1986; the prolonged unpleasantness known as Topic A would have driven weaker souls to hide in the rain forests of Borneo (a region notoriously clogged with weak souls). And as wonderful as SFFY #8 was, Izzard #9 was even more wonderful, and it arrived later. But now they've found real fame as big-time book editors, and my conversations with them always seem to occur at the end of conventions, when I'm standing around in the lobby with my luggage, waiting for the airport shuttle to arrive. I miss 'em; their astonishing fluency and facility with the art of the interlineation has seldom, if ever, been equaled.
Which brings us to Geri Sullivan, Jeff Schalles and myself, beavering away at this pluperfect publication for the past nine months or so, while, as Peter Berryman once wrote, "The Doberman of entropy is drooling in the gloom, and slinking through the vestibule the Wiener dog of doom." Geri has sought to stave off her decline by offering to assist in the
publication of SFFY twice, but I fear that this may backfire terribly, as when too many tana leaves were offered to Prince Kharis in those Universal studios Mummy-movies of the thirties and forties. Three leaves return the subject to life, allowing the creation of fanzines, the imbibing of Scotch in Glasgow's Central Hotel, the pursuit of Don Fitch through countless early-morning con-suites, coffee-pot in hand -- but NINE LEAVES! BEWARE! Worldcon Fan Lounges! Expensive trips to Northern Ireland! Lavish photo sections and life-size cut-outs of Chuch Harris that fold out and wobble
heart-breakingly in the air like rare and delicate orchids!
And what of Jeff? I mean, love is blind, certainly, but when did it become a harbinger of Twonk's disease as well?
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Well, we can't please everybody, and some people really dig that hyphen.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
It's too late for Geri, and probably for Jeff, but I know what's good for me, and I plan to sink into torpid gafia as soon as the Teamsters are finished pouring the concrete.
* * *
All of these things came to me while walking one evening last week. One of the more significant things about walking is that it's very hard to send or receive faxes, type memos or attend planning meetings while you walk, and while I've experimented with reading while walking, the results have been less than impressive. Thinking is one of the few things you can do well while you walk, so I do a lot of it these days. I was walking up Aurora Avenue (such a lovely name for such a less-than-picturesque street) and trying to remember where I was back in 1991, when the last SFFY came out. In 1991, I was still living in Madison, but Carrie and I had already begun loading our belongings into boxes, preparing to move to Seattle. I did remember that SFFY #9 was just about the best fanzine that came out that year. I remembered reading Dan Steffan's comic strip "Jesus Christ, Neofan" and laughing so hard that I gave myself a nosebleed.
Passing the ruins of a drive-in at the 50th Street viaduct, I wondered if it might still have been open back in 1991. Probably not; judging from the degree of wear on the walls that are still standing, and the large rotting boat and trailer that I remember seeing parked in the lot when we first passed it in early 1992. Aurora Avenue is also Washington state highway 99, and was the main north-south route in and out of Seattle before the completion of Interstate highway five and bridge that carries it over Lake Union. Drive-in restaurants on Aurora used to do a lot of business when almost all traffic coming in and out of town had to pass by them. But what really doomed them was the placement of a large concrete berm down the middle of the road, designed to keep pedestrians and motorists from trying to dodge heavy traffic in crossing the road. Now, if you see an appealing place on the other side of the road, you may have to drive two or three miles before you can get off and double-back.
Did the traffic experts who planned the placement of that barrier know that they would be driving people out of business in the process? That the Ox-Bow Inn, Dag's drive-in and the Thunderbird Motel would all sink into disrepair as a result of the change? As the businesses failed, the value of adjacent property went down as well, and now a number of homes stand
abandoned, waiting for someone to knock them down and start all over again. And in their place, large, blocky structures full of condominiums and under-occupied office space -- which no one wants to cross the street for -- spring up like mushrooms. Which is a lot of change to accomplish with one low concrete wall, which I had no trouble vaulting as I crossed to the east side of the street.
Because there is no sidewalk along the section of Aurora above 50th Street, I walked into Woodland park, a series of lightly-forested hills that straggle down the eastern slope of Phinney ridge toward Green Lake. This geographical minutiae may be of no interest to people outside of Seattle, but since I've begun walking, much of my waking thought revolves around the issue of how and where to climb this ridge. Walking up from the level of the lake, above, say, 60th street, is a novel way to commit suicide.
Coming from the park, through the grounds of the Zoo, merely makes black spots swim before my eyes as passers-by ask if I would like them to call the paramedics. And as far as I know, no ascent of the western face has been attempted since the disastrous Fenton-Spezzalato expedition of 1971, in which 14 men and 20 Shetland ponies lost their lives.
Coming from the park, through the grounds of the Zoo, merely makes black spots swim before my eyes as passers-by ask if I would like them to call the paramedics. And as far as I know, no ascent of the western face has been attempted since the disastrous Fenton-Spezzalato expedition of 1971, in which 14 men and 20 Shetland ponies lost their lives.
I climbed up the main meadow of the park toward the series of foot bridges over Aurora that lead back toward the walking path that runs along the bottom of the Zoo. When the object is just to get the miles in, one finds oneself taking a lot of strange routes, walking along the same blocks on different sides of the street. As always, the odor of elephants and their attendant effluvia was quite strong as the wind wafted down out of the zoo, but people have been smelling strange things in that part of Seattle for over 100 years. Before it was a park, those slopes were the site of a large "Gypsy" camp, at what was then the northern edge of the city. Seattle has a long history of trying to chase out what it regards as undesirable elements, such as the Chinese, socialists, native Americans and so forth, but these efforts always seem to run out of steam before long, and what has resulted is a haphazardly cosmopolitan city. Woodland Park seems to sum all that up for me: it has one of America's better zoos and a glorious rose garden, manicured bowling courts and a pitch and putt golf course, but with the labored traffic of Aurora Avenue tearing through its middle, scruffy kids on dirt bikes practicing their jumps on sculptured heaps of fill dirt, and a large number of single men in cars cruising through on all but the most inhospitable afternoons, searching one another out in a delicate ballet that inches toward discreet consummations in the bathrooms down by the horseshoe pits.
That night, the only vehicle in the parking lot was a tow truck, and in its cab the driver sat doing a crossword puzzle as I walked past. His dome light was the only illumination between the edge of the park and the three bridges on the far side. I could feel the ghosts swirling around me as I walked, and the sweat pooling on the inner sleeves of my jacket suddenly
felt ice cold. A selection of unsettling horror movie images rotated through my mind, which led, logically, to thoughts of Bob Bloch, who we've lost since the last SFFY came out. I remembered the old line about his having the heart of a small boy -- in a jar on his desk -- and laughed a little wondering who might have been left that jar in the disposition of his estate. Fellow old fans and tired, we must remember to plan ahead, and prevent such bickering in the wake of our demise.
But as I reached the second of the three bridges -- no need to over-do things, I'd walked a good two miles by then, and it was almost a mile back to the apartment -- I really started to get scared. The hammering of blood in my ears made me think I heard someone following me up the hill. Several times I stopped and turned around, but there was nothing visible
in the darkness.
Walking the fence that marks the east edge of the zoo was one of the longest 300 yards I've ever crossed. The leaves on the ground sounded thunderous as they crushed under my shoes, and the wind now lashed fresh rain under the lip of my hood. For some reason, I was quite convinced something was stalking me through the dark, and no matter how I tried to
appeal to the more rational aspect of my nature, I could do nothing to keep my heart from racing and my breath from coming in increasingly ragged pants. I could smell every animal whose night-time pen I passed, and somewhere off
toward the Australasian exhibits, something large and unhappy coughed and whined in the night. By the time I lurched up toward the administration buildings, I actually broke into a jog for a few dozen yards, sucking in huge breaths and blowing out plumes of steam into the chill.
And it was while I was running that I lost the fear, for all I felt in that moment was an immense surge of happiness at actually being able to run for my life without wheezing and laboring for breath under the demands of my ill-toned body. Some lunatic with a garden fork might kill me, but I'd be damned if I'd do the job for him with French fries and tartar sauce.
Coming out of the path by the rose garden, I turned up 50th Street again, and the crest of the ridge. At the very edge of the park is a monument to the soldiers of the Spanish-American war, complete with two naval casements and 6-inch guns from the armored cruiser Illinois, which fought under commodore Dewey at Manila Bay. I collapsed onto a bench not far from them. A quick check on the pedometer: 2.78 miles. Not bad. I seem to walk faster in the dark for some reason.
Back on my feet, and into the middle of 50th Street for one of my favorite views in the whole city. To the east, the road an attenuating ribbon into Laurelhurst, and beyond it the black reflection of Lake Washington above and below the lights of distant Kirkland. To the west, Ballard and Shilshole bay spread out for miles, with the sound and the islands beyond, and even in the darkness some suggestion of the Olympic mountain range. Back to the east, the Cascade Mountains, with the labored passage of Interstate 90 only suggested among the foothills and forests, leading back two thousand miles to Madison, my progress and my past. Look back to the west, and imagine the great swell of the sea beyond the mountains, the steppes and rivers and cities beyond the sea, the future unborn among the rivers, the forests, the cities, the steppes, the unknown smelling me on the wind and waiting in books and bottles and foot paths and fanzines, biding all time until the moment comes to take me down at last.
Helping assemble this issue of SFFY might yet prove to be the top of my leap as a fan, or a writer, but I hope no one minds if I try setting the bar a little bit higher. See you all in another five years, or so I hope.
Data entry by Judy Bemis
Hard copy provided by Geri Sullivan
Data entry by Judy Bemis
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