SCI FI ARTWORK PART TWO: The Amazing Original Artwork of Frank Herbert's DUNE

As promised, here are the uploads of the original art of Dune, as featured in Analog magazine.



 

 

 The Cover of the Analog Issue That Had the Very First Version of Dune in It:

 

The Prophet of Dune was actually a continuation of the serialization of Dune, I think.

 

 

I freaking love this one. Below is a scan of one of the most iconic illustrations of the Dune Series.

 

 

The Sci Fi of the 60's was really interested in Geopolitics, mostly because the Cold War was the main popular ideology of that time:

 

 

 

 

The Reverend Mother with her Gom Jabbar. I like this illustration a LOT more than any that came along after it.

 

This is part of a two page spread. I only opened this one page, though.



 

 

The Baron



 

 

 

This Reminded Me of the Style of Zen Ink Painting. Note the Use of Space...

SCIENCE FICTION ART, PART ONE: The Amazing and Astounding Artwork of Analog

During one of my despondent nocturnal perambulatory meditations, I happened to find myself between the musty, forgotten stacks upon stacks of UNCW's journal archives. As I meandered between walls of paper and letters, my movements loosened a small quantity of paleolithic dust which took to the air for (perhaps) the first time in centuries. It danced across my line of sight and I inhaled it, causing myself to release a sneeze that in turn unleashed a sandstorm of the stuff. I spat into my t-shirt and covered my mouth with the wet cloth in order to protect myself from what seemed like inevitable asphyxiation, but, as luck would have it, a draft caused by a subtle change in upper-atmosphere temperature began to blow, clearing away the thick cloud that had threatened to suffocate me. When I had finished blinking the dust out of my eyes, I noticed the section of the Archives to which Fate had led me: this was the section where the fossilized remains of previous issues of Analog had been deposited by the receding tide of academia. 

The imperfect medium of prose cannot convey the excitation I felt then, nor can I express with any accuracy the loudness of the roar of delight I gave that nearly caused the librarian to kick me out of the building. Instead, let me here put forth images of some of the beautiful things I found.

Below are some of the covers of Analog; I included the ones that I felt were the most suggestive or had the most artistic merit. They are wonderful artifacts from the most prolific era of American SF. These lonely compositions speak to the mythos of American Individualism (as spun in the popular SF mag) as well as reflect the poignant alienation of the period. Additionally, they are notable as exemplars of the period SF art that was not dependent on computer assisted imagery.

But these images aren't all. Among the Archives I found something even more fascinating, which I will reveal next week. Let's just say, it involves a sandworm.

Journal of 2012 Trip to Washington

I took a trip to Washington/Oregon from aug-september 2012. I recently found some of the notebooks that I wrote in during the trip. They're really stupid, but here you go anyway.

Preparing for the wedding:

What we played:

The long road trip to Cle Elum:

Coming back from the wedding:

In Seattle: Then, Portland:

On the Amtrack from Portland to Bakersfield (which took quite a while):

Salem, OR:

The Amtrack Got Stuck Somewhere in the Middle of Oregon:

Haibun of 25th Year (Part 1)

I

Apparently, no one who lives in southeastern North Carolina knows how to make good coffee. There used to be a good coffee place, where I could down macchiattos until my vision blurred, but it closed one year ago (a lesson in impermanence).  Now, Bryce does a coffee tasting, making pourovers with beans roasted out West. But too often my desire for caffeine compels me to seek out less appetizing alternatives:

sitting in starbucks
          am i drinking coffee? sour
                      like tar, but weaker.

But sometimes I feel guilty for being so critical:

sipping shoe polish--
      those poor children somewhere, though
don't even have that

II

North Carolina has beautiful fall days. The blue skies distract me from completing anything and the cool wind finally lets me wear a fashionable coat after I have spent three unbearably humid summer months in obligatory partial nudity.

carolina blue . . .

     does it reference this sky, or

this melancholy?

In elementary school, falling off the Earth seemed a possible concern. Now, in my 25th year, it's difficult to convince myself of the reality of this problem. Everyone suspects that gravity is someone's whim, though, even philosophers. 

III

On my way to a class I didn't prepare for:

i love learning so
              why do i watch so much porn
                                   and forget to study?

Lately, the stress of my own idiocy has worn me into a rather disappointing groove. I focus on one class or another, never able to get all of my work done. Anxiety then makes my work harder than usual. I have to struggle against my own embarrassment in order to make it to class, but, inevitably, attending class reminds me that yes, I actually do love what I'm doing; I love talking about ideas, especially obscure ones.

even sweating like
       a twisted wet sponge, i love
to babble theory

   

IT'S HAPPENING(!): the Upcoming Wilmington Municipal Election

Well, it's that time again: time for all of the concerned, infuriated and despondent citizens of New Hanover County to come together and vote in the municipal elections; or, conversely, time for all of the amateur naval-gazers, inchoate policy wonks and morally-paralyzed humanities majors to cease their indictments of hegemony, heteronormativity and Hegel long enough to explain why they totally forgot to vote.

As a bartender and possible alcoholic, I spend several hours a week listening to passionate conversations about how dissatisfied people are with the direction Wilmington is heading in. I overhear a lot of grousing about Brian Berger, or the snail-pace of downtown construction, or the Faustian bargain Wilmington is negotiating with tourism. These conversations usually end in desperation, despite the fact that the prognosis and treatment of Wilmington's political diseases are straightforward, albeit difficult to realize. It's as if we keep forgetting that the Municipal Government has power simply because it is where politics happens. It's as if we keep forgetting that Municipal elections are won and lost based on hundreds or tens of votes. It's almost as if we imagine that Ghoulsby has carved the political realities of Wilmington into stone tablets and placed them on Front and Market in order to obstruct street performers.

I hereby exhort all of my disempowered friends, followers and zealots to take a look at the links below and make up their minds.  Then, I challenge you to go out to the government center and cast a ballot. Then, I implore you to repeat this next time around. Even if no candidate meets your unrealistic standards, I'm sure that you will be able to distinguish that some are less dreadful than others. At the very least, we can refuse to vote in the Bergers, the Wieners and the Bushes (basically any political dynasty with a noun as a last name) and vote in the people who cause the least amount of damage.


For the WHQR Candidate's Forum, Click:
http://whqr.org/post/watch-whqr-wway-wilmington-city-council-candidates-forum

For the Star News' Coverage, Click:
http://www.starnewsonline.com/article/20130928/ARTICLES/130929639

To look up your voter information:
https://www.ncsbe.gov/VoterLookup.aspx?Feature=voterinfo

A Subjective Account of English Graduate School, Part I

Any of my friends could recount how often I have complained about the difficulty of finding meaningful conversation outside of academia. The problem with the real world is: too many people work. Sweating for provender not only robs people of the time that they ought to spend loafing in transcendental exuberance, it also renders them neurotic about events that mean nothing and that unfold completely beyond our control. Work teaches people that they may meddle, but only within the span of a yoctometer. Leave everything else up to the other professionals and the robots.

No surprise, then, that I waxed ecstatic when I learned I was returning school for my graduate degree in English. When I read the first words of the grad school advice pamphlet that was in the same envelope as my acceptance letter, the realization hit me and I had to sit down on the floor in the middle of the post office. I didn't feel especially accomplished, but the arrival of this small certainty unburdened me in ways that I did not know I had been burdened. I entertained visions of competent colleagues and equitable discussion groups. I dreamed about research papers. I remembered how throughout the cold, cold nights of July (cold because my parents, in whose house I was staying, kept the the thermostat at 40 degrees kelvin), I had warded off madness only with thoughts of scholarly articles and the occasional session of quiet, unenthusiastic masturbation. However, the poorly stapled teal leaflets in my hand signified that I had vindicated at least some of the sacrifices I had made.

But, like any enchanted image, my dream of grad school has come into existence only to fall out of a window and shatter. It's only been a week or two, but already it irks to discover that grad school appears to lie on the same continuum as undergrad, just that it lies a little farther up. I love grad school; I love that society loans me the time and funds to research whatever I want to. It's just that I don't sense any shift in the character of certain class discussions which I have had both in undergraduate and already in graduate courses and which frustrate me to the point of physical pain.

When I was not in graduate school, I disliked a lot of conversations because they weren't "intellectual" enough for someone as arrogant as I am, but now that I'm in graduate school, I find that jargon rather than content continues to drive many conversations. I think the Buddha's right. I'll never be happy.

A pretty arrogant and depressing blog. Next week I'll focus on the positive.