Someday everyone will know exactly what you did

I am not awake enough for a con report. Have some notes.

(I wrote up Thursday. I did not succeed in doing this with any other days of the con. I tried around two or three in the morning on Saturday, but ended up reading Verlaine and The Great Lover instead, which must have done a number on my dreams.)

New Readercon Experience #1345: Durian. Wrestled open by scottedelman on the sidewalk out front of the hotel on Friday night after Meet the Pros(e), first with a kind of clasp knife that disintegrated on engagement with the spiky rind, then with a reenactor's dagger borrowed from schreibergasse and later repurposed for the evisceration of the jackfruit, which Scott had thoughtfully brought along as a chaser. I may someday be banned from taking mass transit in Singapore, because it turns out I like durian. The first one he opened was afterward agreed to have not been quite ripe, because it tasted like a mild, custardy sort of melon with some faint, sharp undertones; there seemed to be a general air of disappointment that it wasn't causing stampedes, seizures, or at least a noticeable smell. The second one cracked open and all of a sudden the crowd started to thin. Schreiber' said it smelled like a gas leak. I believe Scott referred to it as a diaper. More than one person claimed it tasted like an industrial accident with an onion. (rushthatspeaks never got past the cautiously inhaling stage, because they couldn't convince their body it wasn't onion and therefore not poisonous.) I found the second durian markedly more strongly flavored than the first, but not at all disgusting—mostly confusing, because it tasted more than anything like a cross between stone fruit and Guinness cheddar. Seriously umami. Sort of the texture of pumpkin or squash. I didn't eat very much just in case it turned out I was allergic or otherwise unfit for durian consumption, but I certainly wouldn't have handled it with hazmat tape. Geoff Ryman said it demonstrated the paucity of human vocabulary when it came to describing smell or taste, especially because each person seemed to perceive it differently. Later that night, I found myself attempting to summarize the durian to greygirlbeast: "It's like the face of God, but funny-tasting."

It is stupid that the last time I saw hans_the_bold in person was quite possibly last year's Readercon. At least this time I got to have dinner with him three times in two nights, and real conversation. Later on, he read from his dread masterpiece, Gay, Bejeweled Nazi Bikers of Gor, the prize of Kirk Poland and the bane of many a formerly functioning brain cell. I think I watched gaudior actually hurt herself laughing.

It is slightly less stupid from a geographical standpoint that I haven't seen handful_ofdust in person since last year's Readercon, either, but from the standpoint of people who are awesome to hang out with, it is dumber than a bag of rocks. We fortunately contrived late-night conversation about A Tree of Bones and dinner at the Summer Shack on Saturday with cristalia, cucumberseed, and hans_the_bold at the expense of many undeserving, but delicious shellfish. She gave me a green-barnacled oyster shell nearly the length of my hand. I wish I had the finances for more conventions, or at least plane tickets.

It is not stupid at all that I had seen greygirlbeast and humglum just the week before, because they are amazing. I was scheduled across from almost all of Caitlín's panels, but I did manage to make her talk on the writing and editing of Two Worlds and In Between, where mostly I contributed proofreading PTSD. I am only sorry that dinner didn't work out any of the nights, but that's what next year is for.

gaudior is my best cousin; she bargained a NESFA limited edition of Tanith Lee's Unsilent Night (1981)—containing perhaps my favorite short story by the author, the shape-changing Carthaginian "Sirriamnis"—down to less than half its cover price, simply with a kind of bright, interested look, as if she were asking something very reasonable. The proprietor was still exclaiming to himself as we left, "What did I do that for?" Every time he caught sight of us after that, he pointed us out to the nearest listener with a kind of rueful awe. I really owe her a poem now. Possibly I should write him one, too.

In addition to a watercolor of a Birch family that I got as (wholly unnecessary) bribery for attending his reading, cucumberseed presented me with the Last Minute Panicked Vampire Mix!, which I am listening to as I type. mrbelm appears to have given me the complete Matmos on CD. I don't usually come away from Readercon with other media. I hope it's permitted in the bylaws.

I did not win the Rhysling Award, but csecooney did, so that's cool.

After twenty-five years, the audience finally won the Kirk Poland Memorial Bad Prose Competition—time_shark came in a very respectable second, meaning he is now the corollary of an extant rule. I don't know about the mystical properties of Himalayan salt, but I'm going to remember the lyrics the Star Trek theme song for the rest of my life.

After three years, I think it is now formally a tradition that after either Meet the Pros(e) or Kirk Poland, Michael Cisco and I stay up and talk ourselves stupid. This year, he decided to add whiskey to the process. We started with Hammer horror and ended up everywhere from Pamela Franklin and the guqin to Gogol and giallo films to Robert Walser and the trombone, with zigzags of family history and Flann O'Brien. At around five in the morning, we were talking about Tibetan demons and how we wanted our bodies disposed of. I watched a very beautiful smolder of sunrise along the Boston skyline as I answered my e-mail, then showered and collapsed for less than four hours. This has actually nothing to do with why I introduced myself as a zombie yak herder at the last panel on my schedule.

(I moderated all but one of the five panels I was on. People seemed to like them. I think the readings went well, too: two poems of mine and one of rushthatspeaks', one of my stories and one by strange_selkie. "The audiences, while not wildly enthusiastic, were tolerant. By this I mean they rarely left in groups . . .")

Book haul: in addition to the aforementioned, Gemma Files' A Rope of Thorns (2011), which I made the author sign, William Hope Hodgson's The House on the Borderland (1908) with a terrible paperback cover, a gift from rushthatspeaks, and David Lunde's Breaking the Willow: Poems of Parting, Exile, Separation & Reunion (2008), which the translator signed of his own accord. I did not have nearly enough time with him, or with teenybuffalo, or with readingthedark, never mind the various people I waved at in passing and ran to my next panel. This is a problem endemic to conventions, but it seemed in particular effect at this one, especially as everyone seemed to disappear before I could say goodbye to them. Someday I will be on a panel with lesser_celery. It will be great fun and then the Fenrisúlfr will devour the sun.

Oh, and if you didn't see the flyers or the internet: our next year's Guests of Honor are Caitlín R. Kiernan, Peter Straub, and the ghost of Shirley Jackson. It's going to be magnificent.

I am very, very tired.

I wish I'd remembered a camera.

It was a good con.