Reading up on the origins of, and the many reasons for, the science of lucid dreaming, I came to the conclusion I had thrown the net too wide and found myself attempting to trace footprints in the air. Which is to say I knew where I wanted to go to but felt I had compromosed the authenticity of that journey with a barrel load of personal biasis. A huge chunk of lucid dreaming owes its origins to nostalgia, how we frame memories ina certain way and how we project those memories on to the stage where we act and perform our impressions of our lives. No wonder even the Victorians considered nostagia an unhealthy impulse and that was an era that verged on necrocity. As a collector of sorts I find my journey through life loaded with serendipity, loads of happy accidents that trick me into believing that my life is linear and unfolding in the correct way, as opposed to just...well, unfolding.
Consider this; in a recent old comic aquisition I came across a few old Dell Comics, an American publisher who had a wide range of titles, from Boris Karloff presents, to other long gone television tie-ins. There were also a number of British Tarzan comics, black and white interiors with some lovely painted covers of life in an African jungle that probably only existed in the ink well of Edgar Rice Burroughs. Take this delightful issue Tarzan Adventures #31, a weekly title published and sold for the princely sum of 6D ( In The Year Of Our Lord 1958 ) to be found on a newsagent shelf somewhere near you, if you were lucky at the end of your street. Back in the day when any respecting newsagent would have carried a huge number of diverse publications on its shelves, to tempt even the swarthisest tastes. Oh how we miss such places. We took them for granted and they wilted through lack of love. Not only from the corners of our streets but from the main streets of our city centres, turning instead to the unlovely booty parade that is the internet, for shame. Just look at this lovely wee comic. Not only was it a title bold enough to go without the main character on its cover, it also contains the comic strip adventures of vanother old house hold legend; Buffalo Bill. Beautiful as these details are there was also another aspect of the interiors that teased my eye . A text feature reporting on the "WORLD CON OF 1957.", a gathering of science fiction and fantasy fans from all corners of the glode., if a globe shaped world can be said to have corners. An event in London set to mirror some of similar themed Conventions in the colonies, so to speak.
Like most mordern conventions there were activities and events staged over the weekend for the attendees. Themed events sure to quicken the pulse of those drawn to come to such meetings of like minded imagineers ( well, what else are they?). There was off course a costumed event, although it would be a few more decades before the ad himinem 2cos-play" would come into common parlance. It was unusually for such rarified conditions an entirely natural evolution,the word a natural congruity birthed in artifice but cloaked in homely humility. The big film of the event was an animated movie; MR WONDERBIRD, starring the voices of Peter Ustinov and Claire Bloom. Other highlights included a display of hypnotism ("..and it seemed incredible that one man could make people do things they had never been able to do.") Music for the event was provided by the Mississipi Jazz Band and some bloke named John Mc Donald was about to embark for Japan. On a raft. Blimey, it all sounds amazing.
What a joy it was though to see much respected Irish writer James White so lionised. And he was in such good company too, check out the legendary Forest J Ackermann in a photo with with him, elegantly suited and booted, as one says. They look like science fiction writers from a golden era, which of course they both were, two hugely talented imagineers on top of their game.
James White's impressive body of work has deservedly made him something of a legend in the uncollected fraternity of Irish writers. Cerebal yet charming, impressively intellectual while remaining witty and fun. His Sector General taking the very best of us to the stars. ( In other words, whatever Picard is, the very opposite.) His writing is celebrated among those lucky enough to have absorbed it. I was lucky enough to have met him a few times, over beers in Whites Tavern, where he and some like minded chums and fellow scribes would meet up. I liked listening to the free flow of ideas, impressed that these men respected each other enough to value theirrespective works in progress, bouncing ideas and formulating solutions to quite outlandish and other worldly ideas. I rarely contributed to those chats, not wanting to sound like the gormless young wannabe I no doubt looked and behaved like. I also respected these writers much too much to assail their ears with my untutored boobie-babble. You know, they actually reminded me off the Doc Savage team, a group of brilliant individuals on a pulpy retro futuristic path I longed to walk. Perhaps a vision best viewed through the prism of a stein of Carlsberg, a fine beer for such occasions. I felt like a Latverian peasant with a foaming tankard of ale, on the set of some imaginary European village, getting drunk enough to storm the catle of the resident monster maker.
I was also delighted to see the name of the editor and writer of this particular piece, Mike Moorcock. I had known as a young man he had worked on a Tarzan comic book series and yet this was the first time I actually held one of the copies in my hands. What a joy that job must have been for this bright young turk. Something of an enfant terrible no doubt. A genius taking baby steps into a world where he would shine as one of its brightest stars, illuminating generations of readers.
So much going on between the covers of a seemingly unremarkable weekly British comic strip, long ago and oh so far away.
