Shaenon K. Garrity

@shaenon.bsky.social

12814 Followers 8632 Following

Cartoonist and skiffy writer. 2022 Inkpot winner. Narbonic, Skin Horse, Willowweep Manor, Steam. Repped by Brent Taylor. https://www.patreon.com/c/Shaenon

To research the plan, Carcosa had watched Western movies and looked at stills in movie books. The saloon looked like a film set from the outside, but the inside was dark, cramped, and unglamorous. A couple of men stood at a bar made from a plank balanced on barrels. A few more played cards around a rickety table. There was a baby grand piano, but nobody was playing it. The men at the bar looked up when Carcosa and Id walked in. The men playing cards didn’t. The bartender said nothing because there was no bartender. “This place could use some pianny music,” whispered Id. “Not piano. Pianny.” “You’re welcome to provide some,” Carcosa whispered back. “Or try.” “Okay.” “I wasn’t serious—” But Id had already darted across the dark and dusty room. She sat down at the piano stool, cracked her knuckles, and descended upon the keys. Pianny music tinkled out. Carcosa gaped. “You can play the piano?”. “Course not. I can play the pianny.”
Me at the gate of Randyland, an outsider arthouse in Pittsburgh. It's a lot.
Four issues of Southern Gothicc Futurist
I donlt know what else to tell you, it's a blacklight bike gear room and also now the interior if my heart
BROUGHT TO A JUNK YARD FOR SCRAP SAVED AND TO REST HERE IN BICYCLE HEAVEN
The exterior of Bicycle Heaven in Pittsburgh, a bike repair shop that has metastasized its own museum
“And Jello wrestling, but only once a year for fund-raising.” The girl scooped a perfect batch of golden fries out of the oil. “I’m Jojo.” “Id. Carcosa. This is a side hustle. Mainly, we’re time travelers.” “We’re going to save a park,” added Carcosa. “Not to pry,” said Jojo, “but does that make much money?” “Time travel, or saving parks?” “Either. Or both.” “They both make no money,” said Id. “But you could guess that,” said Carcosa, “because we’re working at Castle Shack.”
“I have to admit,” said a third man, who sounded suspiciously like Ambrose, “I didn’t expect to be able to say the Donner Party has eaten the same meat as me.” He thought about it. “I mean the same as I’ve eaten.” Inside the effigy, Id kicked and karate-chopped, without effect. Carcosa peered out through the woven branches. “Remain unfazed, Id. All we need to do is get back to the Mystery Wall, where our portal awaits.” “Yeah, but there’s a bunch of wood and dudes in our way.” Id paused for breath. “Hang on. We’re gonna meet Ambrose in the future, right? Doesn’t that mean we have to survive this thing that’s happening right now?” “Objective future, his future, our past. I fear our personal timeline could easily end now.” With a snarl, Id went back to kicking. “Time travel makes things way too confusing.” “I’d draw you a chart, but we’re inside a burning effigy.”
Angry lizard is frustrated that you don't get his story
Id nodded. She started to ask another question, but the door banged open and college students crowded in. “Okay,” said the girl at the front of the human blob. “What does everybody want?” This set off a long argument. Id watched and listened, smiling. Carcosa, in back, was too busy figuring out the deep fryer to pay attention. “I think we’ve got it,” the girl said at last. “We’re doing four Motte and Bailey Combos, one with double cheese, one with no cheese, one with royal cheese and pickles on the side and one with no bun, two Piers Plowmans, one with lettuce and tomato only, that means no sauce and no onions and pickles on the side again, one Divine Right of Chicken with the combo substitution, we brought our own straws, and an extra Coke with no ice.” “Welcome to Castle Shack,” said Id. “May I take your order?”
Poster for The Who's Tommy.
“Who’s next?” said Ashy after the woman in the beret had finished her thing. “How about you, long, lean, and frizzy?” “Carcosa,” said Id, “I think she’s talking about you.” “Really? Am I frizzy?” “It’s your hair. And maybe your whole prana?” “Where did you pick up the word ‘prana’?” “From the Beats. I’ve been listening. I’mo talk like this hepcats and kittens from now on. I dig their whole trip.” Carcosa stood. “Yes. I am, indeed, next.”
I dunno, your guess is as good as mine
Ladylocks they taste just like ladylocks
My parents' wedding photo with beers foregrounded
Same table as before with even more cookies
It's a table full of cookies. You better believe they got the tassies, the whirligigs, the Russian teas n'at from my Slovenian grandma's recipe.
A dwarf and a lil rat man striking for solidarity
“Freedom!” Id shouted. Carcosa stepped into the alley. “Yes indeed. How does it taste, Id?” Id licked the wall. “Chalky.” “That reminds me. We’ll need to acquire food. And hydration. And money? Probably money. Life is complicated in the outside world.” “Also deodorant,” said Id. She threw a crumpled soda can in the air and tried to bounce it off her head. “Why? Do I smell?” “A little.”
Some hippie dudettes
Two gals in hats + bandanas
“That’s what I’m saying! The big campus event used to be Mole Day, the annual celebration of Avogadro's Number, and now it’s sorority rush week.” “Speaking of which…” Another girl in a minidress tottered up. “Noble squirrel, may I have of you one wristband?” “Only way to get into the Delta party, right?” “Yes. Pleeeeease?” “Dude, it’s not happening unless you’ve got a golden acorn.” The girl burst into tears. “Sorry, hep kitten. Wish I could help, but I’m in the pay of queenier bees than you.” “There’s still time to prep for October 23!” Carcosa shouted as the girl ran away. “Salsa and avocado for the Day of Avogadro!” “You can’t force a Mole Day blowout,” said Id. “It has to rise from the hearts of the people.”
Four fancy-butt Art Noveau-ish illustrations on a table.
Someone stepped in front of the stagecoach. From a distance, it was hard to make out details. The figure was definitely carrying a rifle and wearing a bag over their head. Carcosa grinned. “That’s our man.” “No way.” “Yup. That’s Black Bart, the gentleman bandit.” “What kind of gentleman robs coaches with a bag over his head?” “Well, he says please. And writes poetry. The poetry is the crucial part.” Below them, the stagecoach ground to a halt in a cloud of dust. The bag-headed man brandished his rifle at the driver. He gestured up at Bad Bear Rock. “He’s looking at us!” said Id. “They’re all looking at us! Whoa! Hi!” She waved.
An aquatic-themed illustration of a woman with the lyrics "We will lie like river stones"
“About the plan.” Ambrose sips his rose latte. “Isn’t it a tad over-complicated?” “I don’t see how I could streamline it any more,” says Carcsoa. “There are only three phases, and we’ve just completed Phase Two.” “Yes, yes. Fair points. But Phase One included defying the laws of natural science, by my count, at least three times.” “I don’t reckon I know enough modern science to judge rightly,” says Bart, “but surely it was more than three. I still don’t get how those electric locks went on and off.” He shakes his head and slings back his classic drip.
Girl squeezing girl
“We almost saved the park!” “I think… Yes. We almost saved the park.” Carcosa grins. “Our campaign is working. Our next trip just might do the trick.” “To the Zegnatron?” “To the Zegnatron!” Off they ran. A moment later, Carcosa returned. She carefully reshelved both Seoul Food and The Battle for Oblong Park, then ran off again. The library briefly filled with the sound of Palestinian hip-hop. Silence returned. On the Local Interest shelf, The Battle for Oblong Park disappeared. It reappeared. The title changed to The Tragedy of Oblong Park. Seoul Food changed into a book entitled Oblong Park: Two Dead in a College Town. Then, for a while, nothing changed at all.
One hooded figure stepped forward and held up a hand for silence. “The first secret and circumspect meeting of the Pan-Kilkenny Men’s Supper Club begins. We start by burning an effigy of Aidos, the goddess of shame. Let dull shame trouble no man here!” A cheer went up. A dozen torches kissed the effigy. It smoked, then blazed. Soon, the grove glowed golden. The assembled knelt and bowed, danced and chanted. “I am so glad I brought marshmallows,” said Id. “Keep it down,” whispered Carcosa. She pulled her hood forward. “Women aren’t allowed here. If they hear a female voice, they’ll… Actually, I don’t know what they’ll do. Shriek, probably.” Id opened her bag of marshmallows. “So what’s the plan?” “The year is 1899. This is the first meeting of the Pan-Kilkenny Men’s Supper Club, one of the most elite secret societies in America. Everyone here is a millionaire, a tastemaker, or both.” “I bet being a millionaire is an extra big deal in like 1899.”
“Okay,” says Carcosa as they gather around a table. “We need a plan of attack. We’ve been on the defense for far too long.” “That’s not our fault,” says Id. “We didn’t even know we had an enemy. If I’d known that, I’d have gotten busy with the punching.” “True enough. And, of course, I’ve been out of commission—” “And stabbing.” “Thank you, Id.” “And shooting. And doing finger guns, to trick people, and for style.” Id does finger guns. Bart does finger guns back at her. They make pew-pew noises under their breaths. “Can I return in an hour,” says Ambrose, “when the comical sketches are over and the business of saving the universe may or may not be underway?”
A shot from Bloody Muscle Bodybuilder From Hell: a zombie head chomps on a neck.
The door swung open. A slim, goateed man stalked in. He wore a paisley vest and the kind of glasses that are definitely called “spectacles.” “Who are y’all?” he demanded. “You’re not clerks at Moxon’s Reckoners.” “Sure we are,” said Id. “We’re substitute clerks,” said Carcosa. “And this is our customer,” said Id, grabbing Bart by the arm before he could escape. “Technically true,” said Carcosa. “We’re making him an offer.” “None of us are criminals,” added Id helpfully. “I’m not a wanted criminal,” said Bart. “Anyway, welcome to Moxon’s Reckoners, where we definitely work! I’m Carcosa.” “Can’t say I’m pleased to met you,” said the man in the bowler. “I’m Moxon.”
Now she’s in detention. They call it Study Opportunity Period, but it’s really detention. She has to keep attending Study Opportunity Period until she writes a poem. Carcosa doesn’t want to write a poem. She knows she’ll get it wrong. She’d rather do more math. She looks at the blank sheet of paper in front of her. She picks up a mechanical pencil. The English teacher gave her a list of prompts. She can write an acrostic poem, or a nature poem, or a poem about how a color makes her feel. She decides to try an acrostic poem. That’s a poem where the first letter of each line spells out a word. It’s a little like a puzzle, and Carcosa likes puzzles. She writes: P O E T R Y S U C K S
Inside the greenhouse, amid the bromeliads and humidity, stands another old hipster, ramrod-straight. This one is a retro-style hipster, with a vest and spats. He looks up from his phone. “The females again. Boles! Fetch me my meat-axe!” “You don’t have a meat-axe,” says Id. “Get serious, Ambrose. We’re in trouble” “That seems to be your preferred state. I wouldn’t dream of interfering, except to step over the bodies afterward.” He returns to his phone. “No, listen, this is major major. We took a wrong turn through space, time, and the other and Carcosa got knocked out of the GBSF Field. She’s lost like her whole memory.” This gets Old Hipster #2’s attention. “You’ve forgotten everything?” “Even me,” says Id, before Carcosa can speak. The mustache droops. “You lucky scoundrel. I demand you tell me your secret.”
The stagecoach driver lifted his seat. From a compartment beneath it, he pulled out a large wooden box. The man with the bag on his head took the box. He spoke briefly to someone inside the stagecoach, then bowed. The driver whipped the horses. The coach rolled on. The bag-headed man mounted a horse and rode away. “Keep an eye on that man,” said Carcosa. “We need his talent.” “For bandit stuff, or poetry?” “Poetry. But we’re broke again, so maybe bandit stuff as well.” “Yeah, I spent my last two quarters on the sticker machine at the place that used to be the boba place that used to be the coffeehouse.” Id pointed at a metallic frog sticker on her cowboy hat. “It’s a nice sticker,” said Carcosa, “but in this year, fifty cents would buy you an entire cowboy boot.” “Not fifty cents with pictures of Hawaii on the backs. They don’t know what Hawaii is.”
Three cheerleaders seized a chain. Another opened the cage door. The rest launched into the Cabbage Patch as a striped blur fired from the cage. Id clasped her hands. “Aw, look! It’s my Tasmanian wolf!” “That can’t possibly be the same marsupial,” said Carcosa. “We traveled over a century forward. Perhaps it’s a descendent.” “What?” “I said—” The cheers drowned her out even more thoroughly. “Never mind.” “No, seriously, what is going on? There wasn’t a stadium here before.” Carcosa leaned down to shout into Id’s ear. “I fear! Our meddling! Has turned the college!” “Yes?” “Into a jock school!” “No!” “But on the plus side, we saved the Tasmanian wolf.”
A bookshelf displaying Steam, Orion, and The Woods, all books that rule on high in their realms.
Eihi Shiina in AUDITION, cheerfully wielding piano wire
“I’ve got an amazing view of that bench,” said Id. Quiet! Carcosa messaged her. What have I told you about talking during work hours? “Everybody’s out,” said Id. “Who knows who’s in and out better than me?” There was silence in the lab. “Come on. Let’s hear it. Who knows better than me?” Carcosa relented. “No one, Id. Your areas of expertise are limited but surprisingly thorough.” “Doors and violence. That’s what I know.” “Those are enough, Id. I know the rest.” “Course you do. Now check out Exterior Camera C. The staff all went to a birthday lunch and my bench is looking fine this afternoon.”
The headline "America celebrates its 250th birthday" over a photo of Trump's state fair thing blocked by an EVENT DELAYED sign. A few people mill sadly about.
Carcosa and Id sat down with their trays. They each ate a fry for fortitude. Then they lifted the buns off their burgers. Both patties were square. “Castle Shack burgers used to be round,” said Id. “Right? Right? I would never forget that. A Castle Shack burger is only the first food I ever ate in my life.” “You’re correct, Id,” said Carcosa. She turned in her seat. “Sir, how long has Castle Shack sold square burgers?” “Always,” said the man behind the counter. “It’s the thing we’re second most famous for, after all those E. coli deaths.” Carcosa nodded. She turned back to Id. “Last time we ate here, we ate round burgers. Every time we passed this establishment, the signage depicted burgers with round patties. Clearly, our actions in the past have altered history.” Id bit into her burger. “It still tastes okay. So is this good or bad?”
Carcosa and Id found a table. It was sticky and had one short leg propped up with copies of The Communist Manifesto. “I love Beat times,” said Id. “Yes,” said Carcosa. “So far, all is going according to plan. But let me warn you from experience: writing poetry is much more difficult than it looks.” “With enough coffee, I can do anything.” Id downed her mug in one long gulp. She peered around. “You think any of these Beats have coffees they don’t want?” As it turned out, some of them did. Others would buy Id coffee if she stared at them long enough. One of them gave her a cigarette. She tried to eat it, coughed, and spat it out. “I don’t get the appeal,” she told Carcosa, and drank another coffee.
Tyler continues: “The next part was kind of a blur. A lot of twitching. I somehow ended up on the ground with my eyes closed, in a state I wouldn’t describe as either conscious or unconscious. Tranced-out I guess. When I ‘woke up,’ I couldn’t believe what I saw. I had arrived with all these people I considered to be hyper-rational nerds who were emotionally inexpressive, to the point where many people who visited Leverage came away with the impression that it was full of ‘robots.’ But now all these people were cathartically weeping, shaking, etc. One guy I thought of as the paradigmatic Rational Person now had his shirt completely unbuttoned and seemed to be lamenting on the couch like a melancholic king. Afterwards, everyone was, of course, like: ‘WTF was that?’ ” After this meeting, several Leveragers, including Tyler, signed up for the Luminous Awareness program, which was not full-time but took place at intervals over the course of two years. The program cost each attendee about $10,000; some researchers had this cost subsidized by Leverage or by a funder. (Anna-Lisa Adelberg did not respond to requests for comment, and died of cancer in 2025.)
This was an interesting question for Tyler, because as he puts it, “the gold standard in cognitive science is randomized controlled experiments” with a control group. But if Tyler found an unexpected but massively obvious effect, like a pill that made him levitate, then would he still need a randomized controlled trial to believe that this obvious effect actually existed? In Tyler’s words, he and other Leveragers came to believe that “if you adopt this scientific mindset of looking for large effects, then you can just go around and find a lot of things that scientific people won’t be paying attention to, and possibly mine some of the important secrets of the world.”
From the article: "She discovered the rationality community via a famed Harry Potter fanfic written by Eliezer Yudkowsky..."
There was a knock at the door. Id jumped. Knocking was new. She’d dealt with buzzers and beepers and synchronized apps. She used to know hundreds of number and letter codes. She’d processed thumbprints, handprints, and retinal scans. She loved retinal scans. Carcosa had let her pick her eye color from the retinal scan bank. But no one at Moxon’s P.S. had ever just knocked. Carcosa was on her feet. “Remember what we rehearsed, Id?” “We’ve rehearsed a lot of things, Carcosa. Is this one of the times I wrap the scarf around my head, or no?” “Keep the scarf on standby. I’m talking about our sales pitch to Black Bart.” “So…hats?” Carcosa considered it. “Better safe than sorry. Let’s put on the hats.”
Everyone join in on a rousing chorus of Any Old Iron: "Tre you look at from your NAA to you P fre in with a J fine father so great"
A coyote sniffed around Bad Bear Rock. It raised a leg. A door that wasn’t entirely a door sketched itself into existence, blasting bangra music. The coyote yelped and ran. Id and Carcosa stepped out. They had cowboy hats. Id wore Ambrose’s scarf around her neck. “Which stage of the plan are we on now?” asked Id. Carcosa calculated. “Stage One was getting out of the lab. Stage Two was writing a poem to rally humanity around the park. So…Stage Two.” “Stage Two is taking a long time.” “Admittedly, I thought inventing time travel would be harder than writing a good poem.” Carcosa started up Bad Bear Rock. “But from here, we should be able to get a lock on our salvation.”
A horned woman of a certain age spraying a suspect scent
From Hayate the Combat Butler. Several characters are visiting the Tama River because a crucial scene from Shin Godzilla is set there. Nagi: Whoa! The absolute defense line at the Tama River! Hayate, let's simulate the counterattack by tank battalion! Hayate: I told you, I haven't seen this movie! Wataru: Wow! It's truly overwhelming in real life.
“This is a society,” said Ambrose, “for men of intellect, taste, and frontier spirit. Naturally, the night’s menu is determined by tournament.” Id nodded and rolled up her sleeves. “What if she doesn’t defeat it?” said Carcosa. “What if the Tasmanian wolf wins?” “Then the cooks will use a different marinade,” said Ambrose. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He scooted behind a table. The waiters released the chain and ran for their lives.
From a New Yorker article on a Beatrix Potter show: The siblings loved animals, but they were “unsentimental about the realities of life and death,” as the show puts it. When their pets died, they would stuff them, or boil their skeletons for further study. There’s a drawing by Bertram of a pickled fish next to a human skull, and a note from him about his pet bat: “If he cannot be kept alive . . . you had better kill him, + stuff him as well as you can,” he wrote to Potter from boarding school. Nearby, stretched out in a display case, is a flattened rabbit hide and the disturbing sign, “Rabbit pelt, thought to be that of Benjamin Bouncer.” Benjamin Bouncer was one of a series of rabbits that Potter owned, and a favorite muse.
Scientific illustration of mushrooms by Beatrix Potter.
It’s a plant store. A nursery. There’s nothing magical about it. Carcosa knows this, just as she knows there’s nothing magical about anything. But it doesn’t look like a store. It looks like a succulent jungle planet splotched with cartoon colors. Cast-iron sculptures and terra-cotta tiles peek out from the foliage: grinning faces and mad dogs and skull-suns. This is the kind of magic that people can make, Carcosa acknowledges. The real kind of magic. “How long has this place been here?” she asks. “Like the Seventies. The first time there was a big water shortage. That’s why they sell cactuseses a’nat.” Id pokes the spines of a potted barrel cactus that’s roughly her size and shape. “Ow. It was an age of legends, Carcosa. Agents of darkness watered their lawns by night. The faithful saved their pees. Ow.” “Stop poking the cacti. You’ll hurt yourself.” “If it was yellow, Carcosa, they let it mellow.” “Thank you. This has been educational.” “You’re the one who told me about it. Ow. Oh wow, look! It’s Bart!”
Two gals in black turtlenecks. One caption: "romp and frolic with the Beats"
“Again, what exactly am I looking at?” “Ambrose. He cannot stop posting and I am here for it.” Id snatches her phone back and scrolls with delight. “All his latest comments are going absolutely scorched earth on bromeliads.” “Bromeliads?” “That’s a kind of tropical plant.” “I know what bromeliads are. What does this person have against them?” “Oh, he hates everything.” Id laughs. It sounds like a cat being stretched. “Listen to this. ‘These species are rootless parasites, suggesting their popularity with college freshmen is rooted in a sense of kinship.’ Dang, I would not like to be a bromeliad right now.” “How do you know this person?” “We kidnapped him the one time. Oh dip, he called tank epiphtyes ‘pompously sensationalistic.’” “He’s not wrong,” says Carcosa, “but so what?”
Jesse Custer telling an unmasked Klansman, "You! Where the fuck is your chin?"
The Diving Bell and the Butterfly by Jean-Dominique Bauby