For Ryan to look at

As promised - here is the piece I wanted you to have a look at. I've written this for a guy who lives in Las Vegas. maybe I picked on you because your online persona reminds me of his online persona. Anyway - this guy asked a question a month ago which was 'Why do girls dig Batman so much?' That got me thinking. Why do I like Batman? What makes me read him? So I set out to explain why. I've done four previous versions to this - all of them quite history-heavy - and on re-reading each one none of the seemed right. What was it that I was missing?

And then I realised. There's one thing that makes Batman stand out. The thing that hits us in the stomach and makes us stay for more. And that is how he began.

So - I decided to cut the bullshit and just write my version of his beginning. If the dude doesn't get 'Why Batman' after this, there's not point bothering to do more. Before sending to him, I shall also add in a reading list at the bottom for him to take it further if he wants to. It's up to him to discover the rest of Batman. I'm giving him the map.

I suppose that what I am trying to convey (and that i might explain in my covering email to him) is that I am a sober and ordinary person who - under the black arts of comic-bookery - have been drawn into this character. I love Batman. I would, quite happily and without hesitation, take a bullet for him if I had to. There must be some reason for that. He is a hero and comes from a good place. 

So, here it is. Tell me, as another Batman fan, if you enjoy it:

I am here to tell you story. This story is not mine yet I know it better than I know my own. It is part of me.

This story really happened. I say this but I have no proof of it. I cannot present you with its witnesses, nor its actors. But I believe that they existed, once. And though I am sceptical of so many other things – God, UFOs, Kim Kardashian – in this story my faith is absolute.

Everybody loves a beginning, so we tell this story again and again and again. We draw it in books, we project it onto movie screens and we animate it in cartoons. And with each telling, the teller changes it a little. One man might embellish the tale with borrowed decorations or those of his own making; another woman might strip the tale back to its bare and beautiful boards of November, 1939. It matters not. All that matters is that each teller keeps his or her story as their own private icon, glowing in the corner of their minds to whisper prayers to. It is the thing that makes Him. In His Genesis, we seek our own.

This story is about the most perfect night that has ever existed and that will ever exist. You may believe that you have lived through happier, greater nights than this one, but you are wrong. This night is the night that ends all previous nights and begins all remaining nights to come. It is the perfect story, told imperfectly by mere mortals.

Our story takes places in a city, a city that by some archaic spell or perhaps through sheer will alone appears to predate the young country which surrounds it, its bones cracking with the age of the medieval gothic. And because of this impossibility, this city – great, Gotham City - is the arena where the grand stories of humanity are told. For you see, Gotham is where people choose either to Be Good or to Be Evil. And once their side is chosen they do battle against one another. This is its mythical purpose and those who live in Gotham - regardless of wealth, race or age - are forced to fulfil the city’s will. Everyone must fight. Even an eight year-old boy must fight.

Our story happens on a cold and starless night. This is nothing exceptional – Gotham is often cold because it faces the stormy Atlantic coast, and it is always starless because heaven gave up competing with Gotham’s brilliance before the twentieth century had really began. So the perfection of this night is due, not so much to the misty atmospherics (though it plays its part), but with the family it involves; three wonderful individuals who no good person in their right mind would ever wish to harm. And their names are Thomas, Martha and Bruce Wayne.

The Wayne family are not special because they are wealthy. There are many wealthy families in Gotham. No – the Wayne’s are exceptional because they care. They do not believe that money is an indication of a person’s worth. Instead, the Wayne’s believe that the poor – of which there are also many in Gotham - have as much right to live in the city as any of its billionaires. Their faith in this is so great that they give most of their personal wealth away. The Wayne Foundation sets up schools, hospitals, orphanages and refuges. Wayne Industries employs many of Gotham’s citizens in good jobs with great benefits. Also, Thomas Wayne is a doctor, treating Gothamites with no medical insurance for free.

But the Wayne family can only save those who wish to be saved. For those who turn their backs on salvation, Gotham is the devil’s mud-hollow, somewhere to wallow in misery, filth and degeneracy till you turn pig-sick. Poverty is the food source of Gotham’s evil, out of which grows desperation, disease, crime, addiction and violence. The rich families of Gotham include many with the ‘black hands’ of organised crime. They prey on the vulnerable, making the cowardly and superstitious lot of Gotham’s petty criminals either work for them or aspire to work for them. At the time of our story, hope is fading in Gotham and it will for many more years to come. As a result, no one wants to live there any more, not even the Waynes – they moved way out of the city into a gated manor. So the once-lovely places which housed Gotham’s debutantes and professionals are now occupied by drug addicts, thieves and prostitutes. Places like Park Row, which was lined with trees and three storey brownstones when Thomas Wayne was a lad, but is now a slum so bad that Gothamites nickname it ‘Crime Alley’.

But I digress. What you really need to know is that there is a movie theatre in Gotham, a special one. Most movie theatres in the city are much like the ones we all visit - huge multiplexes that project full-colour cynicism onto our lowing heads whilst we chew our popcorn over-and-over. The theatre in this story is very different. It is tiny – just one screen, seating maybe a hundred at most. All it plays are old films, black-and-white, melodramatic and hokey - the kind of unbelievable rubbish where the good guy always wins. In short, it is the movie theatre of the true romantic. On this night it is showing a prime example of its schlock-in-trade – a 1920 feature starring Douglas Fairbanks called ‘The Mark of Zorro’. This movie doesn’t even have sound. Watching a silent movie is no easy thing – you are forced to imagine what the actors are saying and listen to your own voice inside your head speak its occasional flash card of dialogue. It’s kind of like watching a moving comic book. That’s a lot of work - too much for most people. You need imagination and intelligence to enjoy a silent movie.

There is only one person under the age of forty in the whole of Gotham who wants to see ‘The Mark of Zorro’ that night – the Wayne’s son, Bruce. Now, I could tell you that Bruce is his parent’s pride-and-joy, but what person who tries to do the right thing doesn’t think that of their child? However, Thomas and Martha’s joy is a little different from your average mommy and daddy. The hopes and dreams of their family reside in their child so that means that what little hope and joy remains in Gotham resides in him also. Thomas even gave the boy a name to reflect hereditary purpose; a name taken from Scottish clansmen who fought to the death to protect their beautiful highland home against the English, and were so manly that they got away with wearing a skirt whilst doing so. Well - that’s how Thomas justified his choice to Martha. So Bruce it was and Bruce their son became.

Bruce brings joy but he brings his share of worry also (as all normal children do). Bruce is focussed - scarily so for a boy of eight. He is the most brilliant in his class, outstripping his schoolmates in all subjects - academic and physical - and whilst Martha is proud of this she notices that she never needs to make Bruce do his homework, practice the piano…The boy takes it all on himself to the detriment of play. Also, he doesn’t have many friends. In fact, Martha and Thomas rather suspect that Bruce doesn’t have any real friends at all. What his parents do not want to admit is that this is their fault. They have raised Bruce with certain values – honesty, charity, compassion – that few other families who send their sons to the top private school in Gotham share.

So when their quiet, beautiful and far-too serious little boy puts down his textbook to bring them an advertisement for a movie he wants to see starting at eight p.m., Martha and Thomas immediately say yes. It’s not like Bruce to ask for anything, let alone leave his studies. The boy must really want to see this film so they immediately get ready. Martha – however nice a lady she is – is still a woman with too much money and so she overdresses. She applies make up and pins her hair up in curls and clasps her favourite pearl necklace round her neck. Thomas laughs and tells her they aren’t going to the opera. It’s just a film, is all. She knows all this but Martha wants to look nice for her boys - her gorgeous boys whom she loves more than anything in the world. She wants to shine for them. And she does.

They arrive at the movie theatre. A silent movie – is Bruce sure about this? Of course he is – when was their boy ever anything else? And so they hand over their twenty dollars and get three little pink stubs in return. Popcorn? Yes please. Thomas and Martha laugh because the tub is almost bigger than Bruce. Isn’t it lovely there? So quaint, so clean – it must be like going to the movies during the 30s. They tell their son to slow down – he doesn’t have to run, it’s not going to start for twenty minutes yet. But Bruce wants the best seats in the house. He has studied the seating plans and knows the perfect spot - Row L, seats 10, 11 and 12. But Bruce needn’t have worried. The theatre is empty except for a few enthusiasts, dreamers all, just like him. They turn to watch a little dark-haired, blue eyed boy running down the aisle, dragging his daddy by the hand. And each of them of them smiles because that’s how they feel inside – excited, because they are about to watch the Greatest Movie Ever Made.

If you asked Thomas and Martha what the movie was about they couldn’t have told you. They didn’t watch one bit of it. Instead, they watched their boy, sitting In-between them in his grey sweater and short pants that he hadn’t even changed out of from school. God, how he laughed! Proper giggles that shook his little body all over, choking on his popcorn, Martha slapping his back to free his airway so he could laugh some more. Each time Zorro lunged forward with his sword, Bruce did too. Each time Zorro punched someone, Bruce did too. And each time Zorro kissed Lolita, Bruce pretended to vomit. No more homework, no more seriousness, Bruce was finally acting his age, wishing to be what every other eight year-old boy secretly wishes for – to become a fighter for justice with a secret identity and a mask and also a cape because the cape is the best bit, isn’t it daddy?

Of course it is, Bruce. A hero’s not a hero without a cape. Remember that.

So on that night - that cold and starless night – the Wayne family finally leave the movie theatre to walk to their car. No one could possibly be as much in love as Thomas, Martha and Bruce are right at this moment. They are the perfect family – united, warm and strong. Everything is going right, you see. Thomas finally has some assistance in the practice so he can spend more time at home. Martha’s going to suggest to Thomas that they try again for another child - she knows she lost the last one but it’s no use being scared anymore. Family and love is a risk worth taking, isn’t it? And Bruce – well - there’s something special about that boy. He’s going to be a brilliant - a scientist, maybe. And he’ll have a family of his own one day. Can you imagine being a grandparent? Yes, yes they can. Because, as Thomas jokes, no woman could resist Bruce’s fencing with an imaginary sword as their son is demonstrating right now.

Yes - this was the perfect night; the night to define all others. But the real Gotham-type of perfection is yet to come.

There is an alleyway opposite, only a short one. It is late and it is cold - better to go through that than have to walk round the block. Take mommy and daddy’s hand Bruce. We’re all going to cross the road now.

Bruce is so, so excited still. He is doing what all excited children do – he gets loud. ‘Take that! And that!’ He is the noisiest thing in a very quiet neighbourhood. Perhaps so loud that he attracts attention – it is hard to say. It is a neighbourhood where you don’t want to attract attention because the kind you’ll get will be unwanted. It is a place where people exist on subsistence, where guns rule and where life means nothing to anyone; a place so bad that people call it ‘Crime Alley’.

There is a man in the alleyway. The Wayne family do not see him approach. Perhaps he was waiting for them – who knows? It matters not. All that matters is that this man has a gun and that he wants something the Waynes have - money, jewellery – that kind of thing is at the forefront of his mind. But the real truth is that this man has come to rob them of something else, the most important thing they possess. He has come to rob them of their family.

The man - this dishevelled, shaking man - shouts at them. Thomas and Martha hand over their wallet and their purse in terrified compliance - anything to make the bogeyman go away. But he is still shouting. It is impossible to make out what he wants because they do not want to listen. After all, who wants to be told that they are about to die?

Something glints. It is the distant street lights bouncing off Martha’s necklace as she reaches down to shield her eight year-old son who stands behind her, rigid with terror. The man with the gun goes for Martha’s neck. His fingers grab the necklace wrapped round her beautiful skin. Thomas instinctively holds his arm out – not a terrifying gesture, just a defensive, understandable one. There is a loud BANG!, and then another BANG! Bruce watches as his mommy’s pearls arc up into the air from the force of the man’s grasp. Up, up into that cold and starless night they fly, comet-like, breaking free of the madness until the awful gravity of Gotham brings them crashing down to earth once more. They land, dirty and worthless, upon the scum which scuds down the blocked drains of Crime Alley, to be forever lost amongst the dirt and the waste.

Bruce looks down. He sees the face of his mother, lips contorted in a crimson-painted grimace and her skin deathly white. That image will forever now be the face of death to him. He sees his father, slumped, left hand reaching out but never touching the woman he so loved, blood gushing from a hole bored into his temple. And Bruce drops to his knees and sobs.

The man – who will later have a name – leaves now. In some stories he is mournful, in others he is not. It matters not. All that matters is that he did it. He murdered Martha and Thomas even though he didn’t have to. It is a crime without sense, without reason and it happens to a family who should be immune to it. They have all the money in the world to prevent things like that happening to them. They have riches enough to find the name of the man who did it and bring him to justice. But that doesn’t happen. Instead, this crime goes unsolved for fifteen years or more. No one is safe. Not here in the place of Good vs. Evil.

So our eight year old boy who once someone’s son now raises his head, looks up to a cold and starless sky and says:

‘This is my fault. I let this happen.’

We, the readers, open our mouths to tell him that he mustn’t think that way; that there was nothing that he nor anyone else could have done. But before we have chance to tell him this, another voice speaks out. It is a terrible voice, old and filled with mythic purpose. Gotham City answers Bruce and it says:

‘Yes you did. This is all your fault. So tell us, what will happen now to all the other little boys and girls? Because you let that man get away, and he’s going to take their mommies and daddies away just like he did yours.’

We, the readers, could try to tell Bruce that this is a lie, a ruse to make him join the eternal battle, but it is too late. Bruce has made his mind up. He will become a martyr. Bruce is going to one day wear a cape and cowl so we don’t have to.

So, with the resolve to succeed and the will to imagine that only little children possess, Bruce promises to do just that. He vows to be a Wayne for those who seek the path of light and righteousness but be something else to those who choose to remain in the dark. Thus the night ends, a night of perfect good and perfect evil; a truly Gotham night.

It will be a long time before Bruce finds exactly what that ‘something else’ is. For now the screams of Gotham must continue, the killing never ends. And Gothamites will look to the skies when this happens and raise their hands and cry ‘God! God, do you hear me? Why? Why have you forsaken us?’ But it matters not. All that matters is that one day their prayers will change; to be answered by a God who exists below their feet, buried deep inside the city’s ancient ground.

‘Our Batman, who art in Gotham, cowl-ed be thy name…’

On love

It’s been a funny couple of weeks for Batfans - The Ben Affleck thing, Harley getting naked and suicidal in a bathtub and now Kate Kane can’t get married. 

At first we all thought the same thing: ‘It’s because she’s a lesbian!’

No.  It’s because she’s a Bat and Bats cannot be happy.

So that’s that then.  Put away the tux, Batman, and let’s take the gift back to John Lewis.  Kate’s wedding is off.  Let’s hope we can get our money back on our hotel rooms as well.

Apparently, the no-marriage thing applies to all the heroes at DC.  No weddings past, present or future. 

‘At least it’s not just you,’  I say.  Batman shrugs.

I don’t know what to say to him.  When crap like this happens, I dread him coming over.  I hope he forgets to visit, or he doesn’t know what’s been said, but he always does.  He knows before I do. He knows everything. 

I could say something obvious, like – look I’m married.  It ain’t always exciting!  But he knows I’d be lying.  He knows how I feel.

He knows that, we are the greatest team-up the world has ever seen, my husband and I.  And each battle is fought with bone-crunching precision so no enemy blade – samurai-steel-forged, magic-sharp and devil-strong – can hope to come between us.  We stand as one.

He knows that, if anyone dared threaten my husband, by sheer will alone this ring I wear would turn a glowing green as I became the weapon of their mass destruction.  And I would smash them, horribly and repeatedly till they became one with the dirt beneath our feet.

He knows that, we are psychic - linked by mind and body.  We know the other’s thoughts and feelings as well as we know our own. The fact of this knowing does not bother us.  We do not need secrets or lies.  Those are for outsiders.

He knows that, my husband is my hero.  When I feel troubled, lonely or hurt it isn’t the batsignal I switch on.  I just shout my husband’s name.

I could say all this, but he knows it already.  That’s why he visits me because I don’t require rescue.  My husband and I save each other every day.  That’s what being married is for.

So I have seemingly nothing to give my best mate tonight, who is sitting on my sofa, crumpled-up like a big, black trash bag because he’s just had yet another night of running round Gotham getting his face kicked in by shit-heads. 

And most the time he gets no thanks for it.  Not that he asks for gratitude.  He just does what he does because he is who he is.  But still, to do all that and never get anything in return?   That doesn’t seem right. 

And I don’t mean give him money or gifts – he has all that.  What he needs is someone he can turn to and say – ‘Tonight was crap,’ or ‘Why do I bother?’ A person who won’t tell, won’t judge, won’t laugh; who will just say, ‘Come here’ and let him lay his head down for a while and close his eyes.   

This is what I believe: To be brave, you need love.  Love drives courage.  Upon love’s shoulders, heroism stands.

So I decide to say:

‘You can bring her here, y’know.’

‘Who?’

‘Selina.  If they don’t allow you to see her.  Bring her here.  Husband and I don’t mind.  Just ask in advance.  We’ll er, clear out.’

He starts to laugh.  ‘Are you renting your house out as a Batman motel now?’

‘Oh, shaddap!…I was just trying to be helpful.  Forget it, then!  Guess there’s no issues.  I dunno how Selina puts up with you anyway, you moody git.  She probably needs the effing’ break!’

We go back to watching Adventure Time. 

Then a few moments later:

‘Joe, would Tuesday be okay?’

Where he belongs

When he came to visit a couple of days ago, I mentioned to him that I was thinking of setting up another blog.  Somewhere I could store all these conversations we have.

‘I don’t like that idea.’

‘No?’ I said, ‘Why not?’

‘This is your journey, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I am part of that so I deserve to be here.’

‘Don’t you think that’s a bit strange though?’ I asked.  ‘That I’m changing my life by talking to the Batman in my head?’

‘Yes, but it that is what is happening, so leave me here where I belong.’

‘Okay.’

He hadn’t even sat down, but now it was time to go already.  His hand was on the door.  He stopped:

‘Just one thing – change the color.  I mean, beige?’

And so I did.

A comic book for Ben

A few days ago, I did something stupid. Then the world followed.

There’s no excuse.  Who deserves that kind of crap thrown at them?  Very few people, and you’re not one of them.  So, I’m sorry.  Really I am. 

When I calmed down I started to think.  Perhaps this is the chance I’ve been waiting for because:

You are Batman now, so you look after Gotham. 

And I am a Batman fan, so I live in Gotham. 

Therefore, you look after me. 

So I can ask for your help. 

Because, I’d really like you to listen to me.  Not because I mean anything.  I am nothing at all – but maybe that’s the point. 

So, I sat down and wrote a story.  It’s meant to be a comic and it would be if I could draw, but I can’t so I have to write.  I’m not saying that it’s good, but it is made by me, a Gothamite under your protection.  So here goes:

Night-time, a suburb of Gotham, late August.  There has been an unseasonal rain .  The thunder has passed now; the sidewalks are a mirror reflecting the clear night sky.

This is one of the few places in Gotham where you can see the stars.  The folk who live in these pleasant houses, lining these pleasant streets may earn their pay in the city but they would never, ever choose to live there: a place where the buildings reach so high and the lights glare so bright you never see the sky.  Better to live here, with its good schools and its whole-food stores and its low crime rate. This is a normal place, known only to itself, and everyone who lives here likes that.

In one of these pretty, flower-fronted homes, a woman stares out from her bedroom window.  We know nothing about her - her name, her job, who her friends are - we know only that she cannot sleep.  But there is nothing strange about this.  She tells us that she often suffers from insomnia, only she uses a different verb: ‘I enjoy’, she says, ‘I enjoy not sleeping’. 

In these silent hours she sees things no one else does.  She keeps these secret observations locked away in her mind, as treasure, to take out and admire when she needs to feel superior.  She likes to think it makes her a little less normal, but that, as we all know, is untrue.  Having secrets is the most normal thing in the world.

Tonight she watched the storm gather and break.  The rain pounded the rooftops and beat the sidewalks senseless – a horrible show of climatic brutality as though the sky was pissed with Gotham but Gotham had no idea why.  And though it has gone and all is calm now, something still feels wrong.  And this wrong crawls under her skin.  It makes her anxious.  She’d like to do something to put it right, even though she’s doesn’t know quite what that is.  Not yet anyway.

And perhaps because she fancies that she isn’t ordinary, or maybe just because she’s there, she decides to do the something that is forming in her head.

So, she gets dressed and calls a cab.  And when it arrives she tells the driver she would like to go to Gotham Police Headquarters.

The roads are dead this late at night, so they get there fast, in just twenty minutes.  She stands at the steps of GCHQ.  It’s not the tallest building in Gotham and yet it always seems so.  That’s because it has tiny windows.  It’s not a big wall of glass like the modern buildings.  It is made out of stone and it is old so it resembles a mountain – towering, magnificent.

She enters through the revolving doors (which she thinks are a nice touch), and she bangs on the little bell at the reception desk (which she also thinks is lovely) and a small officer approaches, wearing a blue shirt with short sleeves, deep blue tie and a policeman’s hat.  He, like the door and the bell, is perfect.  Everything about this scene tells her that she is in a police station.   She feels like she is in a story. 

‘Good evening, ma’am.  How may I help you?’

She places her hands on the shiny walnut desktop.  Her mouth opens.  She is excited because she has no idea what she is about to say:

‘I would like to see Batman, please.’

Now- that really was surprising.

 

The officer takes a moment to reply because he likes these ones – the lunatics who drop in to speak to Batman.   He always tries to come up with something funny, something to tell the boys in Hennessey’s when their shift has ended.  Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, but like his wife always says, he’s paid to be a police officer, not a goddamn comedian.

‘What?  You ain’t tried the Yellow Pages already? Could’a saved you a visit.  You should look him up under V for Vigilante.’

She smiles.  ‘You know very well how to get him.  I want to use the bat signal.’

‘Oh sure, go help yourself, because in no way is that restricted access only.  Sure, we let anyone up there!  Hey, you wanna call Superman while you’re at it?  Hang on, I think I got his number somewhere…’ and he starts to pat his pockets down, comedy-style. 

‘No - but thank you for the offer.  It is Batman I have come to see and it is Batman I shall see’.

‘Oh, you shall, shall you?’

‘Yes, I shall, because under the Batman Rights Act of 1939, any citizen of Gotham is allowed to call Batman if they have information that may safeguard his position as city defender.  I believe I have such information and so I am here to exercise my right to tell him, directly, as the law stipulates.  Go look it up if you have to.’

The man shakes his head, ‘Lady, there ain’t no such damn law.’

‘Yes there is.  It’s in that book on the shelf behind you.’

He continues to shake his head.  ‘And there ain’t no damn book on no damn shelf neither.’ 

She doesn’t say anything.  She just stares patiently, smiling, until finally he gives into the temptation to turn around.  There, leaning against a copy of Thomas Paine’s The Rights of Man, is a book which states, in big gold letters down its spine, “Batman Rights Act 1939”.

He turns back to face her.

‘Well I’ll be…,’ he says.  ‘How’d ya do that?’

‘Oh, simple,’ she tells him, ‘it’s an Unbelievable Plot Device.  Gotham’s full of them - like abandoned fairgrounds on every corner and chemical factories that never screw a lid down on anything.  I think the city might only work because of them.’

She’s on the roof now.  There are no stars to be seen so the city twinkles in their place.  She sees the signal apparatus.  It has a great, big switch - painted red.  In fact, it’s so large that she has to place both hands upon it to push it down.  It makes a really loud noise to let you know it is on, and then a yellow light throws a bat across the sky that screeches, ‘HELP ME!’

So he arrives.  He swoops down from God-Knows-Where, cape billowing behind him.  Upon that concrete platform, guarded ineffectually by demons carved in stone on each corner, Batman now stands before her.  And he is tall and dark and massive and awe-inspiring.  The Knight, the Light and the Night, are altogether in one frame – just how it should be.  And she thinks to herself that, if only someone could draw this, it would make the perfect picture. 

‘Hello’, she says.

‘Hello,’ he says. 

‘Are you well?’ she asks, because she only knows how to talk to neighbours and colleagues.  She doesn’t speak superhero.

He, in spite of appearances, is a polite person so his answer is normal too.  ‘Quite well thank you.  Yourself, though?  Why did you call?’

Yes – she thinks – why did she call?

‘I called because you need to know why you bore me so much,’ she suddenly blurts out. 

To his credit, he takes this criticism genteelly.  ‘Bore you?  Well, that makes a change, I must say.  Most folks find me quite exciting.’

She feels ashamed.  That was so rude. Where is this stuff coming from?  ‘That sounded so wrong.  You don’t bore me, not exactly.  It’s just that they keep rolling out the same clichés and it gets…repetitive.’

‘They?’  He raises his eyebrows when he says this which she finds amazing as there absolutely no eyebrows to see.  How does he manage that?

‘Yes they.  I’m a little hazy on this, but is seems as though they keep making you the same way, in films, that is, though I gather sometimes in comics too.  I may be in a minority about all this as everyone else seems to love it.  So, they might actually mean anyone with a different view to me….Oh dear!  That sounds a bit egotistical, doesn’t it?’ 

‘Yes, it does, but as you are woman enough to admit to it I guess you can’t be a complete idiot.  So - go on, how am I always the same?’

‘Well – and this is kind of weird - I need to demonstrate it.  Could you do me a favour?  I need you to give me a lift onto that stairwell.’

She points over to the rooftop exit.

‘What?  On top of that thing?  You sure?  That’s about eight feet high?’

‘Yes, please.’

They walk over to it.  He places his hands around her waist and boosts her up.  She manages to get her arms well over so she can scramble on top.  When she stands up she is covered in dust.  She shouts down.

‘Right -  imagine that I am you!’

‘You’re me?’

‘Yeah – and this jacket I have on is my cape.  Now you need to see what I do because this is how you look almost all the time.’

She holds out her ‘cape’ behind her for dramatic, Batman-effect and leaps down.  Her sneakers make a loud thud on the concrete that sends all the bits and crud flying.  She lands by bending her knees down low, brings her arms tight into her sides, elbows bent at right-angles and grimaces – downturned mouth, teeth gritted tight - and juts her chin out.

‘That’s how I look…?  Like a man struggling to pass a kidney stone?’

‘Yes!  Yes!  Exactly!  And that is pretty much you all the time.’

‘Hmmm!  Not sure what to think of that…What else do they do?’

‘Well they don’t let you interact much with people, and when you do it is pretty angst-ridden…’

‘Hey look!’ he interjects, holding up his black-gloved hands, ‘I am the first to admit that I am not a people person.’

‘Oh – absolutely.  But it’s just that your being round people helps us to actually see you. Here’s an analogy – if you looked at a black hole with your naked eye, what would you see?’

‘Nothing - just darkness.  Black.’

‘Exactly.  So when astronomers ‘look’ for black holes they measure its effect on the things around it, like the gravitational pull on a star - they observe its light being drawn in.  That’s the only way to know it is there.  Otherwise, all you see is black-on-black which is pointless and dreary.  You, Batman, are that black hole.  You are a dark thing in a very dark world.  We need to shine a people-light to see you.’

‘So when I talk to Robin, say - that’s when I come into view?  I see.  I like that.  What else you got?’

‘This: you are not crazy.’

‘Woah!  Really?’  He steps back for effect.  ‘Are you sure about that?  Because everyone tells me I’m crazy.  They say, “Batman, you are crazy!” all the time.’

‘Yes I know they do, but calling you crazy is pure laziness.  It’s a half-assed short-cut to explain why you do the things you do.  We like to think nowadays that violence is unusual, that - when it does happen - it is committed by abnormal people.  So – blissfully ignoring the fact that we do horrible things all the time - we label you crazy because we want to be better than that.  It’s like a pretend psychology – “he beats people to a bloody pulp; he must be crazy!”  Do you see?’

Batman is far from convinced.  ‘Well, why do I beat people up so much?  What does that come from if not insanity?’

‘I do not mean to insult you (again) but you are an anachronism; you are a man out of time.  You were born a long time ago and the concepts behind you are even older than that.  History is the proof that violence works.  Men punched, kicked, shot and stabbed their way through life and a lot of them enjoyed it too.  So, you are not crazy, you are just a man - a scary and therefore successful man according to the history books.’

‘Okay, but amongst these scary, successful men from history did you ever find one that dresses like a giant bat?  What kind of sane man does that?’

‘Oh, that’s easy,’ she says.  ‘the kind of man who was created to be a superhero.  Wearing a costume kind of comes with that.  Alternatively, the story would be: “Batman sallies forth in a nice pair of slacks and turtleneck sweater, drives his Studebaker out to the harbour then punches someone.”  That, to me, sounds a bit like The Rockford Files, which is no bad thing, but then it would be The Rockford Files and not Batman.  Are you following me here?’

‘Oh, yeah – and I love Rockford.  Cracks me up when Isaac Hayes calls him “Rockfish”.  But I digress.  Tell me more about this history thing.  I really like that.’

‘Okay – well, people call you the Dark Knight, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well you really are a knight. Every part of your life is.  And that’s why when people say your life is a struggle between two personalities – Batman and Bruce Wayne – that’s rubbish.’

Batman jumps up like he’s just seen the ‘wet paint’ sign, ‘You know about that?  Okay…I am comfortable with that for some reason, but can we do the knowing about it quieter next time?’

‘Yes, and sorry.  Shall we use a code word?  Like what’s-his-face?’

‘Good idea.  So - explain. ’

‘Okay what’s-his-face lives in a big house – a castle – up on a hill.  What’s-his-face is even named after a Scottish nobleman.  He looks after his peasants (his employees), and makes a ton of money from his estates.  Then, he shows off his money and power around the shire by attending court with the other lords and ladies of Gotham.  What’s-his-face is therefore a medieval lord of the manor.  You sir, are that same person.  Thing is, alongside managing their wealth, feasting on swans and shagging the wives of other knights at courtly parties, a knight had to fight.  To be a gentleman meant you were allowed to wear a sword.  Knights were soldiers and they got their hands bloody.’’

‘But, what’s-his-face does not act like me.’

‘No, but just because you modify your behaviour for different occasions doesn’t mean your insides are some didactic struggle!  Everyone changes their personality a little to suit the situation.  I don’t talk with my mom like I do my best friend, just like you don’t walk into business meetings and punch people in the face for not making budget.  But that doesn’t mean that you or I are two personalities, or that those two personalities are at war with each other.  You are a knight pure and simple - a chivalrous idea that probably never existed but you choose to live it because, like I say, you’re old-fashioned.  Do you follow?’

‘Yes, and I like your business motivation suggestion - might try that.  But tell me - why is this bugging you, exactly?’

‘Well, they concentrate on a handful of (admittedly very good) stories where the duality theme is explored because repetition is a great shortcut - it is easier to turn you into a cliché rather than a whole person.   But worst of all they use it to liken your psychology to those men you hunt down.  Tell me something, Batman – do you think you’re anything like Two-Face?  Joker?’

‘What?  No way.  They’re douchebags.’

‘Exactly.  But they do.  They think that Gotham is a hall of mirrors where you and all the people reflect each other.  You all have an internal struggle between the punchline and the punch, the orderly and the disorderly.  And all of you are crazy – remember that.’

‘So, when I stand like this,’ he demonstrates a heroic stance - hands on hips, legs apart, cape billowing, ‘and say, “Criminals are a superstitious and cowardly lot” thus making a point that I am neither, they ignore me?’

‘Yeah, that kind of thing.’

‘Well, I’ll be…How you supposed be a hero if you act like that?  Surprised they let me run round Gotham.  But I still have to make the point that knights didn’t keep their military career secret.’

‘No – you’re right.  But Batman can’t be Batman all the time because in our advanced societies we create equally advanced institutions to defend us – the police, for instance.  Anything that acts outside that institution is deemed vigilantism and must be stopped.  But the police cannot cope in our city – not just through corruption or incompetence, though unfortunately both occur.  It’s more because Gotham is not advanced at all.  It is a crazily violent hell-hole where being human for most means living by subsistence.  That, Batman, is a city of the Dark Ages.  Therefore, it needs a solution from the Dark Ages.  In other words, Gotham needs a Dark Knight to get medieval on its equally medieval ass.’

‘So…, I’m not crazy.’

‘Nope.’

‘And my alter-ego is not much of an alter-ego at all.’

‘Not really.’

‘And I’m really old?’

‘Your ideas and your behaviour is, yes.’

‘Anything else I need to know?’

‘Just that they don’t take much notice of your Golden Age.   Back then, you smiled a lot, and you cracked lots of jokes…Like when a gang opens a door, but they don’t know you’re standing behind it and you say, “Oh, hello!  I was just waiting for a street car!”  That’s my favourite.  I miss you being fun.’

‘And then what do I do?’ 

‘You punch them - hard.’

‘Do I smile whilst doing that?’

‘Not always.  You tend to save it till after when you’re laughing about their stupid, bruised faces with Robin.’

‘Yeah, I think I remember doing that.’  Batman smiles, and he stops for a moment to look out over the city, like he wants some unseen audience to know he is thinking.  ‘Look - I like what you’ve told me, but I can’t promise to do anything with it - that seems to be out of my control.  I change, you know - from day-to-day almost, according to what they want from me.’ 

She nods her head.  ‘I understand that you can’t promise me anything but I had to come here.  I was compelled to.  It felt like if I told you these things they might work out.’ 

Now she’s quiet, pensive, unsure of what happens next.  She has the notion that her life is a book and that this is the last page. 

Batman breaks the silence.  ‘Hey, can you see my face has changed?  That happened just last week.  And I keep hearing a name in my head.  Ben, I think.’

‘Ben’s a nice name.’

‘It’s not bad.  So, we done now, because…?’ he gestures toward some unseen crime about to unfold.

‘Yes, I think so.  I have “fulfilled my purpose” apparently.’

He walks over to the edge of the roof.  As she places her hand against the door he calls out behind her.

‘Hey!  I didn’t get your name!’

She turns to face him.  What was her name?  And does it matter if she doesn’t know it?  There is a well of consciousness deep down telling her that none of this is real; that the storm, her house, her friends - her whole life in fact - did not exist until three hours ago.  People who are so short-lived don’t deserve a name, do they?

But then, it appears, they might:

‘Joanne.  My name is Joanne,’ she tells him. 

 THE END

Bad news

(Note: I wrote this straight after I read the news.  I’m ashamed of my reaction now, but I want to publish it because it demonstrates just how much of an arsehole I can truly be.  Also, it explains the next thing I’m publishing.)

Bad news should always come with a warning so you don’t feel so damn stupid afterwards.  I did all the normal, morning things.  Like brushing my teeth (back-forth, back-forth, rinse, spit), filling the kettle, grilling a teacake– a bleedin’ teacake.  Then stumbling into the lounge with my little plate, with its little buttered breakfast and my little mug of coffee and turning on the goddamn computer like everything was o-freaking-kay.

But it wasn’t, was it?  That had happened.  And the screen was glowing in my face with those bloody words shining out in reverse across my spam-shiny forehead. 

And I’m sinking, sinking way down, dissipating, water leeching into me and I’m dissolving into it.  I’m losing myself in the osmosis of reality that eats away at me till I am all disappeared.

My opinion, my belief, my hopes and dreams are nought in this universe, existing only in my head.  I mean nothing.  I am nothing…

‘So I’m Ben Affleck now.’

‘Yes.’

‘You know – he might do a good job of it.  They see something in him.’

‘Yes, yes of course.  It will probably turn out for the best.’

The way I stare into my breakfast tells him I don’t believe that at all.

‘Say – shall we ask them to get Bale back?’

I snort.  ‘No, ta.’

‘Or Clooney?  Ole’ George again?’

‘Yeah – and the other bloke, what was his name?’

‘Chris O’Donnell,’ he replies.  He remembers all the things I don’t. 

‘Look’, he says – ‘this news doesn’t mean anything.  Not to me anyway.  It really doesn’t matter.’

Exploding now: ‘But it does mean something!’ I shout.  ‘You are out there, every night risking your life for us.  You have to wear this,’ I say, lifting his cape, ‘so that no-one else has to.  You have sacrificed everything just so we can sleep safe at night.  And what do we give you in return?  Ben Affleck, Batman!  BEN….AFFLECK!’

Batman now - ‘What’s the poor guy ever done to you?  Does he really deserve this vitriol?  No, no-one does.  So let’s just reel in the crazy for a moment and calm down, shall we?  And yes – this is actually me saying that, so if I think you’re acting deranged it must be bad.  Calm down.’

I look at him now.   It’s the first time I’ve felt able to meet his gaze since he arrived.  He looks…he looks Batman.  Non-plussed.  Does he not get it?

‘But he isn’t you, Batman.  He isn’t you.’

He shifts round on the sofa.  He’s thinking he can talk some sense into me.  Good luck with that today.  ‘Joe, who the heck is?’

Urgh.

‘And besides, when was the last time you bothered to go to the movies?  Or watched a blu-ray of a movie?  Exactly.  I have watched more films than you.  Me - The Batman, who barely has time to poop, has watched more movies than you.’

Urgh.

‘So, not only do you have no right to an opinion of a man whose work you have never watched, but also you should reserve your judgement for when you actually see this new film.  But, oh! - I almost forgot!  YOU DON’T WATCH MOVIES ANYWAY…!’

Urgh.

‘Forget about it.  Eventually we’ll put Operation Mr. Freeze into action.  Remember that one we talked about?’

‘Yup.’

‘We place you into cryogenic stasis and wake you up when technology has progressed to the point where dead actors can be recreated perfectly on screen.  And we’ll cast our Batman film with Jack Palance as the Joker, Robert Mitchum as Two-Face.  Ava Gardner as Catwoman and me played by Gregory Peck.  Perfect, huh? ’

‘A teacake?  What was I thinking?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Oh nothing.  Yes, perfect.’

‘Right!’ he stands, unfurling like a big, black umbrella you’d find handy in monsoon season.  ‘I have to go.  Now, are you going to work on your dissertation today because that’s the important thing?’

‘I promise – absolutely.’

And he’s gone.

No shit Sherlock

A good portion of twenty-first century communication is stating the seemingly obvious.  Banner headlines such as: ‘SMOKING IS BAD FOR YOU’ or ‘BEING POOR MAY NOT ALWAYS BE A POOR PERSON’S FAULT’ or my favourite: ‘EATING A BACON SANDWICH FOR BREAKFAST MIGHT BE OKAY, BUT CONSUMING TWENTY-FIVE A DAY FRIED IN LARD AND WASHED DOWN WITH A GALLON OF FIZZY POP MAY NOT DO YOU MUCH GOOD!’  That kind of thing. 

Why is this?  Well – part of the reason for all this no-shit-Sherlockery is the growth in electronic media.  Miles of websites requires something to put into them, thus pronouncements of this kind become the visual equivalent of filling in awkward conversational silence - gotta say something!  Also, most news isn’t news at all; it is the fluff from the dandelion clock-heads of public relations – the weeds of modernity.  But there is actually a much more fundamental reason for all this, that despite reasons for and the consequences of our actions being absolutely obvious, we still engage in stupid, harmful and downright nasty acts.  Violence, substance abuse, paying people a pittance and expecting them to be able to care for themselves, is rife.  Even I have a thrilling anecdote regarding my own bacon-related dance with death.* NO ONE IS IMMUNE! 

Not all of this obvious-ness is related to harm.  There are plenty of completely banal cause-and-effect statements.  We seem to do this to remind ourselves that the most basic tenets of human life are still there, still true.  It is a self-asserting mantra, a navel-gazing discourse and we love doing it: ‘Have I really experienced this?’  ‘Yes!’ comes the resounding answer. 

This brings me to this blog of mine.  I feel at odds with its premise.  My online space is supposed to chart my progress from mild-mannered accountant to Historian of Steel.  This implies I should record what I am doing as I do it.  The trouble is that seems too obvious.  Take for instance recent events.  The 28^th of June arrived and on the stroke of 11:30, I was an accountant no longer.  I put on a cape and flew out the door – to Wales, actually – and thus began my new life.  I did all sorts, such as walking round harbours and taking rides on narrow-gauge steam trains.  Since then, I have planned my dissertation - an immensely satisfying and rewarding experience.  But did I come here to document this?  No.

It seems that once the moment has come and been enjoyed it then disappears.  To go over it again is pointless.  The immediacy vanishes and I am now onto the next thing.  I would like to use this blog to document my journey, to write about ideas and compose essays on subjects that inspire happiness or (mostly) righteous anger.  These will serve to show the roads travelled.  But perhaps in ignoring the more obvious - the ‘I have done this and said that’ - there will be no cause to celebrate.  The sense of what is as compared to what was is lost forever and that seems a shame. 

So – I have come here to have my own no-shit-Sherlock moment.  Here is a  list of obvious things learnt about life and my good self since leaving work on 28^th June.

• I love studying.  When I read a book, the concepts excite me so much that I have leave my desk and walk round my Batcave in circles, rejoicing in the things I have found.
• When motivated, I work really hard and really long.  My days in the library last from ten till six with two twenty minute breaks.  On my return home, sometimes I reward myself with the night off but mostly I start work again because I want to.  Hence my awful inertia in the office was simply caused by a lack of motivation, not because I am inherently lazy and good-for-nothing.
• I like writing.  I haven’t started the proper book yet, but am up to chapter five of a story about Batman.  The first four chapters were a mess, but on the fifth I hit my stride.  I am improving.
• I have boundless energy.  I realise now that my headaches and tiredness was (again) linked to doing a job I did not like. 
• I am capable of primary source research.  This was something of a concern before I started, that perhaps I would get to an archive and become utterly lost.  But no - I planned it well and have already amassed enough material to make a dissertation – just not a very good one.  There is much work to do.
• I am critical of everything.  I am not a person who looks at the world thinks, ‘Isn’t that marvellous?’  Last week, when this was pointed out to me I felt temporarily bad about it – like I should make a self-conscious effort to be cheerier and view the world with a more forgiving searchlight.  And then I thought, ‘No, fuck it.  Why should I?’  Frankly, this world is awful and needs calling out.  My lot in life is not to put up with things and make do and be polite.  I have been made to shake people out of their apathy, to point out their bourgeois super-dickery and shame them for it.  Not that I’m perfect, but you wouldn’t know I think that if you listened to me.  I shall save my forgiveness for my writing where the worlds I make reflect the fact that everyone multi-faceted.  Otherwise I shall continue to be bloody objectionable and judgemental.  It is the mask I wear.

And finally:

• I am simply living this life and it feels right.  I made the correct decision.  There is nothing I can add to that.

*I don’t actually have a story about this, but I wish I did.

The pursuit of happiness

So, the time is almost at hand to begin again.  Well, not begin again exactly, but to have a refresh - to shake the old out my hair and take a dip in the pool of new.  So, before I do, I thought it a good idea to think about what I want to do, about what I want to achieve and how I shall do it.

I suppose that by the end of it all I want to be happy, but that is such a fuzzy concept.  You see, I am happy.  True, I don't feel great when I'm at work but it's not as though I am wallowing in misery.  Far from it.  I am blessed with a beautiful partner, a loving family and I have a great imagination which means that for a worryingly-large portion of the day I do not actually live on this cruel planet.  Anyway, happiness is not really anything at all.  It is our nature to focus on the next thing once the last thing we experience is done with.  Therefore, the resulting happiness from now can only ever be a fleeting thing.  And so it should be, otherwise the world would grind to a halt as we all sat round in bovine, chewing contentment. 

So, let us proclaim that it is not happiness which is the point at all. Rather, it is the pursuit of happiness that is the thing.  When that famous phrase appeared in the United States Declaration of Independence it was probably the most revolutionary notion ever.  In 1776 you were supposed to accept your lot in life - handed to you by God or your king or lord whoever - and if that lot included poverty, disease and violence, well, so be it.  You were born to it: accept it with grace.  If you lived a godly life you might, just might, attain happiness in heaven when you died.  Hurrah!

But that brilliant, beautiful nation which eschewed the concepts of rule by monarchy and embraced, not only Christian non-conformity but even - shock horror! - atheism, decided that it was okay to be happy.*  They did not promise happiness, only that you could go after it.  I have a list to assist me in my pursuit which might strike one as being amusing; a list on how to be happy seems contrary to the ideas of freedom and giddiness. Though by nature I am a planned person, that does not mean I am not without spontaneity.  This is a menu of things I want to do, but how I do them shall be down to me and the fates that guide me.  For instance, I should like to write a poem, but if in order to do that I need to walk across Niagara Falls on a tightrope, then I shall do it.  So here goes:

I, Joanne Victoria Krawec shall in the next six months pursue happiness by these acts or notions:

• Learn how to write a poem and write it;
• Write a book about a super hero;
• Publish research in a magazine or journal;
• Shall never again listen to something that I disagree with and pretend to agree for fear of offending the other party (ies);
• Shall never again suffer dishonesty and instead will call the person out, directly;
• Direct my most worthy and brilliant anger towards the issues of violence against women and poverty instead of getting wound-up by a lack of toner in the photocopier;
• Complete a good dissertation;
• Research and propose an idea for a thesis;
• Collaborate on an artistic project with her new friend, the Black Country artist Natalie Jones (more on this in future posts);
• Publish at least one essay per month on my blog.

Reading this list through makes me feel fantastic.  That, in its distilled intensity, is what I want to do before the clock strikes midnight on 2014.

*A blog entry on American history and the American dream is definitely called for.  Batman and I talk about it all the time.