"i spent my life with Superman"

i love Superman. i tried to write this once already. it was not the piece i wanted to write. it grew into some kind of academic defense of the character, and it felt too much like work and not enough like the nostalgia and love i wanted to describe.

it sounds funny, doesn't it? i love a comic book character. go ahead. laugh. there are endless aspects to Superman that i could intellectualize and examine endlessly. perhaps that is for the evil twin of this post to explore. this post, the good post, is for meandering my way through my memories and impressions of the character...how Superman has informed my identity from childhood...

what little boy didn't want to be Superman? that is the only defense i can offer for my childhood obsession; i can find no excuses for its following me into adulthood. i don't know if i remember my first Superman comic book. it may or may not be the one i'm thinking of now. i don't remember too much of it: i couldn't read, but i knew that 'damn' was part of the dialogue. and i remember a panel with a half naked Superwoman, mid costume change. and there was Lex Luthor, and Kryptonite, the works.

i would sit on my dad's knee, and he would read it to me. he used to tell me stories about when he was a kid, and he'd get a quarter for an allowance. 15 cents went to ice cream. the other 10? a Superman comic book. there must have been something in that experience he wanted me to share; i can't think of any other reasons why he should have read me that comic book. from what i remember it was barely appropriate reading for a kid of my age. as i'm writing this now i think i've recalled how it found its way into my hands -- at a hotel, some kind of convention perhaps. people littering my small field of view, moderately distant to my eyes, and now, my memory; my father behind me, hand on my shoulder. one figure stood close, a thick, tall man, suited, in his mid thirties. he looked at me. he peeled a book off the stack in his hands and slapped it into mine: Superman. my heart raced.

now that i think about it, that was a course altering moment in my life. who could tell that for the next twenty years i'd be enfatuated...?

standing even more monumental in my mind, of course, is Superman: the Movie. it came out two years before i was born, and because video rental back then was something you did secrety out of the back room at the local pizza parlor, i think what i saw was a theatrical re-release. Dad's fault, again. if it were up to my Mom, i wouldn't have seen it, i'm sure -- Superman, and Star Wars and the Last Starfighter -- traditional great 80's fare were too much for an impressionable little kid like me. turns out she was right. but thank God for Dad.

Christopher Reeve was Superman. he brought the character to life, and he's burned himself into the mythos. when comic book artists drew Superman, up into the late 90's, they were drawing Christopher Reeve. that 'S' is scorched into my brain, those primary colors. i hate yellow. unless its inside Superman's crest. there, up on the scree, you could see him fly, could see his cape flap behind him. though couldn't remember that it was called 'heat vision,' i was thrilled at what i could only describe at four years old as his 'laser eyes'(what four year old knows what lasers are?). you could see it all in the flesh. you believed a man could fly.

Reeve's set jaw and blue eyes crystallized the screen. that movie is spectacular. even its frustratingly corny moments endear themselves to me. yes, i am fully aware of the tricks that nostalgia plays on one's judgement. even so, the Superman of the movies became Superman for not just me, but everyone who saw it.

now i'm older. and what of Superman? the gloss of my childhood obsession hasn't worn off, but i can see behind it now. what was relevent to me then -- the desire to fly, to run, jump and take off, to burn a whole through the front door -- is not what is relevent to me now, appealing as it still might be.

people say Superman is a boyscout; that he is somehow two dimensional because he is good, because he follows the rules, because he does what is right. and some people argue that it is just his nature. he is naturally good, that thoughts of evil and personal gain don't, for a moment, cross his mind. its not a terrible argument -- he is an alien, and perhaps kryptonian nature measures up a lot better when put next to human nature. this, they argue, is what makes Superman boring, two dimensional. i say it is the boring and two dimensional argument that does that.

the only point of reference i have for this statement is myself, but through my experiences i've come to this conclusion at least: doing good is not easy. holding yourself to a higher standard is not easy. i don't think its any easier for Superman because of some inherent virtue he has over anyone else. its just as hard for him, and the burdens are bigger, and the stakes are higher. not to mention that he could get away with doing as he damn well pleased with impunity. wouldn't the temptation always be there for him, to abuse his powers? no, i don't think he is more virtuous by nature...it is simply by choice, by force of will.

doing 'good' isn't easy. give Superman a little credit.

listen to me...
i talk about him like he's real...
of course what i mean is, give me a little credit for the good decisions i've made....

as i write this now, i'm also fascinated by Clark Kent. Clark Kent didn't grow up as Superman. we think of "Superman" as being Clark Kent's job. it is what Clark Kent 'does': he puts on his suit, goes "Supermanning," and comes home after a hard days work; maybe cracks a beer, watches Conan, drunk dials Lois and goes to bed. its not, though. Clark Kent's job is as a staff reporter for the Daily Planet. he receives a weekly paycheck for what he does in front of a computer screen: writing. Clark Kent is a writer. people don't go into that field on a whim, they don't try it out because, well maybe it might be a neat thing to do. they do it because they're passionate. they dive into that work; they love what they do. Clark Kent writes news stories. he's a journalist. perhaps he has a dream of changing the world as much through his articles as he does by being Superman. mayabe being Superman is something he does because, as one comic book titan once put it "with great power comes great responsibility." perhaps writing is really what Clark loves to do. perhaps he's working on a novel, and he's halfway through the third draft. perhaps his goal this week is to land a face to face interview with the former Israeli Prime Minister, so he can edge out Lois for column inches on the front page of the Daily Planet. perhaps his heroes are Kafka and Joyce. perhaps he just loves words, and lives to fit them together beautifully, intricately, artfully.

maybe Clark sees himself as a writer, and his writing as his main contribution to the world.

of course, what i mean is that i like the idea that maybe Superman thinks of himself as a writer before he even thinks of himself as Superman. it kind of elevates the profession, and the choice i've made with my life...

there is a sort of trinity of identities that Superman contains, or a layering of identities. his public persona is the Superman identity, the Man of Tomorrow, saving the day. in civilian life, he is Clark Kent, mild-mannered, midwestern farmboy. the whole point of the idea of keeping a secret identity is so that Clark Kent can lead a relatively normal life, and protect not only his own privacy but the privacy of those he loves. though it is his public persona, Superman is the secret Clark Kent keeps. but even these two identities, as genuinely as they are a part of his identity, are veneers the character hides behind...somewhere inside, privately, to himself he is Kal-El, the Last Son of Krypton....no one can dispute the normal, wholesome childhood that Superman grew from; raised on a farm by Ma and Pa Kent, he must have had a solid work ethic, he must have been polite and learned from them his mild manners. as an aging couple who couldn't have natural children of their own, they must have showered Clark with all the love they had. its as good a childhood as anyone could hope for. even when Clark starts to show the first symptoms of super powers, its still a background relatively without incident, right? and yet how many years did he spend not knowing where he came from? not knowing anything except that he fell out of the sky and into the lap of Ma Kent? he knew nothing of his natural father and mother. he must have wondered where he'd gotten his icy blue eyes, from whom he'd gotten his jet black hair. to whom did he owe his natural curiosity? from whom did he inherit his inclination toward writing? how long did Clark spend knowing nothing about his heritage? eventually he heard the name "Krypton," learned that Lara and Jor-El were his parents, learned that he had a name he was born with, and it was Kal-El. when he finally had learned something about who he was, was he heartbroken to know that Krypton had been destroyed with everyone, every living soul, and everyone who shared his blood on it? i imagine Superman having a soft spot for Kryptonite; deadly as it is, it is all that is left of a home he will never otherwise see.

Clark knew all of his life he was not human; he was different, special. unique. the questions about his heritage that he sought to answer were bred with the hope that he was not alone, not singular in all the universe. all the answers could only be half a satisfaction, then, when he learned the hard truth; his family was gone, and he would never meet them. Superman in his soul holds up a lost planet, bears the weight of its ghosts, his parents, and the heavy, black holes in his identity that he will never recover; he holds it up to the light of his memory, mournfully. what else can he do? what other respect can he pay? what other way can make his heritage a part of who he is?

they talk about the Superman origin as being the "ultimate immigrant" story. Siegel and Schuster were children of Jewish immigrants; it makes sense. yet they owe the story of Superman's journey to Earth to their heritage in an even deeper way; the Last Son of Krypton floated down the Milky Way in a rocket, the same way Moses floated down the river as a baby, hidden in a reed basket. their parents sent them both away so that they might avoid certain doom. yeah, in a way these are "immigration" stories, if you want to appropriate them that way. but something more personal is going on here; Superman being sent to Earth as a child is the ultimate adoption story, which is something more intimate and more personal.

who does Superman talk to about this part of his life? how do you think it makes Ma and Pa Kent feel, when everything they've given still can't fill in the missing pieces? do you know how strange it is to miss someone you don't even know?

i was a little boy once, and how could i have not wanted to be Superman? it is the right of all little boys. i am grown now, and the only right of grown ups is to face that which is difficult; we save the heat vision, the power of flight for children; we take on the struggles of goodness, of profession, of identity...struggles for which those powers are useless. Superman is who he is, and he's still like the rest of us. his powers, his alien nature haven't afforded him a free pass on the human condition. as a kid i would never have believed i would grow up to be this much like Superman...

generations

Ouranos was the first god of the sky. Cronus was his son; he carried the Great Sicle. there must have been no love between them; Cronus took the sicle and cut his father's penis off. no wonder Cronus feared his own children. he never made a meal of Zeus, though. And when Zeus came to collect his brothers and sisters from Cronus' belly, he did not shame him as Cronus did Ouranus. Zeus, third god of the sky, had gotten it right. benevolence, justice, civility was the lesson of the day. Zeus-pater, youngest of the gods, became father to all. having acted honorably, he received honor, and he would have no one, nothing to fear.

you can read the story in the sky; Ouranus, the wheeling heavens, his phallus the axis on which the earth spins. Cronus' Great Sicle carves a circle through the year, the hands of father time cutting up the night in celestial, patricidal harvest. And finally, Zeus, the brightness of day, covers all...

to the greeks, the third generation was a charmed one. fathers, grandfathers, their business was troubled. they may or may not have obeyed the gods; grandsons could set it to rights. grandsons learn the generational lesson. they carry and correct their family name, the adjusted spirits of their sires, as they bleed out blood feuds, calm the Furies, sate the gods themselves.

three has always been a sacred number in most cultures, but i think the significance comes from a more practical observation. in general, there are only about three generations of a family alive at the same time. grandfathers, looking through the scope of their own sons, look hopefully upon grandsons. grandfathers have made mistakes; fathers are making them. grandsons have their whole life ahead of them. the third generation is hope.

whether or not i ever become a father or grandfather, i am a grandson...i have been one, and i always will be. what gifts have i been given? what flaws? what lessons should i learn? what is my contribution to my family, and what paths should i take our name down?

hello, from the land of scattered thoughts...

so, i've been making more of an effort to do some writing lately, and that feels good. the problem is the riduculous lack of discipline and laughably small dividends: i am barely working or doing anything, so my whole day is generally geared towards writing. which means i can -- and i DO -- wait as long as i want to get started (no surprise here to anyone who really knows me). and i can't seem to eke out more than a couple pages of overly process-conscious writing.

i am trying to work on what i am calling "Vol. 1" of a two volume novel.

its really not coming together just yet, so i have been grinding out pages of experiments -- excercises, more or less, for my faulty mind. there are so many ideas, and i don't know how to weave them together yet. i don't even know where to start.

i recently broke out this past year's writing to look at, hoping for some inspiration. its true, though, when they tell you that success consists less of inspiration than perspiration, so really the best i can hope for is to keep laboring away until i have something. still, i did find some clarity in those older scribblings, a focus of vision that always accompanies the origin of ideas. there is good stuff there, rules to write by, things to remember. the book i am working on in concept deals with the journey of writing as a pathway through life and the self, so reading the written journey of the past year is helpful.

it also makes me realize: i don't write nearly enough.

perspiration IS inspiration...or will lead to it anyway. if you catch enough on a piece of paper, somewhere on that page you'll find something useful. the point is to catch as much as possible.

woodwork

just wrapping up a busy weekend; the little sis is officially married, and a load of family was in town, some of whom i've not seen in a decade (the realization dawning on me that its not just that i'm a terrible son or terrible brother, but that i'm just a terrible relative in general).

all in all it was good fun. its sad to see her grow up, but there's no denying it now: my little sis ain't so little anymore. ce la vie. what is really going to be strange is when Clint and Katie have their first kid...i hope i'm around, i want to be around for that; it will give me the opportunity to start from scratch, and be someone potentially important and hopefully close to some part of his family.

at any rate, i was on the way to my parent's house to get dressed before the wedding, and got a voicemail from my highschool guidance counsellor. it took me a full five minutes to lift my jaw from the floor. apparently she discovered me via this website -- and as i'm writing this i'm only now finding the time to be confused at how she tracked down my cell-phone number.

in my last post i mused? (...complained...) that the only people who read WrittenOff are people i know in real life. its a mixed blessing, really. its nice thing to know that people are interested. on the other hand it makes me want to be less than forthright, and can potentially get me into trouble.

my boss found this site when she searched our work address. now i'm sure more than half the people i work with have at least seen it. good thing i haven't written anything here in the heat of passion about work or....well...its best to stop there.

there is a lot less security to having this site than i originally imagined. its been here for about a year and more people are reading it than i know; people are coming out of the woodwork. for all i know, my parents are reading it. scary.

i didn't think that really more than five people had ever been to or read any part of this site, and now that i know its not true, i've got to be more careful about what i write, and, most of all, who i write about -- it was all well and good when this was a nook of the internet protected by the fact that i never told anyone it existed, but now i've got to be careful. especially with using people's names.

as in Julie Randolph, who was googled by a boyfriend who found her on my "naughty list" (which she isn't actually on, idiot boyfriend of Julie Randolph -- i know i use some complex sentance structuring sometimes, but really...try to follow along here. english is your native language, right?).

as in Heidi (apparently-having-long-dropped-the-Glick-) Kerr, my highschool guidance counsellor who was googled at work by her husband, who, i am embarrassed to know, is now privy to my secret adolescent thoughts on his wife's legs, which, naturally, went no further than highly intellectual and philosophical musings about their aesthetic value, of course. (ahem)

and then there are other people in the silent wings who are dropping notes (hi Cheryl, thanks for reading -- remember when i quasi-stalked you after we broke up? heh, fun times...)...people who i'd thought i'd lost all appeal to, who've moved or moved on...( --not much to say-- ).....all very strange.

i've been struggling for self-sufficience, for self-hood. in a way i've been doing it ever since i was a kid -- disconnecting...pruning away the dried up branches, sealing off the dead ends. it is why i am not as close to my family as i should be. it is why i don't keep in good contact with anyone. my life is full of false starts and missed connections; there are few people who are electric and dear to me, less than a handful.

and where does that leave me? do i know "me" any better now? am i better for dropping all of those lines of missed connections? i don't know.

perhaps there are levels of connecting. perhaps best friends aren't something adults are with each other. perhaps i need to impose less, to expect less, to be happy with the connections i've been offered at their own frequency. it is comforting, and flattering, to know that people desire that from me in some capacity, be it blog-form or some other way...

maybe this blog has opened a door to those connections...maybe it is the door itself.
friends, family...read at your own risk.
i was never satisfied with the "doing lunch" approach to relationships -- relationships walled within a half-hour's time taken out of a day that otherwise had no room. i appreciate politeness, but i abhor formality between those who are supposed to be friends. i want "dinner and drinks" relationships; "crash in the guest room" relationships. "let's take a road trip" relationships.

which do you suppose this blog is?
are we doing lunch here? or is this dinner and drinks?
it was never supposed to be either, honestly. take it where you want it to go, i guess.
i was just trying to write, here.

love, kisses

p