Orpheus Wounded

So, longer than I would have liked, but another of from 750words project, and another creative entry.

Orpheus Wounded

He was sitting down, cradling his guitar. It was a beautiful instrument, the wood full of intricate swirls, and it sounded better than it looked. He had found it in a pawn shop years ago, shortly before his fifteenth birthday, and fell in love with it immediately. Working nights at a local convince store, he had saved up enough money to purchase it a few months later. When he first took it home, he set it down to admire it for a bit before sitting down and strumming a few chords. He wasn't the best guitarist, but he was dedicated, and the new guitar filled him with the intense to play. He spent a large part of his teenage life, sitting on the edge of his bed, playing along to the radio, or spending hours trying to figure out his favorite songs. But that seemed like an entirely different life now.

He moved the guitar to his side, contemplating the years. He remembered the tears in his mother's eyes as he told her he had enlisted. He remembered the (what seemed like gallons at the time) sweat dripping down his body during training exercises. He remembered the swirl of dust and sand kicked up by the rotors of the helicopter as his squad landed on the ground halfway across the earth from where he grew up. But try as he might, he couldn't remember the blast, or the screeching of bullets as his brothers pulled him to safety, or the flight to a military base in Germany. A defense mechanism he supposed.

He stood, holding the neck of the guitar in his right hand. He remember the days and months afterwards better: the doctor explaining where he was and what had happened. He remembered certain things from the conversation "limited functionality", "newer models in the future", "a balance of form and function". While the technology for prosthetic limbs had been rapidly evolving over the last few years, it hadn't quite reached the levels that medical journals and technology magazines were in a frenzy over - well at least not for the general public. Sure, there were some successful attempts at allowing someone to control the prosthesis with their mind, allowing the person to pick up something as delicate as a grape and eat it without crushing it. But even if he went through the procedures to allow him to use such a prosthesis, well, it was state of the art, but here the art was lacking for what he really desired.  The difference between picking up a grape and fretting a barre b minor chord is significant.  There were models with rudimentary touch sensors, sure, but haptic feedback wasn't close to actual muscle memory or the feeling of the string under your fingertips.  And while he used to be able to tell where his fretting had was based on his arm position, the feeling of his phantom arm complicated that significantly.

Reaching the other side of the room, he leaned his guitar against the wall, sliding open the bottom drawer of the dresser, and removed a shoebox. So much of his life was tied up in music, from the nights he would spend on his girlfriends porch, performing his own cheesy acoustic versions of love songs, to the band he had formed in his junior year.  The music was his soul escaping into the world, his connection to something deeper, something more meaningful, a language that spoke more accurately than any tongue ever spoken by men.

He opened the shoebox, the small metal object inside catching the light.  He was feeling hollow, he knew the words in his mind, but had forgotten how to speak.  He feared that the longer he would have to wait for a suitable prosthetic to play, he wouldn't remember the words.  That the poetry that he wanted to pour out through his music would be flat, a shadow of its former beauty.  That almost hurt more than knowing he would probably never play again, the what could, or should have been.

He raised the object in his hand, feeling the metal, cool against his skin.  He had gone through the counseling, and knew the statistics.  "Just stay positive, it may take some time, but patience will help in reaching 'peace'."  Sure, but he had never been a patient man, and was stubborn enough to find his own way through this.  If he would never play guitar again, then so be it, but he would never let his song be silenced.  In his hands he cradled a microphone.

Fleeing

I recently came across an article online extolling the benefits of writing frequently.  Specifically, the author mentioned writing at least 750 words a day as a way to increase creativity, as well as providing some general motivation.  Seeing as I've been a bit lax in writing recently (both this blog, and in general), I thought this was a interesting concept, and decided to jot down a short story.  It took a bit longer than I anticipated, but I don't think it turned out half bad (criticism welcome as always).  Hopefully, I will commit to 'paper' at some point a few of the other concepts I have floating in my head, but for now I present

"Fleeing"

He was running, fleeing.  His steps slowed by the blanket of snow that covered the forest floor.  The staccato crunch of compacted snow following each deep step.  Though his pace was rapid, his thoughts were faster: a frenzy a questions, instinct taking over, driving him, controlling him.  He maneuvered between trees, their trunks rushing by, their branches catching and pulling at him, trying to coax him to his end.  This would not do.  Although the muscles in his legs were burning, it was nothing compared to the heat in his chest.  His heart felt like it was on fire, each pulse sending blood through his body, some of which was staring to seep out of the mounting cuts and scratches caused by the underbrush and more persistent branches.  Each breathe was visible, hanging in the cool air, catching the light and glowing as a halo.  A though flashed into existence in his mind for an instant: "It would be such a peaceful morning if not for, if not for. . . ."  He couldn't bring himself to finish the thought.  The pain in his tightening leg muscles was nothing compared to that.  His pace quickened and he leapt over a fallen tree crossing the forest path.  Hopefully the obstacle gave him some distance from his pursuers - right now even inches and fractions of a second were precious.

He landed, not pausing to see if his hopes were fulfilled; all that mattered now was survival.  The thought echoed in his head: "All that matters now is survival."  And survival  required him to be fast.  He use to always think he fairly fast for his size, but now in the face of death, he felt horribly sluggish.  Whether it was the thick snow, or growing lax in age, he knew he couldn't keep this pace forever, he needed evade his pursuers. Soon. The snow wasn't helping in this endeavor, his prints easily visible in the fresh snow, with crimson dots betraying his state.  He would have to find somewhere to hide.  He ducked as he passed under a branch coated in icicles, feeling them scrape across his head, his back, their icy diamond tips now more ruby-like in appearance.  The pain shooting through his body, but the thought again: "All that matters now is survival."  And then an addendum: "because they are no longer here."

"All that matters now is survival because they are no longer here" he realized, his eyes going wide.  The horrible revelation pushing its way to the surface, through years of muscle memory and eons of instinct.  His children, his family, gone.  Their lives cut short by the foul things chasing him, with their vicious eyes, their loud fury.  Had he been awake he would have been alerted by their stench, but instead he was violently torn from his dreams by screams of pain and howls of agony. He realized he was quickly outmatched and a though flared through his mind "survival".  Although it seemed like hours, it couldn't have been that long, minutes perhaps, if that, but his legs disagreed with that assessment.  Their protests were becoming louder, and then, they were instantly quieted in confusion.  He was in the air, footing upset by a hidden root in the snow, compounded by his mind's wandering.

He closed his eyes, bracing for impact as he collided with a tree.  The sickening crack of branches as well as a rib or two filled his ears.  He felt his back connect with the earth, the snow doing little to soften his fall. He had landed, but was still moving -tumbling, rolling down into a small ravine beside the tree.  As he reached the bottom he opened his eyes, and for a brief second was captivated by the early morning rays penetrating the forest canopy, sending golden streamers across the forest's floor.

The repose was brief.  He didn't have much time now, he could hear his pursuers now reaching the top of the ravine.  He would soon be joining his family.  It felt just, as if anyone deserved the punishment that befell them, it should be him.  After all, he knew of the warnings surrounding the area, and yet he convinced his family that it would be alright to spend the night, only one night while he prowled the clearing by forest, on the hunt for some to bring back.  Now here he was, prey himself.

"He's in the ditch," said one of the figures motioning to the battered body lying at the bottom, "I don't think he left us much of job."

"Good riddance, I hope that's the last of 'em," replied the other. "I'm getting fed up with  all the cattle we've been losing to these damn wolves," he continued raising his rifle, and lined up the shot.

Chiroptera Anthro

Spend any length of time with me and I'll probably betray my nerdy background.  There's a certain pride, or solidarity that nerds and geeks have.  A collective passion for their own geeky subject.  I guess in the 80s and 90s before nerd-chic came into being it helped to reinforce the identity of the group, and was seen as a badge.  A vast collection of Superman comics; the ability to name obscure Star Wars characters after reading extended universe novels multiple times over; calculating the optimal equipment for your level 14 mage in weekly Dungeons and Dragons sessions. Nerd-cred.  I'd posit that a basic element of human psychology is the sharing of group experiences in reinforcing and embracing both individuality and as a means to connect with others.  With the appropriate of a variety of sub-cultures into the mainstream, there have been many backlashes.  The much derided hipster attitude to me is an outgrowth of the loss of personal connection and sense of ownership that occurs when something, whether it be a band, movie, television show, video game, or some other media enters the mainstream.  While one's ability to enjoy and consume that media is usually not hampered (in some cases it will though, for example the band that now plays larger sold out venues as opposed to smaller, more intimate events), the personal-ness of that connection loses some of its meaning.  It's a funny contradiction, because a larger audience would permit more enjoyment of that property? Wouldn't it?  In an effort to not cling to (a quite mistaken) sense of ownership of one of my favorite media subjects, let's talk about Batman.

I was recently looking through old photo-albums again, along with watching old home movies, and I noticed something.  I've been a fan of Batman since before I can remember. Literally.  There are movies of me wearing Batman pajamas to bed before age two.  And while I can't remember what began this initial obsession, I think the character of Batman, here in semi-serious consideration, has many social and psychological levels.  Partially due to the amount of writers that have had some say in the Dark Knight's seventy-some year long history, but also because the son of Bob Kane and Bill Finger (I wonder who claims to be Thomas Wayne and who's Martha) has developed layers upon layers over the years into a vastly complex character.  Digging through this psychological strata as a archaeological will have to be left to someone with a far more vast knowledge of comics then I do, I may be a fan, but in comparison to others, I am a mere amateur in things Bat-related.  Rather, I will provide a more broad analysis, corresponding to what facets of the character have resonated with me as I've aged.  I think on a fundamental level, any study will in some degree reflect the work of its author, and so this may provide just as many insights into my psyche as it does into the protector of Gotham's.

Let's start with the basics and get the few people that have been living under a rock up to speed.  Batman is a man who wears a cape and a mask, and patrols his home city of Gotham  at night dressed as a bat using his wit and athleticism to prevent crime.  To my knowledge, in all cases (side stories, one shots, reboots, etc.) Batman is the result of a young Bruce Wayne seeing his parents getting gunned down before his eyes in a random mugging.  Depending on the time and writer, sometimes fear is a main weapon of the Caped Crusader's arsenal against crime, early on in his history he carried a gun, as a billionaire playboy, he also outfits himself with a variety of gadgets and sports cars.  Sometimes he's portrayed as a superhero, sometimes a vigilante anti-hero.  But despite the title of superhero (and an obscene bank account) he is portrayed as an man.  He didn't get hit with radiation, or come from a different planet, and isn't the son of a powerful god.  He's an average, well, okay, maybe exceptional man (the world's greatest detective would have to be just a little special).  He's profoundly human.

As a kid with a simple understanding of the world, it was simple.  Batman is good, the bad guys are bad.  Batman stops the bad guys because the police can't.  He has a cool car, has a cool costume, gets to stay up late and run across building tops.  And do you know how many action figures there are?!  Like seriously, I know I have like 5 or 6 different variants of Batman (yes, I recently checked).  He's got like a scuba suit, and a parachute suit, and one with fold out wings, or that lame one with Michael Keaton in a sweater with a detachable mask (when you're brother got the cool flippy head one), or the animated series Batman with a gyro-copter.  You don't get the intricacies of vigilantism at age six, or due process, or the driving loss of his parents that pits Batman in his seemingly eternal struggle with crime.  To a six year old, Batman just seems to be the adult you want to be: he gets to do what he wants, when he wants, and does it in a way that helps others.  I've read in some forwards (of trade paperbacks) and analysis of the character that in some way, this ultimate childhood fantasy is really that.  Bruce is a perpetual six year old, waging a misguided war on what took his parents who he can never get back.  Much like the Two-Face of his rogue's gallery (which itself reads like the DSM-IV), the character in most cases is amazingly double-sided.  He appeals to children as a awesome adulthood, when the character himself is stuck in perpetual childhood.

To an angsty teenager, the character is an excellent example of a misunderstood and superior intellect. (And don't forget the self-centeredness; I mean sure, Bruce had his backbone broken by Bane, but can't be sharing that technology with the now wheelchair-bound Barbara Gordon).  He is isolated, but because no one else can understand him.  This isolation breeds extreme self-reliance, and consequently responsibility weighs heavy on Bruce.  Like one of the inspirations for the character, Zorro, Batman is a manifest idea that things aren't the way the should be, and that steps need to be taken to improve society.    He is also isolated to protect those he cares about, the secret identity has to be a secret.  In a certain way though, the identity has switched.  Batman is the true character while Bruce is the mask that faces the world.  Here's a guy who gets it, one may think.  He has a goal and he takes the steps to achieve that goal.  He is a model of self-reliance.  However, this begins to break down considering the support that often goes unnoticed, much like reality.  In particular, Bruce's butler Alfred, a striking example of a father figure raised the young Master Bruce after the passing of his parents.  Then there's the number of people to have borne the mantle of Robin, Batgirl, Commissioner Gordon, even at times the "superfriends" (lest we forget).  (In recent issues, he even has an army of Bat-bots, it's so awesome, like they all have these jets built into their feet and- wait, sorry, almost got carried away there.)  Again, the character lends itself to simultaneously opposed readings, at quite often the same author will use both of these traits in characterizing Bruce.  It's an odd dichotomy, but one that can work in the correct balance.  The lesson to be learned in self-reliance and motivation, but not at the expense of shutting out support.

A more mature reading may bring to light the deeper social issues that have always existed in the Batman mythos. To deal with the most obvious facet first, the nature of vigilantism, and in a larger context a police and legal system that can't deal with the thicket of crime, and in may writings has been corrupted by it.  While Bruce may see Batman as a necessity to combat the crime that runs rampant through Gotham, it's a very fine line between justice and a personal vendetta.  And this fanaticism may actually be doing more harm than good.  Sure, he may have good intentions, but waging a one-man guerrilla war against crime may actually cause an escalation in the seedy underworld's response.  Not to mention all the legal rule bending that would have to take place to actually prosecute the people that he apprehends.  (Or the property damage!)  I feel this is similar to much of the political discourse that occurs nowadays.  Sound-bites and misguided lip service that fails to address the real cause of problems.  Sure, driving around a car shaped like a bat with a jet-turbine nestled inside of it is probably a fun waste some time at 3:30 on a Tuesday morning, but it fails to take into consideration the cause of crime.  Sometimes this is addressed, most recently, Nolan's take with the Dark Knight shows how Bruce is aware that the city needs something more than what he can provide.  While Bruce knows that Batman impacts the city, he's aware that more needs to be done.  The character works as both a almost-fascist highly independent, self-sufficient, ends-justify the means uber-man as spouted by Rand, or as an apologetic temporary solution to a larger social injustice.  And herein lies the the appeal of the character for me.  The duality, and impressions that the character leaves with us are more akin to reflections.  Staying true to my nerdy roots, it's much like Yoda plaintively said in 'Empire' when asked by Luke what awaited him in the cave on Dagobah: "Only what you take with you".

When it comes down to it, I don't mean to suggest that Batman as a character is shallow or empty.  No, rather, I think the character is deep enough that he elicits different responses from different people (or even different responses from the same person over the course of their life).  Batman is an independent, individualist who does what he wants, but is a child at heart.  He has a sense of right and wrong, but will cross over into grey areas to combat what he sees as injustice.  He recognizes the obsession that some of his foes have, but has his own obsessions to deal with.  He set a goal for himself, but only after his life was changed forever.  As a character he has substance, but much in the same way he deals with his nefarious friends, he exists as a imposing figure, with edges that bleed into their surroundings.  Edges that leave room for interpretation.  And this is just one of many.

The Creator's Manifesto

After many nights with friends contemplating and recounting our lives, emptying the daily burdens from our heads while filling our stomachs with drink, you come to the conclusion that people are more alike than you think.  Or at least your friends are. While that probably goes without saying, but it still comes as a surprise when you see some deep part of yourself reflected in someone else.  I guess it's part of human nature to close off part of yourself, lest you let your soul get changed by the world.  But there has to be some escape, and I've come to the realization that *that* is the essence of art.  In a general sense, sure, art may be a pretty picture, catchy tune, or engaging story, but there frequently can be something deeper:  something imparted by its creator.  I used to wonder why we spent time in  English class analyzing stories, trying to determine what the author intended the hidden meaning to be.  After all, couldn't there just be writing for the joy of writing?  And I suppose there can be, but that's not really the point.  Sure, some may put words to a page for the sheer joy of creation and the motive force there, but without giving those words I don't see a point.  Maybe I like games too much, or seeing layered meanings in something, but I like to find life between the words, see some soul behind the paint, or hear some heart behind the chorus.

Which brings me to the artist, and why we create. (I think I'm an artist, ego alert)  Sometimes it's to convey something to society, sometimes its for oneself, and other times for the joy in creating something (preferably with meaning).  I've always been amazed at those who can do all of this at once, while weaving different threads for different people to latch onto in their work.  Personally, besides that looming self doubt that every artist (I'm sure/hope?) has, my greatest challenge has always been taking the step and putting yourself out there through what you create.  Talking with fellow artists recently, something one said to me has stuck out: you just have to put yourself out there, not for anyone else, but for yourself.  The desire to hide yourself is a strong one.  A kind of self preservation.  It's easy to shrug off rejection or hurt when people don't know the real you, but to stand emotionally bare in front of someone twists the context.  Call it an evaluation, or judging, or whatever, but that kind of exposure forces you to take a good look at yourself, maybe through someone else's eyes, but honestly nonetheless.  I think that's what true artists do.  I won't say truly good artists, because I don't really think you can bring in qualitative or aesthetic considerations into the discussion, that's the realm of critics.  You're either an artist creating something, or you're not.  Whether or not people enjoy or appreciate what you do is a matter of personal taste and opinion.  Regarding critics, it is simple.  Don't.  Perhaps critically (meta-much) take their analysis and criticism in order to grow, learn and improve (as an artist, not necessarily aesthetically), but don't let it take the joy or light out of your work.  Not to belittle anyone, but perhaps they're critics because they gave up on their own artistic passions.  A critic causing an artist to withhold their art from the world out of fear is a sad thing indeed.  

As to why we create?  As much power as science has, I think there's a small part of life it can't answer.  The deep nagging question we all have.  And while everyone seems to have a different way to phrase it, and a different means and way to answer it, it's still there.  I think on a subconscious level that's why we create.  Sure, I'm amazed at the fact that we as a species have discovered enough about this universe to build a telescope that can see light that has traveled a longer time than the country, the continent, the Earth, the solar system, or indeed, even our Milky Way galaxy has existed.  Much less the science behind simply creating its components, or putting the thing into orbit.  But that's discovery.  We didn't create the fundamental laws of the universe.  We may have create the formulas we express and calculate them with, but we merely found them.  Like a child pulling up rocks in a stream and finding all sorts or creates, albeit it in a (sometimes) more organized and formal way.  No, creating something is different.  It's a chance to leave a mark upon the world, even thought it may be small and subject to the decay of time; there's still a joy to be had.  That's why we create.