An Unfree World

Originally published in PanelXPanel #11.

I have an Internet friend by the name of Jenny Blue who does an amazing blog called Near Apocalypse of ’09. It covers the entire history of the DC Cartoons from Batman The Animated Series to Justice League Unlimited with digressions into various pieces of pop culture of the era (including DS9, Grant Morrison’s JLA, and Left Behind) and other works outside of the circle of “late 80’s to early 00’s” that have thematic relevance as decided upon by her Patrons (ranging from Devilman Crybaby to Rick and Morty).

So Mister Miracle #8 came out, and once again it’s a doozy. Before I get into the themes of the story, let’s look at the obvious things that are great about it: Mitch Gerads’ art is top notch, highlighting the grit of this weird sci-fi world our heroes find themselves in. Less talked about is his work as a colorist, which does wonders to highlight the differences between being on Apokolips and being with the baby. Tom King expertly uses the nine-panel form to highlight a sense of order to the chaos of raising a baby and fighting a war. It’s all just day in/day out for them. (Indeed, King invokes his most obvious influence, Alan Moore, in one of the issue’s best pages). Additionally, the script is top notch with moments of broken heroism, baby health tips, and timely musical numbers (though the line “Scott, what you know about my breasts” is a bit off for the grammar used in the rest of the issue).

But perhaps the most obvious thing the issue does is the way it cuts back and forth between “Scott at war” and “Scott at home.” Each narrative is separated both by the aforementioned coloring and also by the obvious decision to have the Apokolips scenes be presented on black pages and the Earth scenes on white. But this also has the effect of both showing a progression of time while also not quite knowing how much time has passed. There are points in the issue where it feels like time is moving too quickly, shouldn’t the baby still be bald and in a crib?

(I actually mentioned the blog to Tom King at New York Comic Con last year, as I felt the themes it explores scream, “WHY ISN’T THIS PERSON READING TOM KING!!!” In retrospect, it was probably the third worst thing I did at the con, right behind “Grant, could you sign this book of literary criticism that contrasts your career with Alan’s and frames it as a magical war for the very soul of England” and “Kieron, which Kate Bush songs give people orgasms?” Though Tom’s reaction seemed to be more bemused confusion than anger.)

One of the themes Jenny’s blog explores is the relationship between the superhero and trauma. She hypothesizes superheroes require a traumatic incident in order to become what she dubs the “protector fantasy.” Contrary to how most people view superheroes (as a power fantasy), the protector fantasy views the heroes as defenders of those who would be hurt by traumas akin to the ones they experienced.

There are of course numerous problems with this concept. To start with, there’s the title of the blog. The term “near apocalypse” comes from an episode of Batman Beyond and refers to an unseen event within the universe that nearly ended it. It’s extremely vague (as most noodle incidents are). But within the context of the blog, Jenny connects this concept with the Jewish tradition of apocalypse narratives.

If one subscribes to the “Scott is trapped in a simulation as if this is in an episode of Black Mirror” theory, then it would be easy to conclude that this compression of time is the work of the baddies trying to speed up time so they can get to the point they want to reach far more quickly. One can’t do much as a baby. The problem with that theory is that it assumes this works on the logic of a typical superhero narrative wherein the story is just a series of traps and escapes the hero finds himself in. The baddies get the upper hand until the goodies figure out how to win. (Tune in Next Time to Find Out! Same Miracle Time! Same Miracle Channel!) But this comic seems to be going for a far different narrative logic entirely.

The Book of Revelation, in its original context, was an extremely political text that showed the then decadent present being utterly destroyed by an outside force (God) and replaced by a better world. The price for this better world is the apocalypse, but as Jenny most fittingly pointed out: An Apocalypse is just a Revolution from the perspective of those who have something to lose.

It should be noted that she isn’t completely pro-apocalypse. As she notes, the apocalypse can be co-opted by those with malicious intents (the Nazis, to pick a relevant example).  But her point is that by the superheroes holding typically anti-apocalypse stance by virtue of their status as “Protector Fantasy” (as the apocalypse is, by its nature, a traumatic event), the superhero ends up defending the status quo no matter if that status quo allows segregation or is letting people die of AIDS because it’s god’s cure for the gays or any of the other cruelties of the world.

The truth of the matter is that when one works away from their kids, spends most of their days working abroad and the times at home working, it’s easy to miss all the mundane moments of importance. Not just the big stuff like their first word or their first steps, but also the little things. Going to the park, trick or treating, or even just holding them when they need to cry. Other people, be it nannies, partners, or even your other kids get to experience these moments while you’re stuck somewhere else doing what you need to do for your family.

This of course raises a few questions in regards to stories such as “Superman vs. the Klan,” “David Walker’s Nighthawk,” and “that issue of Marvel Adventures: The Avengers where they play baseball with Galactus,” but this can be resolved with trinity theory. Trinity theory is a structural device used primarily within the DC Universe to frame the big three: Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman. Most people using trinity theory assume the logic of it is “Hope, Justice, and Truth” respectively, but that raises the issue that they’re effectively framing the DC Universe within the ideological framework of Superman, which is close enough to how it actually works to be damaging.

In truth, the structure starts with Superman, but he doesn’t define it. Rather, Superman fulfills the role of being the heroic ideal of the universe, the moral logic by which the DC Universe works under: Superheroes, by and large, tend to be uplifting figures that make the world better simply by their presence within it and furthermore inspire those around them to be better. Batman, meanwhile, plays the role of the heroic antithesis. Where Superman is an optimistic hero of the masses, Batman is more internal, brooding, and broken. As Grant Morrison memorably put it “You cannot bring Batman into the light.” As for Wonder Woman, she is the heroic alternative. That is to say, Wonder Woman represents an alternative to the binary of “Superheroes ought to inspire people to better themselves” and “Superheroes are ultimately a broken and flawed concept that can’t save anyone, merely keep the world as is.” Her alternative is a radical one that is never quite able to work within the DC Universe, but nonetheless provides fascinating possibilities: Feminist Utopianism via BDSM Bisexuals.

(As one would probably ask given it’s the other major superhero universe, how does this apply to Marvel? Simply put, the role of Heroic Ideal has historically belonged to Sue Storm, who pushed her friends to explore the strange wonder of the universe and bucked the trend of Trauma being the driving force of Marvel Superheroes [the Thing is really the only one who that would apply to]. The role of Heroic Antithesis has bounced around from Wolverine to Jessica Jones, but is currently placed with Carol Danvers. And the role of Heroic Alternative has consistently belonged to Peter Parker [What if Superheroes could Change]. The phrase “Spider-Man is Marvel’s Wonder Woman” is proof enough that Trinity Theory works solely for universes with archetypical superheroes rather than character superheroes and why Richard Jones’ Great Houses theory works better.)

(In light of this, what I find interesting is the character growth of Funky Flashman [I know, I’m surprised he’s still alive. Then again, it’s hard to keep the Funkster down]. In previous issues, Funky was treated as joke character, a huckster interested solely in kissing Orion’s ass and doing great publicity; the cruel Stan Lee parody that Jack Kirby always intended him being. But here, he seems less like a caricature and more like an actual character. Sure, the first couple of pages he’s in still have him as the kiss ass, but as the issue goes on, he starts to show genuine feelings for Jacob. He actually cares for the kid and wants the best for him. [Also, Funky referring to Jacob as “The King” is just delightful.])

So how does this apply to the DCAU? Simply put, Superman is not the heroic ideal of that universe. If anything, Batman is. Numerous stories within the DCAU highlight the flawed nature of the heroes from stories like Brave New Metropolis and A Better World. Indeed, Superman spends the majority of the DCAU more in line with his portrayal in The Dark Knight Returns as an authoritarian rather than more radical takes, such that he doesn’t quite work as a Heroic Antithesis (Batman Beyond, curiously enough, does) and Wonder Woman’s role within the DCAU is far more diminished than her role in the main universe, such that she can’t act to her full potential as the heroic antithesis (and while that hasn’t stopped her before, it does push her out of the way in favor of Static Shock [What if the writers were led by members of marginalized communities in creating superheroes?]). But perhaps the biggest consequence of this (and indeed the reason why I told Tom King about the blog) is the episode Perchance to Dream.

Speaking as someone raised with an absentee parent, I can empathize with Jacob’s childhood. When said parent was home, they spent most of the time either arguing with the other parent about work or just plain working. Sure, they tried to make time for the little moments: they went trick or treating with me, we saw movies together, and all that. But I mostly remember them working all the time. They tried their best, certainly. And all things considered, they weren’t the worst parent. But at the end of the day, my memories of them are still filtered through the lens of their absence.

In her analysis of that episode, Jenny points out that Bruce is immediately aware that Batman is the one trapping in in the dream. The protector fantasy that Bruce created is a cage that has him trapped. Indeed, Jenny argues that this is essentially the relationship Bruce has with his secret identity: he courts Selina Kyle as Bruce, but Batman’s rigid loyalty to laws that have nothing to do with vigilantism forces him to arrest her. “Because,” Jenny notes, “to be protected is inherently to be constrained. A protector will not allow you to go places or do things they judge unsafe. The violence the protector directs against the dangerous other can just as easily be employed against the transgressive self. Bruce Wayne cannot date a criminal–a revolutionary–while also being Batman, let alone become one himself.” She then notes the title of the episode comes from a famous speech from Hamlet, and comes to a revelation about Batman. Not only is Batman a protector fantasy that defends the people, not only does Batman protect Bruce Wayne (age 8) from the traumatic experience we call healing, but it is also Bruce Wayne’s solution to a question that has been plaguing him since he saw his parents gunned down before him:

And yet, for all their flaws, I always knew they loved me. Unlike some parents I know, they made the effort to be there for me. They tried their best to provide for me (that was what they said was the reason why they went on so many business trips), to teach me to be the best me that I could possibly be. Sure, they don’t always understand my interests or politics and how those might conflict with what they want out of me, but they still try. And Scott tries to. Sure, he’s not at the point where he has to deal with his son’s adolescent obsession with rap or realizing his son has a fascist streak or anything like that, but you can see even this early on that he will do his best to care for his son.

Why shouldn’t I commit suicide?

tl;dr? Batman kills babies.

At the end of the day, Mister Miracle #8 is about the consequences of having a kid. The awful truth that you can’t always be there for them, no matter how much you want to. Whether that reason is because you’re at war with a malevolent God bent on conquering the universe with his singular vision or simply because you have to work to pay for the nice house and baby food the kid needs to grow up. We all want better for our kids. We want our kids to have a better life than we did. As the issue highlights, while that is certainly possible, we’re still going to mess them up royally. Yes, a kid who doesn’t have his father around all the time is better off than a kid who is beaten on a regular basis by his Granny. But that doesn’t change the fact that Scott’s not there when Jacob needs him to be.

This trap of parenthood is one that we cannot escape because, at the end of the day, no one really knows how to raise a kid. The only experience we have of how to do that is from the perspective of our own childhood, and we’re a biased party on that end. All we can do really is try our best to raise the kids better than we saw our childhoods. But our little mistakes that we see as necessary are going to have consequences, as they grow older sometimes for the worse… sometimes for the better.

“The only way to deal with an unfreeworld is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.”
-Albert Camus as cited by adrienne marre brown, Emergent Strategy: Shaping Change, Changing Worlds

Support the blog on Patreon.

Someone Else Entirely

Originally published in PanelXPanel #10.

Let’s talk about the last time a Mister Miracle tried to commit suicide. In the final issue of Grant Morrison’s Mister Miracle, Shilo Norman, the third Mister Miracle, commits suicide after being crippled, castrated (or at least that’s what I think the power drill was for), and lit aflame. Except it turns out that he is in fact living within a simulation of life called Omega. His suicide is thus pointless as Omega simply writes a new life for Norman to live, suffer, and die in, and will continue to do so until Shilo breaks.

He lives a variety of lives from a simple father with memory issues to a prison guard coping with the death of his brother by locking up the ancient God, Alan Moore, to more traditional superhero fare. Eventually, he meets Omega who tells him that there is no escape from this endless series of unfortunate events. Life for Shilo will be nothing but pain and misery, dying pointless and meaningless death again and again. Suicide isn’t an escape because Omega can just make a whole new life or retcon the old one to prevent it from happening.

But as the lives go on and on, Shilo comes to a revelation: Omega’s suffering too. Omega can’t comprehend a life that isn’t eternal pain and suffering because that’s all he has ever known. When he realizes this, Shilo offers an alternative: why not escape together. Not through suicide (Shilo explicitly states that he’s given himself over to metaphor, so a “practical” solution like that wouldn’t work), but through working together to be a better story.

I’ll get back to this thread in a moment, as I want to first point out how weird Mister Miracle #7 is. It’s not like issue 3 where it’s a bunch of moments and themes that don’t fully coalesce into one another (though, having reread the first six issues prior to reading this one, I will say it does work better when read that way). Rather, it’s an issue where the themes and moments all cohere into something the previous six issues weren’t building towards: a sitcom about the day your child is born.

There’s the “Oh dear, I can’t find parking and my wife is about to give birth” gag, the awkward conversations Scott has with Barda’s old friends who hate her, but still show up because of that friendship, Scott standing in disbelief that the professionals have no idea what they’re doing, and the funny baby names Scott keeps coming up with. It still fits within the tone of the rest of the series, but it’s lighter and less self-serious than even issue 5, and that had a gag about the screams of the death pits of Apokolips being romantic and a shout out to the best gag of Matt Fraction’s Hawkeye.

That’s not to say there aren’t any serious moments in the issue. But it’s just the one. (One could argue two, but I’d argue they’re part of the same moment. I’ll explain later.) It’s quite frankly a mortifying moment in the life of a parent: Barda gives birth to baby boy, and the umbilical cord is wrapped around his neck, strangling him. The Doctors can’t do anything because the baby is a New God, with skin stronger than Superman’s. Fortunately, Scott is able to save the child’s life with a magic Sci-Fi knife, but something else happens that alters the implications of that moment.

Before Scott goes for the knife, the words “Darkseid is” appear. Previously, those words appeared in moments of great turmoil and personal suffering for Scott (be they shortly before killing Granny or shortly after seeing Darkseid sitting on Scott’s chair with Orion lying dead on the floor). The possibility of losing a child obviously fits in with that. In the previous moments, Scott has opted to fold in the face of these moments (be it going on to his execution or letting Darkseid go). But here, Scott bucks his previous moments and saves his son. Given this, one could argue that this is the first steps of Scott overcoming Darkseid and working towards being the hero who will save New Genesis.

However, there are the final two pages to consider. In those two final two pages, Scott refers to his son, Jacob, as “Just like a Lump.” To emphasize the implications of this, the narrator then talks about how “The Lump” is an agent of Granny Goodness and, subsequently, Darkseid. For those unaware, The Lump is a psychic being that traps its victims in a dream world where it controls the landscape, people, and implications. The Lump creates worlds of pain and suffering that its victims can’t escape.

And yet, if we are to take the logic of the last time a Mister Miracle tried to commit suicide (and if we assume that the Jacob is indeed the Lump as opposed to a normal baby), then it follows that The Lump is suffering as well. The Lump is also trapped in this world of pain and misery, lashing out at the world. (In fact, the parallels between father and son are highlighted in the last page where both Mister Miracle and The Lump get their names narrated in the funky font as opposed to the text boxes everyone else gets. Also notable, once the words “The Lump” is narrated, Jacob attacks the viewer and starts to cry once nothing happens.) It could be argued that Jacob, while in the womb, asked himself

Why shouldn’t I commit suicide?

and answered by strangling himself.

If this is the case, then Scott has denied his son what he himself desires: an end to the pain; an end to the voice in the back of his head that shouts, “Darkseid is;” an end to Anti-Life. (Side note: If we take Anti-Life to be a metaphor for a mental illness that makes someone want to commit suicide, it follows that Scott could have passed it down to his son. It would fit with the comic’s themes of flawed fatherhood.) But is suicide the only answer, the only possible way to escape? No, Shilo escaped by accepting Omega and working with it to improve himself. Maybe Scott and Jacob will work together towards some form of healing. Wistful thinking, I know… But what else do we have when the world is collapsing around us?

“And then he looked at me. And oh my goodness me, I became someone else entirely.”
-Steven Moffat, 9½ Months

Support the blog on Patreon.

I'm Not Mad, I'm Just Disappointed: On Red Daughter of Krypton

Commissioned by Michael

Fun Fact: I actually co-wrote some fan fiction in
the comments section of the comic this panel comes
from. Used to do that all the time in High School.

Supergirl is perhaps the quintessential example of an interesting character with a limited number of interesting stories. Consider for a moment her origin: a family discovers that their home planet is going to be destroyed and there is no way for them all to escape it. One side of the family sends their infant son to some other world while the other sends their teenage daughter to protect the child. When she eventually lands, she discovers that due to sci-fi weirdness, the infant has grown up to maturity without her. There is so much potential you could do with that from the nature of Supergirl being inherently a failed protector fantasy to highlighting the differences between the two and how they approach things to Kara having to acclimate to the culture of this brave new world with such people in it.

Instead, most writers tend to opt for the same five issues of Supergirl being a fish out of water who has to assimilate to Earth culture and be more like her big cousin. Sometimes, they’ll decide that this makes her angry and have her smash various things or have her almost become a disciple of Darkseid or that one weird period where she was programed by her father to be a school shooter and wanted her to kill Superman or something, I don’t know. Other people can explain it better than I can. But regardless, the story ends with Supergirl aligning herself with the Earth and blah, blah, blah.

That isn’t to say that those five issues can’t be good or even interesting. Cosmic Adventures in the 8^th Grade, for example, is one of the most delightful series featuring the character, exploring the ways in which assimilating to life on Earth is actually difficult with bullies, friends turned enemies turned friends, and cosmic entities from the fifth dimension who want to take over the universe for the lols. It works because it does new things with the character that still fit within the core of the character as, to some degree, a failure in one area and how such a character can succeed in others. We see Kara’s growth throughout the series and how she tries not to emulate her cousin, but be a good friend.

Sadly, most runs tend to see her as simply a second run version of Superman and thus must contrast him through being dark and edgy and angry. Which I suppose brings us to the subject of this post: the Supergirl arc Red Daughter of Kypton, wherein she becomes a Red Lantern. You see, when those five issues are done, writers have a tendency of spinning their wheels having no idea what to do with the character other than have her act as “Superman, but a girl.” Some writers will come up with good solutions like putting her into a Coffee Shop AU where the focus is on interpersonal relationships or have her go on weird adventures with friends and family.

Other writers, as is the case here, opt to toss her into someone else’s story. That’s not to say that this is inherently a bad solution to the problem of “I CAN ONLY COME UP WITH ONE STORYLINE FOR THIS CHARACTER,” but it is an obvious one. One that, at best, gives us decent works like the current run on the character where she’s running around space with a giant battle axe of doom with her pet dog and for some reason the Omega Men are still alive despite mostly dying at the end of Tom King’s run. (Have comics writers finally embraced hypertime as the only sane way of having a continuity? Of course not, but it’s nice to dream.) But then there are times where she’s being thrust into stupid fucking plotlines where she’s in love with some blatantly evil asshole named H’El and also being written by Scott Lobdell!

Red Daughter is more in the middle of these two, opting for a rather mediocre story about space empires or something. I finished it about an hour ago, and I can’t remember a single thing that happened other than something involving a suit that takes over people and skinny Lobo was there for some reason probably explained in his book. It doesn’t have much to be said about it, such that I spent more time in this article talking about Supergirl as a character within the DCU than it. One can see what it’s trying to do with Supergirl finding a healthy outlet for all the rage that’s simmering inside her, but she just does typical space superhero stuff before flying into the sun, cleansed of her anger. Which just seems a bit pat.

Flipping through the book, it occurs to me that there is a way to make the book a bit better and that’s through the character of Siobhan Smythe, AKA Silver Banshee. Her deal is apparently some sort of Hulk like transformation wherein she becomes a superpowered creature of the night due to a family curse. While typically a supervilalin, this incarnation is apparently friends with Supergirl and is working on dealing with the superpowered dark side. She’s given a lot of prominence in the first issue, such that she’s literally given the narration that’s typically reserved for Kara while she’s too busy going “RAR! ANGER! RAR! BLOOD! DEATHKILL! RAR!!!” You would think that such a character, one who has anger issues but can control them, would be more prominent to the story as a whole.

Nope. Dropped as early as possible and never heard from again (beyond one panel where she just walks out without doing anything). What should have happened is that the two work together to deal with the uncontrollable rage Kara’s going through instead of just dunking her into a pool of evil. Maybe have one bit where Siobhan gets overtaken by the Silver Banshee persona and Kara has to talk her down or have [flips through book and sighs] Atrocitus tempt Kara with a sense of belonging or to show her the true power of the red lantern ring and have her reject it. Better yet, have Dex-Starr be the one to do it so we can have him fight off his twin brother Streaky, who got superpowers due the events of Grant Morrison’s Acton Comics, and have it end with Streaky being part of Supergirl’s family on earth. One made up of weirdos who don’t belong anywhere else and work together to better themselves.

Alas, not all things are meant to be. History of Supergirl, I suppose.

What Do Heroes Do To Monsters? (The Talk of the Saints)

Commissioned by Neon Sunrise Publishing

Content Warning: Mentions of rape.

 

"Terror! The Human Form Divine!"

The dichotomy between hero and monster, as is the case with most dichotomies, is a false one. Monsters are, like most things, societal constructs built to define the difference between us and then. We tell stories of monsters to show who we should be afraid of; be they those who worship the wrong gods, have the wrong skin color, having an abnormal limb, or do the wrong things, it matter not. What matters is that “we” are not “them.” Because “we” would never want to hurt “us” by doing something monstrous like changing the world. We lash out at those who hurt us and call them monsters, even when they’re trying to help.

The hero, by contrast, is the one who always helps no matter what. They save the weak, they heal the sick, and slay the monster. But there’s an exceptionality to heroism that is closer to the monster than “normal” people. Normal people, after all, don’t react to personal tragedies by, say, dressing up as a bat and fighting clowns or cat people or that asshole in film studies class who thinks liking Citizen Kane is something to lord over people. A hero is as much an “other” as the monster is. It’s just that heroes align better with normal people’s sensibilities better.

Consider the Academy Award winning picture The Shape of Water. The hero of that story is a fish man, literally the Creature from the Black Lagoon: a metaphorical beast of the Amazon out to ghastly things to the women (or, to make the metaphor more explicit, the white women). And yet, in The Shape of Water, he’s the romantic lead. The one who heals the sick, saves the princess, and slays the monster. The monster, by contrast, is what people would have called heroic once upon a time: a square jawed two fisted man’s man who goes to far off lands and brings back treasures unseen by human eyes. Think Doc Savage or Indiana Jones or even Batman. In this telling, he's the kind of guy who feels he’s owed sex because he saved the girl and slayed the "monster." And for his cruelty, the monster slays him and lives happily ever after with the woman he loves. Other, older stories would have him be heroic for having his way with the woman. James Bond, notably, raped Pussy Galore into being a heterosexual.

The point is that heroism and monstrosity are concepts that shift and evolve over time such that one can become the other. Which brings us to Tom King and Jason Fabok’s one shot Swamp Thing story. The obvious path would be to explore this within the lens of Alan Moore’s seminal run on the character, as Moore is a major influence on King’s work. The problem with that approach is that King’s Swamp Thing isn’t as psychedelic or weird as Moore’s is. It certainly fits within the genre of weird fiction (indeed most superhero fiction to one extent or another does), but the story of Swamp Thing traveling the endless winter with a child isn’t as weird as, say, expies of cartoon characters landing on Earth only to discover it too isn’t free of pollution, the werewolf being used as a metaphor for feminine rebellion, fish vampires who live in the lake, zombie incest rape, or Nukeface. Hell, Morrison and Millar's run on the character had an issue where he was summoned to a parallel universe where the Nazis won the war as a means of destroying the world. The Road, but with a plant monster seems almost quaint in comparison.

Indeed, the story itself fits within a trope of the flawed father figure traveling with a child. Be the story that of Logan, Game of Thrones, God of War (2018), or the one we’re going to focus on: The Last of Us. The Last of Us tells of a man broken by the end of the world, which was caused by a floronic plague that turns people into plant like beings. Plant Things, if you will. He travels the wasteland of America with a child named Ellie who can stop the plague and bring things back to the way they were. But it will be at the cost of her life. The man decides, without consulting anyone, to “save” the child. Not out of love, though cruelly he does love her, nor because she doesn’t want to die to save the world (Ellie makes that point explicitly clear at the end of the story), but because he can’t face losing another child. It’s selfish and cruel and awful, but that’s love for you.

Swamp Thing too loves the child he is traveling with. He wants to protect him from the monster that has caused the world to freeze, made everyone hostile to each other, and must be fought on a constant basis. But the truth is that the child himself is the monster, the one responsible for freezing the world. And to save the world, to bring back the green, the child must die. Everyday, Swamp Thing remembered this. Everyday Swamp Thing chose to forget. He loved the child, so he didn’t want to kill him. Even though he knew it was the right thing to do, he couldn’t.

Until he could.

Until it got too cold, and he was forced to kill the child he loved. Who loved him back as well. He just didn’t want to die. There was no malice, no intended cruelty to the monster. Just a scared little boy who didn’t want to be alone in the cold. It would be so much easier if we couldn’t love those who were cruel to us and they couldn’t love us back. If the baddies had no interiority, no humanity, no reason to be saved. If only we lived in a world of monsters and heroes, things would be so much simpler.

The truth of the matter is being a monster or being a hero aren’t things you are. At best, they’re labels given to people to separate us from them. But more than that, they’re things you do. You do heroism like saving children or being kind to strangers when they need you to be and you do monstrous things like killing children or kicking a man when he's down. We separate these things into binaries because they are exceptional things that normal people could never do. But the truth is… we can be heroes as much as we can be monsters. The snow monster didn’t make us cruel any more than the swamp monster made us kind. We have the potential to be both, or neither. For we do not live in a world of monster and heroes.

We live in a world of people.

“Responsibility? Yet you consider her fit to bear that of a hero? Don’t worry: all she needs to do is answer a question. A question so simple even a child could answer. So Child… You are a hero. That is a monster. Tell me: What do heroes do… to monsters? What do heroes do to monsters…?” 

“SAVE THEM!”
-Sarah Jolley, The Property of Hate

God Is

A different article I wrote on the same issue is included in PanelXPanel #15.

When I’m not writing these reviews, I have a blog where I mostly write about Spider-Man comics (well, the psychocronographic landscape of a Spider-Man story, but still). In my research of Spider-Man stories, I’ve come to find interesting patterns emerge from the various stories told about the web swinger over the years. One such pattern is the usage of the nine-panel grid. And, since the themes of the blog aren’t likely to have me talk about that aspect, I might as well use this platform to do so.

The Nine Panel Grid isn’t an uncommon form within the comics medium. As Hassan notes, the row structure is pretty basic and akin to the structure of a joke (Set Up-Beat-Punchline [which is perhaps why it works so well with Spidey]). The form has been used in numerous influential pieces of comics literature including Watchmen, The Omega Men, and Justice League International to provide a formalistic structure to the narrative. At the same time, it can be seen as a cage (indeed, Omega Men’s final page leans into this interpretation), something keeping the ideas on the page from escaping into infinite possibility.

But there are other things a Nine Panel Grid can be. For this, let’s look at what Spider-Man stories do with the grid. As many people who have written about Spider-Man are immediately willing to note, his stories are, if you look past the jokes, somewhat grim with a supporting cast dying for the sake of drama (most notably Gwen Stacy). The nine-panel grid obliges this view via showing up in these moments of crisis. Be it in the climatic moments of Spectacular Spider-Man #200, throughout The Master Planner arc (Amazing Spider-Man #31-33), or in the Death of Gwen Stacy itself. (Indeed, the first instance of a nine panel Grid in a Spider-Man comic was when Peter was informed that his Uncle Ben was dead. The second was when he found out who killed him.)

But let’s look at that moment in Amazing Spider-Man #122. It’s the last page of the story (though it’s not a traditional nine panel grid has the panels in the first two rows shift around in width before coalescing into a more traditional three panel row. But the sequence does work within the context as highlighting the true nature of the grid within this comic and most other Spider-Man comics). The scene depicted isn’t of Peter killing Norman Osborn or Gwen dying in Peter’s arms or other typically grim events people tend to think Spidey’s all about (to the point where they miss all the blatant slapstick and puns). Rather it’s a moment of intimacy between him and Mary Jane Watson wherein Peter has collapsed into the grief and cruelty that typified the early Ditko era. Mary Jane responds by staying in the room, refusing to let things fall to that state again.

And so it is here that we realize the true nature of the Nine Panel Grid in Spider-Man comics: not of the pain and suffering that fans look to so they can avoid having to acknowledge the humor and silliness of the stories they like, but of change. Then again, change is core to the concept of Spider-Man. For what other superhero (who started out with their own book) has changed their concept as much as Spider-Man? He’s no longer a high school student (or even a student) working as a photographer at the Daily Bugle (note Chip Zdarsky’s Spectacular Spider-Man #6, where the nine panel grid opens the comic, highlights where the debate between Peter and Jonah truly begins, and precludes the issue’s ultimate moment of change) to pay for his aunt’s medical bills (and that’s not even getting into radical shifts to Spider-Man outside of Peter Parker like Miles Morales or Mattie Franklin). More than that, change can be anything. It can be the decision to change the layout of your home, the cruel memories you had with your Granny revealing a bit of love within, or your wife telling you that she’s pregnant. Change can be wonderful.

Then again, change can also be a cage. The death of your brother is also a change. As is the rise of fascism within a world, the discovery that someone who influenced your way of thinking was a sexual harasser, or even the fire that burns the corpses of your victims into ash. Change cares not for being pleasant or cruel. Change is a force of the universe, something that can be shaped by the people who are affected. But those who shape change do not always have your interests in mind.

Sometimes, those who shape change want the world to be better for others, and view exterminating the Jews, queers, intellectuals, and other undesirables to be a necessary change.

Why shouldn’t I commit suicide?

Others (who also want to change the world for the better) feel that protesting cruelty and defending the dispossessed from those who wish to see them die is a better methodology to change the world towards a more “utopian” capitalism (which is well and good, so long as you ignore the inherent cruelty baked into capitalism’s concept). And some shape change by committing suicide. In the end, change is not inherently good or evil or even something in-between.

Change is.

“All that you touch
You Change.
 All that you Change
Changes you.
 The only lasting truth
Is Change.
 God
Is Change”
-Octavia E. Butler, Parable of the Sower

Support the blog on Patreon.

Mouthstuck (Mobius Trip and Hadron Kaleido)

Commissioned by Aleph Null

[It is recommended that as you read this article, you listen to The Night Begins to Shine by BER at the speed it takes to finish that song. If you do not finish the article by the end of the song, please start again. If you finish the article before the song is done, restart the song and start again.]

Of powers we cannot perceive! The stars aren't aligned or the gods are malign. Blame is better to give than receive, you can choose a ready guide (in some celestial voice). If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice. You can choose from phantom fears and kindness that can kill. I will choose a path that's clear: I will choose free will! There are those who think that they've been dealt a losing hand. The cards were stacked against them, they weren't born in Lotus-Land. All preordained, a prisoner in chains, a victim of venomous fate kicked in the face. You can't pray for a place in heaven's unearthly estate!

No singing in the acid rain. Red alert! Red alert! It's so hard to stay together, passing through revolving doors. We need someone to talk to and someone to sweep the floors. Incomplete! Incomplete! The world weighs on my shoulders, but what am I to do? You sometimes drive me crazy, but I worry about you. I know it makes no difference to what you're going through, but I see the tip of the iceberg, and I worry about you.

Learning to match the beat of the old-world man, learning to catch the heat of the third-world man, he's got to make his own mistakes and learn to mend the mess he makes. He's old enough to know what's right and young enough not to choose it, He's noble enough to win the world, but weak enough to lose it. He's a new-world man!

Yet now, we feel that we are paper, choking on you nightly. They tell me "Son, we want you, be elusive, but don't walk far." For we're breaking in the new boys, deceive your next of kin! For you're dancing where the dogs decay, defecating ecstasy. You're just an ally of the leecher, Locator for the virgin King, but I love you in your fuck-me pumps and your nimble dress that trails! Oh, dress yourself, my urchin one, for I hear them on the rails. Because of all we've seen, because of all we've said: “We are the dead!”

See how it sings like a sad heart and joyously screams out its pain! Sounds that build high like a mountain or notes that fall gently, like rain. I can’t wait to share this new wonder, the people will all see its light! Let them all make their own music! The Priests praise my name on this night. In the sudden silence as I finished playing, I looked up to a circle of grim, expressionless faces. Father Brown rose to his feet, and his somnolent voice echoed throughout the silent Temple Hall. Instead of the grateful joy that I expected, they were words of quiet rejection! Instead of praise, sullen dismissal. I watched in shock and horror as Father Brown ground my precious instrument to splinters beneath his feet. I know it's most unusual to come before you so, but I've found an ancient miracle I thought that you should know. Listen to my music, and hear what it can do. There's something here as strong as life! I know that it will reach you!

Heaven is cold without any soul. It's hard to believe I was so in love with you. Don't say your prayers, don't build your hopes. Just walk away. Don't phone me up, don't call around, don't waste your time. You were so in awe of me, you were so divine, you would do just anything to still be mine. Heaven is cold without any soul. It's hard to believe I was so in love with you. All the things you said to me, I was so obsessed. You were always talking, talking. God, I did my best!

Ok, it’s like this. There’s a tribe living by a river. And in the river, there are crocodiles. The tribe has one particular piece of wisdom passed down through the generations. It goes like this: if you happen to meet a crocodile, don’t stick your head in its mouth. Every now and then, and who knows the reason, people ignore this advice. Which is sad because they die, but very stupid because they were warned. They had a choice. The moral of the story is this: you can’t afford to be stupid. There are crocodiles.

Oohhhhh! He's a frozen treat with an all new taste! 'cause he came to this planet from outer space! A refugee of an interstellar war! But now he's at your local grocery store! Cookie Cat! He's a pet for your tummy! Cookie Cat! He's super duper yummy! Cookie Cat! He left his family behind! Cookie Caaaaat!

To seek the sacred river, Alph, to walk the caves of ice, to break my fast on honey dew, and drink the milk of paradise, I had heard the whispered tales of immortality. The deepest mystery from an ancient book, I took a clue, I scaled the frozen mountain tops of eastern lands unknown. Time and man alone, searching for the lost, Xanadu.

I hate a moral coward, one who lacks a manly spark. I just detest a man afraid to go home in the dark. I always spend my evenings where there's women, wine, and song. But like a man, I always bring my little wife along! I'm a member of the Midnight Crew! I'm a night owl, and a wise bird too. Home with the milk in the morning, singing the same old song! Rise with the moon, go to bed with the sun; early to bed, and you'll miss all the fun! Bring your wife and trouble, it will never trouble you! Make her a member of the Midnight Crew!

Now that time, it came calling. An angel has fallen, and nothing can be how it's been. And when love seemed so heartless, when light turned to darkness, now only her star can be seen. What have we done? You could talk without speaking, cry without weeping, your secrets will never be told. Leave your bonds left unbroken, words left unspoken, and dreams that can never unfold. What have we done? So there's no one to cry for, to lay down and die for. Now only the scars can be seen: What have we done?

Go screaming through the valley as another joins the chase! Drive like the wind, straining the limits of machine and man, laughing out loud with fear and hope. I've got a desperate plan! At the one-lane bridge, I leave the giants stranded at the riverside, race back to the farm to dream with my uncle at the fireside.

Soon it will be the phase of the moon when people tune in. Every girl know about the punctual blues, but who's to know the power behind our moves? A day of coincidence with the radio and a word that won't go away. We know what they're all going to say. "G" arrives, funny, had a feeling he was on his way. We raise our hats to the strange phenomena. Soul birds of a feather flock together. We raise our hats to the hand a-moulding us. Sure 'nuff, he has the answer, he has the answer, He has the answer: Na na, na na. On mani padme. On mani padme. On mani padme hum. You pick up a paper, you read a name. You go out, it turns up again and again. You bump into a friend you haven't seen for a long time. Then into another you only thought about last night.

These are the little children, the future in our hands. When all God's children on this Earth inherit all our plans, these are the lies they tell us. The future's good as sold. In all the things we do and know, we really must be told.

And ever since then, we've been based on the dollar value on a freely floating exchange rate! [SCREAMS] The money ain't tied to a specific item of value. And it's all make believe numbers and market manipulations. But now, me and my gold will be safe from financial ruin. How do you like that, President Nixon? Huh?! Back on the standard, baby!

Red frame, white light. Telephone calls. Black and white. Red frame, white light. You have a yellow book.

So many things I think about when I look far away. Things I know, things I wonder, Things I'd like to say. The more we think we know about, the greater the unknown. We suspend our disbelief and we are not alone. Mystic rhythms capture my thoughts and carry them away. Mysteries of night escape the light of day. Mystic rhythms, under northern lights, primitive things stir the hearts of everyone.  We sometimes catch a window, a glimpse of what's beyond. Was it just imagination stringing us along? More things than are dreamed about, unseen and unexplained. We suspend our disbelief and we are entertained! Mystic rhythms capture my thoughts and carry them away. Nature seems to spin a supernatural way. Mystic rhythms, under city lights or a canopy of stars; we feel the powers and we wonder what they are. We feel the push and pull of restless rhythms from afar.

But we were the evil empire all along, who fought the other evil empires not because we were the Good Guys, but because we wanted to be a bigger evil empire than all the others. We didn’t win the war between good and evil because there was never any such war; we won the war to be the biggest bully on the block. The Nazis learned by watching us, their racial policies just a Germanized Jim Crow, the Holocaust American-pioneered techniques of mass production applied to the American-pioneered techniques of concentration camp and genocide. Lebensraum is just German for “Manifest Destiny,” which is why we fought them–one imperialist expansion smacking into another. (Well, not really. The Germans and Japanese both learned from us, but it was the expanding Japanese empire that smacked into ours first. But they could ally with Germany because they had the Soviet empire in between them, and that’s how we ended up at war with Germany. The point: it’s all empires fighting empires; if you want scrappy bands of heroic rebels, look to the places already conquered.)

Regarding this album… Imagine if members of Rush and Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark decided to work with Greg Cipes of Teen Titans, Teen Titans GO!, and Fast & Furious fame on a concept album about how the secrets of the universe can only be discovered through falling in love while having a dispute online over what Homestuck is about, and how such love is fleeting, but ultimately worthwhile. That’s this album. But at the same time, that feels a bit mean. There’s a snideness to describing the lyrical nature of the song as just “Homestuck Discourse Romance.” In truth, I didn’t even notice it was a Homestuck thing when I first listened to it. It sounded very modern and techno, but also had what sounded like a harpsichord. I don’t really listen to lyrics as I listen to a song. I mainly focus on the tune it implies and how the song makes me feel. There’s an air of melancholy to the singer that conflicts with the upbeat instrumentals. The harmonies collide like an electric ocean on the psychic landscape that is this brave new world. Analyzing it in prose doesn’t do it justice, and I don’t have the right technical and editing skills to do it in the soundscape it deserves. In short, I liked it quite a bit and would recommend it to non-Homestuck fans (Are Homestuck fans called Stuckers? Trolls? Peak Nerdom?).

Everyday I'm on my knees to pray. Since I kissed you once, and I held you once, things have never been the same.

And on that night, and in that way, you wove your magic slowly. The broken boy is healed again. I fall into you wholly. Unforgiving and now all alone! Where's the beauty that you bled? When you've buried all the pain that you have known, I will carry you to bed. Where's the perfect that you used to know? Where's the rainbow in your head? When you've cast all your enemies to stone, who will carry you to bed?

Keep the nightlight on inside the birdhouse in your soul. Not to put too fine a point on it, say I'm the only bee in your bonnet, make a little birdhouse in your soul. Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch, who watches over you? Make a little birdhouse in your soul! Not to put too fine a point on it, say I'm the only bee in your bonnet. Make a little birdhouse in your soul.

To be honest, I’m not much of a music critic. Oh sure, I’ve dabbled here and there. But most of that was looking at the lyrics or looking at things that aren’t actually the songs being performed. To be a music critic, a true music critic, one must understand the implications of each cord, each melody, each verse in the cosmic whole of the song. Without this understanding, you can miss the forest for the tower through the trees. But then, I suppose that would be fitting from what I’ve gathered about Homestuck. The small things get lost to the monumental scale of it all. History is like that too. The meaning of things is discarded for the things themselves. That’s why we’re doomed to repeat it, I suppose. We never learn our lesson. Wasn’t World War I supposed to be the War to end all wars? They aren’t supposed to get sequels, is what I’m saying.

History [Terminology] In a War where all the major powers are time-active, it’s vital to understand the difference between “history” and “time”. History has (or is) a structure, but has no tangible existence: it’s a method of perceivingtime, of recording it, of remembering it and attempting to predict it. When groups like Faction Paradox talk about ‘changing history’, or the Great Houses talk about ‘defending history’, they’re talking about a process that’s as much psychological as material.

Each of us, a cell of awareness, imperfect and incomplete genetic blends with uncertain ends on a fortune hunt that's far too fleet.

My friend Jon always said it was nicer here than under the atmospheric domes of the Outer Planets. We have had peace since 2062, when the surviving planets were banded together under The Red Star of the Solar Federation. The less fortunate gave us a few new moons. I believed what I was told. I thought it was a good life, I thought I was happy. Then I found something that changed it all...

Our one source of energy, the ultimate discovery: Electric-- blue for me, never more to be free: electricity, nuclear, and HEP, carbon fuels from the sea: wasted electricity, our one source of energy: electricity, all we need to live today, a gift for man to throw away; the chance to change has nearly gone, the alternative is only one, the final source of energy: Solar Electricity! Electricity! Electricity! Electricity! Electricity! Electricity!

Let those old familiar feelin's start to show. Sing my favorite phrase from those good old days. Let those tears and sweet memories flow! It amazes me to hear it--how it's beauty never ends. Now the music made us friends, I'm asking you: so play it one more time, that symphony in rhyme. Let those old familiar feelin's start to show! Sing my favorite phrase from those good old days! Let those tears and sweet memories flow!!!

Death, I suppose, is a way out. They say it’s the easy way out, but that’s because they’re jerks who think it’s easy to dive into the great unknown. As if throwing away everything you’ve ever known, both the good and the bad, is easy. As if they wouldn’t turn on you if you dared tried to kill the ones hurting you even as they advocate for it. But death doesn’t have to mean suicide. In Tarot, for example, the Death card represents a great change in one’s life. Throwing away everything you once were could simply mean running away or embracing an aspect of yourself that you thought was best to repress. Death isn’t always good, obviously. But it’s an understandable option. At the same time though, it’s not the only one…

[END OF ARTICLE]

Sampled Works:

All Star by Smash Mouth
All You Fascists by Billy Bragg

Beata Virgo Viscera by Scout Tafoya

Birdhouse in Your Soul by They Might Be Giants
The Book of the War by Lawrence Miles, Simon Bucher-Jones, Daniel O’Mahony, Ian McIntire, Mags L. Halliday, Helen Fayle, Phil Purser-Hallard, Kelly Hale, Jonathan Dennis, and Mark Clapham

Cookie Cat by Jeff Liu

Crisis on N Earths: Dark City by Jen A. Blue

The Devil's Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce

Distant Early Warning by Rush

Electricity by Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark

Everyday by Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark

Fly Me to the Moon by Frank Sinatra

Free Will by Rush

Genetic Engineering by Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark

Ghost Star by Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark

The Gold Standard by Steve Borst

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

I’m a Member of the Midnight Crew by Eddie Morton

I'm Going Slightly Mad by Queen

Mystic Rhythms by Rush

New World Man by Rush

Night Watch by Terry Pratchett

The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman

On a Bicycle Built for Two by Nat King Cole

Red Barchetta by Rush

Red Frame/White Light by Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark

Sad Song by Paul Williams

So In Love by Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark

Strange Phenomena by Kate Bush

There are Crocodiles by Steven Moffat

2112 by Rush

We Are the Dead by David Bowie

What Have We Done by Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark

Worldburners Unite by Seeming

Xanadu by Rush