Grant Morrison's Batman, or, "HH"

Obviously I'm a big comic nerd. I have been forever, since my Dad would bring me tattered Silver Age issues from Thrift stores or gloomy 80's post-Miller nightmares from the local Shinder's (that was a comic and card chain that I'm pretty sure doesn't exist anymore.)

I sort of fell off a few years ago, though.  In 2011, DC Comics (yes, I'm a DC guy first and foremost) relaunched their ENTIRE comic universe with the New 52, radically changing beloved character's origins, histories, and attitudes.  I chose the word radically, because it was a clear attempt by out of touch executives to make their "stodgy" classic characters like Superman TOTALLY RADICAL BROS!  They recruited a bunch of shitty, aging former Image creators (Image Comics is a whole post on its own) known for style over substance EVEN IN THE 90s and set them loose on Gotham and Metropolis.

And you got crap like this.

JOKER WILL BE SO MUCH MORE

XTREME WITH NO FACE, BRUH!!

I'm getting off track.  The point was, the world that I grew up reading about and loving changed.  And I hated it.  The weird thing was that this came right at the tail end of Grant Morrison's monumental 5 year run on Batman, a mad, brilliant, full throttle, completely insane, mind-f---ing celebration of all of Batman's continuity, all nearly a century of it.  And it almost seemed like a goodbye to that world I loved.

Look, everyone has their own interpretation of characters like Batman.  It drives my wife crazy, because she feels that there is no REAL version of that character.  I feel like Batman somehow does accommodate many different interpretations pretty well, but I certainly have my preferred version, and while Morrison's was not perfect for me, it's very close.

Look at me. Look--hey--look at me.

I'm Batman.

Morrison's Batman was almost superhumanly smart, an unstoppable intellect combined with unmatched will to combat big-idea threats.  He was driven by compassion and a desire to keep what happened to him from happening to anyone else, not by childish vengeance.  Morrison's Batman was scary because he was always 25 steps ahead of the guy who was 5 steps ahead.  This was a Batman who had a backup personality in case he was mind-wiped or attacked mentally, for gods sake! How cool is that?!  When Superman calls someone "the most dangerous man on Earth," you should probably listen, Protex.

If that IS your real name.

Rather than shy a way from the crazy, outlandish sci-fi era of Batman from the 50s and the camp of the 60s, like most modern Bat-writers, Morrison reasoned that all of these weird adventures happened, they just happened largely in his mind, as part of the "Black Casebook," a series of sensory deprivation experiments he participated in for the military. 

This embracing of stories that most modern batfans and writers were uncomfortable with, albeit through a modern lens, was unheard of and brilliant.  I loved that Morrison made it all work, and yeah, it was tweaked and reworked a little bit, but the idea that you didn't have to exclude the weirder parts of Batman's history was just so irresistible to me that I get excited just remembering reading it! I almost couldn't believe no one had thought of it before.

"Uh Oh."

A big theme of Morrison's run was death and the immortality of Batman as an IDEA.  "BATMAN AND ROBIN WILL NEVER DIE" as a rallying cry of hope and that some ideas are too big to crush.  Even when Bruce Wayne died for two years of his run, Morrison had former Robin Dick Grayson take up the mantle and become an upbeat, friendly Batman to a scowling, no-nonsense Robin in Damian, Bruce's son with Talia Al Ghul.  This reversal of the traditional dynamic was unexpected, well done, and most of all, fun. Honestly if there was even an out-of-continuity monthly book where Dick stayed Batman with Damian as Robin, I'd buy it religiously.

It was weird how Robin became a small 65 year old man.

Of course, eventually, Bruce came back, but asked Dick to stay in the cowl, and for awhile, there were TWO Batmen, and an entire team of allies in Batman, Inc.  When I heard this announced, to be honest, I thought it sounded stupid and yet, once again, Grant Morrison made it one of my favorite comics every month.  Giving obscure, forgotten characters and some new creations time to shine, he took the idea of Batman as a symbol and figure of inspiration to new heights, and made it a global force to be reckoned with. 

"TWO of them?  Well, there's a ONE of ME!"

It was in the middle of this high-concept book that the New 52 came crashing in, disrupting Morrison's obsessively plotted epic and forcing him to roll with it as best he could.  He managed to finish it in a satisfying way, with yet another threat vanquished, and a longtime foe seemingly dealt with for good (yeah, right) but I can't help feeling that the change had been a real problem for his plans.  The tiniest bit of enthusiasm was missing and the ending felt slightly arbitrary, too small for such a big run. 

I guess it may have been impossible to have an ending as epic as the rest of the run, after 5 years, anyone can run out of steam.  But I can't imagine having the rug you've built your entire tower of blocks on get pulled out from under you isn't frustrating. That the whole thing didn't collapse entirely is testament to just how good a writer Morrison is.

HOLY ERA THAT MOST BAT-WRITERS ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH, BATMAN!!

But as I said earlier, the whole thing in retrospect feels like a goodbye, a sendoff to the DC Comics I grew up loving, the Batman I grew up following.  Maybe Morrison sensed a change coming, and just didn't know the exact timing.  Maybe he straight up knew (though the whole New 52 seemed like a knee jerk surprise, given the reactions of many comic professionals.) Or maybe he just loved that character and his universe as much as the most rabid fan and wanted to pay the best tribute he could to an amazing, enduring character that's been around for almost 100 years and hopefully won't be going anywhere anytime soon.

I suspect not, after all, BATMAN AND ROBIN WILL NEVER DIE!

OMG THIS STILL GETS ME PUMPED UP

My Best Comics

For years, I've done a webcomic called Downfall.  I write it and draw it as time allows, because I'm a big fan of comics and it gives me an excuse to practice consistently.  I'm well aware of the shortcomings in my art, I'm self taught and I don't have the time or probably attention span to get REALLY good, but I enjoy it as a hobby.  I'm pretty critical of myself, so it's hard for me to go back and look at a lot of my own stuff, but there are a few that I really think are good, artistically to varying degrees, but as a little story told in words and pictures, sometimes I think they work pretty well for amateur stuff, and I'm proud of them.

So I'm gonna post what I feel are my personal best examples of comics, because sure it's self-indulgent, but it's my blog about my writing and art, so I can do that.  Also, as I'm putting this together, it's kind of cool to see my art change through a bunch of strips all in a row.

If you enjoyed these pretty good ones, and are interested in seeing lots more mediocrity, you can check out the Downfall homepage for all of the strips, fanart, and more.

One Wish

This was a from a writing prompt from my friend Amber "You are a genie, as is the custom, after the 10,000th wish granted you are free, but the final wish is one that is completely unexpected."

One Wish

It's difficult to describe the way time exists for us.  Imagine with every blink the world changes around you.  Someone is talking to you, and a beautiful, expansive lake is behind them.  You blink, and it's a different person, in strange clothes, in an expanse of desert.  You blink again, and they're someone new, and you're in a building that smells like smoke and sweat.  And you just have to carry on, and you do, because it's normal.

But it's also always kind of familiar.  You know how it will go: recovering shock at your presence, going over the rules, one wish, blink, shock, rules, wish, blink.  And then, after only 10,000 blinks, we're free.  Free to wander the world, not mortal, but not what we were, either.  Just weird whispers behind the back of rational thought, slipping into legend and fairy tale in a world passing us by.

We're not legend, though, we're just rare.  And when someone does stumble on us, who would believe their story? Most of us stay with one family for generations, our anchors passed down to children and grandchildren.  Dynasties seem rarer these days, but those powerful families whose continued success that seems too good to be true?  Someone looking might spot an anchor in one of their beautiful homes: a homely old oil lamp, a battered nicknack box, a dusty jar, empty but sealed tight; ugly little containers that you wouldn't look twice at but that if you think about it, seem out of place on that rich wood shelf, in that decadent home.

So you can imagine my surprise when I saw no trace of the line I'd been a part of in the face of the man standing in front of me now.

"What is your wish?" I asked.  I'd long since dispensed of any sort of preamble.

"I've found one. After all this time," he laughed, and there was a strange age behind it, something much older than his youthful appearance would suggest.

"I take it you know what it is you've stumbled upon?" I crossed my arms. "Wonderful, so which of your disgusting hungers will we be sating?  Sex?  Money?  Perhaps you'd like to spend the rest of your days in a room of whatever narcotic is in fashion now?"

He smiled again, that grating, sad smile.  "Nothing like that, I'm afraid." He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.  "I want you to kill me."

I laughed at that, "I'm sure you can arrange that without me," I gestured widely at him, "Or again, room of narcotics..."

"NO," he interrupted. "No.  Look at me, that's not possible."  He stared at me in a way no one ever had.  "Look at me," he said again, almost inaudibly.

"...You're a Djinn..." I whispered, the realization making my head swim.

"A free one. Yes."

"Why...why would you seek me out to wish...a thing like that?"  I tried to focus.

"You dream of freedom, don't you?" he spat.  "To make your own way, pursue your own desires, wish your own wishes?"

I nodded, I couldn't help it.

"Forever?  To live like one of them, always among them, never aging, adrift in a sea of...emotion, drowning in love and being...powerless to keep them by your side? Watching them rattle and fall and die like leaves in winter?" He wiped spit away from his mouth and took a calming breath. "Free.  I've been free for centuries, and I've had my fill."

I didn't know what else to say, "You know how you have to phrase it," I mumble.

"I wish to die," he said, closing his eyes.

And just like that, I reached into reality, tugging a string here, knotting one there, reshaping it instinctually and trancelike, guided by the same ancient magic we were a part of.  I think I was crying.

When it was done, I looked down at his body, still youthful.  I stayed there, looking at his peaceful face for a long time, before I realized everything was the same.  There was no new face staring at me, I was in the same dark room I'd been in for...well, a while.  I was free. I didn't even realize.  No one counts their blinks.

Winter Ghosts

This is a short story I did as an exercise from the writing prompt "Midwestern Ghosts."  I had some issues formatting it from Pages to Blogger, forgive any weirdness there.

Winter Ghosts  

     When I met Nicole she was all black lipstick, spiked choker and pale skin like glass.  So how could I not be into that?  The writing course we were both in conveniently took care of introductions and, with a nice efficiency, gave us glimpses into each other’s tritely tortured souls.

So now we were hanging out on the regular, coffee (of course) almost every afternoon, bad horror movies (of course) almost every night.  I was smitten, I might as well have had big pink hearts where my dumb, shit-colored eyes were, but she had that disaffected distance that just made everything worse.  That half smirk, eyes rolling, revealing impossible white beneath makeup-blackened lids; slender, black tipped fingers pushing dark strands of hair behind ears more metal than skin.

Still, we were basically inseparable then, and I’d follow her everywhere, which is how we ended up in the graveyard together on a cold North Dakota night in November.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” she asked, (of course she did) sitting on a large headstone (of course she was) with her legs dangling.
“Nah, not really,” I said.  “I’m pretty into this thing called science, it’s pretty cool.”  I shifted my feet; thrift store combat boots are uncomfortable. “Do you?”
“Um, yeah, I know they exist.  That feeling of something watching you in bed, a shadow in the corner of your eye?  Ever since I was little.”
“Yeah, totally not your imagination, or, you know, like all the drugs or whatever.”
“I have EVP tapes.  Where you record voices, like from the dead.  You can hear ‘em, super clear.”
“Oh come on, your brain wants to find patterns and recognize familiar things, even when there are none.  There’s a word for it.  Appop…appofas…whatever, there’s a word for it, and that’s all that is.  Trying to make sense of static.”
“You can listen to it sometime, you’ll hear it,” she said, hopping off the headstone.  “Hey, I have an idea, come on, let’s get some stuff from your place.”

And that’s how I found myself driving out to Middle of Nowhere, ND 582FU with the camping gear I’d used exactly once.  “Turn off up here,” Nicole said.  We slowed and turned and crept along the roughly kept gravel drive, ruts and potholes masked by a fresh, white covering of snow.  
The house was dark, hunched and angular against the white snow and clear sky, brightened by the moon.  Snow crunched and squeaked under the tires as we idled forward, there wasn’t much, but I was afraid of getting caught on something under it and not being able to get out.  We stopped about 20 yards from the house.  Treelines and shelter belts hid us from the highway, and kept the sound from the few cars out here this time of night almost blocked.
“This is it!” Nicole said, her voice very loud in the silence.  She opened the door, the draft blowing her perfume in a cold wave at my face.  We grabbed the bag out of the back seat and headed up to the house.
“How’d you find this place?” I asked, very mindful of volume.  This was trespassing, right?  Abandoned house or no.  I’d heard cops swing by places like this to make sure people like us weren’t doing things like this.
“If I see something interesting, like a long dirt road off the highway, I check it out,” she said.  We crept up the wooden steps of the small porch, faded yellow police tape fluttered with raspy whispers in the breeze, stitching the entry closed.
“Come on,” she said, opening the door and deftly slipping between the tape strands.  I was surprised it wasn’t locked, but followed with a glance back to the car.

We stood there for a minute, taking in the stillness.  The musty smell was thick, even in the cold, and dust hung in the beam of Nicole’s flashlight like silt in those underwater videos of shipwrecks.  “Holy shit,” I breathed.  
We were looking through a small entry area directly into the living room.  Two ancient couches slouched against the walls , a seating area broken at 90 degrees.  A heavy, simple wooden coffee table stood in front of them. There was clutter everywhere, boxes, old clothes, drawers pulled from a dresser, plates, books, photographs; the result of intruders’ ransacks or just the refuse of a discarded life, who knew?
We walked into the living room, and I set the duffel bag down, tendrils of cold dust curling up around it.  Nicole was moving around the edge of the room, an apparition of black hair and black clothing, softly swirling from place to place, lightly touching the mirrored wall clock, gently picking up a rotting children’s book.  I bent to look at some of the photos, half expecting gruesome serial killer trophies, but finding only mundane strangers, smiling from some other life.  
“Let’s go upstairs,” Nicole said, pointing to an open door leading to a steep set of stairs.  I nodded and we carefully climbed up, wood sighing with each step.  At the top, a narrow hallway stretched through the length of the house, with doors along both sides.  One towards the middle hung open, and we crept in, the small bedroom filled mostly with a kingsized bed.  An old suit was laid out at the end of it, gray with dust.
Nicole shone her light around the rest of the room, over once nice dressers, lamps that probably would never be anything but dark now.  Being here felt strange, voyeuristic, even though there was nothing to see.  The wind had picked up outside, and was swirling and diving between the trees like ghosts, that groaning sound you only seem to hear on windy winter nights scolded us as we moved from room to room, holding ice-cold hands and giggling with nervousness.
 
     Thumps and creaks filled the house, as we went downstairs, the wind outside becoming suddenly frantic.  “Do you want to go into the basement?” Nicole asked.  I didn’t want to admit that I was getting a little spooked, and going down there seemed like a terrible idea.  I knew there wasn’t but it really sounded like something was moving around down there.
“I guess, but I’m sure it’s the same as everything else in here,” I said, playing it cool.  She smiled.  Probably saw right through it, but just said,
“Yeah,” and went back into the dusty living room.  She crouched down and opened the duffle bag, pulling out the tightly rolled sleeping bag.  I’d gotten it the year I went to college, picturing all sorts of adventures, it was not messing around, heavy duty, survival grade.  The kind people use climbing mountains.  All I’d used it for was a one-night trip to a state park and on my bed for a few days when I spilled pop all over my sheets and didn’t wash them right away.
She lay out that big sleeping bag and took off her pants, then her jacket, and shirt, down to her panties and tank top, her pale body almost glowing in the dark of the room.  “Come on, crawl in,” she said, sliding into the bag.  I undressed, shaking, dropping my clothes on the filthy floor, next to the other mildewy piles, hardly feeling the hard, cold air, and eased into the sleeping bag next to her.  We zipped it shut above our heads, and Nicole cracked a small glowstick on.
“I told you there were ghosts,” she said, her face green and black and hypnotic.  “They’re all around us,” she laughed softly.  I felt drunk.
We wrapped our legs together and, chest to chest, listened to the sound around us and it was easy to imagine us encircled by spirits.  She closed her eyes, and I looked at her face for a long time in the dying green light, until I eventually fell asleep, warm again and breathing in the dust of someone else’s life.

I didn’t lose my virginity or anything that night.  I didn’t even lose my virginity to Nicole.  The next morning, we climbed out of that heavy bag, pulled our very cold clothes back on, and drove back to town holding hands.

I still don’t believe in ghosts, but every so often, I still wake up when it’s dark, when I’m lonely and that wind is loud, and I remember what it felt like to be surrounded by them for a night.