The Decline of Me

Most nights I can’t sleep. I just lay there shrouded by night, twisted in my blanket, drenched in cold sweat. Thoughts rush through my mind feverishly, blurring through my consciousness with tiring rapidity. I attempt to focus on them, but they dissolve at the merest notice. Sometimes I catch myself grinding my teeth in frustration, a salty hint of blood on my tongue.

Inhumed in this purgatory between dreams and the real, mentally meandering, I realize why a part of me doesn’t want to sleep. There is a sense of trepidation between the end of one day and the beginning of another. I would call it the terror of the unknown. After the tumultuous last few years, tomorrow only seems to offer less and less possibility. My idealism has been trampled by pragmatism. A divorce coupled with the loss of every material possession I once had has left me questioning the stability of tomorrow. Nothing is forever my subconscious whispers. Nothing is certain. I try to clear my mind and forget my unease, hoping that if I can shut down my cognitive faculties I can find some rest. It doesn’t help. I lay there locked in the waking world, tossing and turning as the minutes tick away.

The fatigue mercilessly tightens my limbs with a numbing rigidity stripping me of physical control. I feel weighted down by some unseen hand and become leaden. My body feels alien. It’s so ironic. I can’t sleep, yet my body can’t find the strength to stand.

Yet my mind becomes increasingly sensitive. My dull senses sharpen, and I hear odd things in the shadows. The foundation of the house moans from time to time. It is plaintive and pathetic, perhaps wondering what has become of those souls who wander through her. The wind shakes the windows, tapping time and again asking me to come join her. But I can’t find the strength to rise and let the wind pass me by on its evening trek.

My weary eyes wander around the room, amorphous shapes emerging from the inky darkness with time, dreams bleeding into reality. It lends a surreal touch to my surroundings. Stripped of form and substance, these shapes of lost day become primordial. The twilight filtering through the blinds give the silhouettes a mystical air; little particles dance like sparks in the moonlight, twirling angels falling from heaven. With the merest mental touch, I give these shapes form and meaning and for a time forget the exhaustive burden of consciousness.

My actions stir other senses. A stale, musty smell permeates the room. How had I missed that smell? There is something soothing to that sweet scent, earthy and natural. It brings to mind a warm, comforting softness I could lose myself in like the bosom of a lover. The tension leaves me, and I relax into soft pillows.

I swear I feel a tremor travel through the bed. It is a subtle quake that comes every time the world begins to fade. A sickness develops in my gut. There is something unnatural to this. Afraid to move, yet unsure why, my eyes frantically scour the blackness for what disturbs me. Then I see it, this thing that threatens to shatter my reason. I am unsure if it is actual or hallucination, my hold on reality is so tenuous at that state between wake and sleep, but I swear I see the shadows coalescing into a shadowy specter. This malignant thing hisses unintelligibly, standing at the foot of my bed paralyzing me with its cowled, condemning stare. My once quiet heart rattles painfully in my chest, thumping at my ribs and thundering in my ears. The breath catches in my throat and I choke. I close my eyes and will this thing away over and over, praying it obey. When I look again, all that remains is the empty night. I steal a breath and the night becomes more solid.

Turning to look at the clock, I curse the time: too short to sleep and too long until dawn. In futility, I force myself to rise, the bed creaking beneath my body. On unsteady feet I take to the hall. Despite the blackness, I know where I am going. Off to the right is the dining room and beyond that the kitchen where the fridge hums and the coils ping. I turn left trudging down that somber corridor passing door after door until I reach the bathroom at the end. I cross the threshold and close the door behind me. Flipping the switch on the wall, a spark blossoms before me which then grows into a dim, buzzing glow that finally flares into a piercing effulgence illuminating everything around me. I find myself surrounded by a soft, fuzzy whiteness.

I bow my head and turn the lever. The faucet gushes water into the sink and I cup as much as I can, bringing that soothing cold to my face washing away the lassitude that plagues me. The bleary world around me becomes stark. Without realizing it, my head rises, and I look in the mirror and see the touch of time. Once golden hair, lush and thick, has become tarnished and thin; a vague wisp receding back beyond my barren crown. Darkness shrouds my eyes, heavy bags weighing down my dulling, bloodshot emerald vision which fatigue has narrowed to slits. Then there are the lines etched into my face from too many frowns, smiles, and furrowed brows. Past emotions have etched a faint reminder of events long past, gradually digging deeper with each passing day. At the center of my face is my crooked nose which whistles plaintively from time to time. Beneath that are my dried, chapped lips. I can still remember when they were thick and soft. Now they are chewed and cracking. My visage has acquired a certain leanness, no longer plump with baby fat. My cheeks have hollowed leaving me with an emaciated, hungry look. I swear I can see a grinning skull beneath the wavering visage before me. But my skin is the surest sign a change is overtaking me. Once vibrant and solid, my flesh has paled and taken on a translucent quality. I can see right through myself; past the blue veins and thin musculature to the bone and beyond like I am nothing but insubstantial shadow.

Seeing this, I can’t help but think that I am gradually being eroded by time. I have hit the peak and am beginning the decline of my corporeal self. What I once thought immortal, this creation that is me, is now taking on mortal properties. I am withering away. I know I am too young to allow a fixation of age to overcome me, yet I can’t shake the morbid curiosity of watching myself approach ruin. It is as if, realizing that I cannot reverse the process, I instead have subconsciously chosen to run head on toward the precipice if only to fly briefly over the abyss before that final fall. I have embraced the decline in order to render its bitter taste palatable.

The process of aging reminds me of sculpting. One begins as this crude rock, untouched and virginal; capable of becoming anything. Gradually it is carved until the desired shape is achieved. This formless chunk of rock takes on characteristics, becomes something, finds definition. But life isn’t content to leave a masterpiece alone. It continues to chip away regardless of the cracks that develop. Maybe life is searching for that desired perfect shape despite the fact that such obsession leads to a whittling away of the closest approximation.

That is what I see in the mirror: a life which is ironically being consumed by living. Experiences mar my once smooth skin, a shade of stubble increasingly obscuring my youth. I trace the scar under my left arm where a tube was once inserted, the phantom pain of a collapsed lung causing each breath thereafter to sting. The sharp ache spreads to my heart, a stabbing pang that makes my eyes burn until warm tears pour down my face and spill into the cold sink below. Further misery is resurrected to haunt me, both spiritual and physical. Through that depressive vision I begin to see darker prophecies. My frail hand passes before my eyes, trembling weakly. Those boney fingers have become so slim that no ring could ever hold but instead slip off. Falling away, I see what remains of me. My small frame shrinks more and more every day, the weight just refusing to hold. The light of the sun, warm and benevolent, would pass right through me. I turn away, leaving the light behind on my way back down the murky hall. My steps lighten as I leave my thoughts behind until I seem to hover. I become more ghost than man; a wraith haunting the world. How long before even my reflection vanishes, and I am no more than a memory? And after that, how long until that memory fades to a dream forgotten on waking?

Frank Miller Is Overrated

I write this with full knowledge and understanding that it will and may call down the wrath of every bloodthirsty fanboy (or girl) who may wander past this vastly unread blog. But then again these things are for expressing one's opinion without concern to censorship or public opinion, so here goes.

I fully understand that when Frank Miller "burst" on the scene with Daredevil #158 his style and storytelling seemed different and "new" to people when the big name comic companies forced artistic and writing formulas on their employees, forcing them to churn out Xeroxed imagery from one title to the next. Hell, Marvel even wrote a book about it, "Hot to Draw Comics The MARVEL Way," so that you could do it too. I disagree with the common interpretation of Miller's early Daredevil style as 'noir' though. It was definitely more 'hard boiled' in the fact that it was wrought it he over-the-top violence that has become a signifier of Miller's work, but there wasn't anything particularly shadowy about it.

I've read the entire Miller run of the Daredevil revival in which the infamous Elektra death scene takes place. I found the storytelling to be actually quite boring. The entire thing hinges on Daredevil's relationship with Elektra, her his one-time girlfriend and he not quite over her. The Kingpin is involved of course. He sets up political stooges, hires assassins (namely Bullseye) and basically wants Daredevil killed. The story itself seems confusing and very slowly told. I realize good things take time but I literally got bored with the title at this point. Finally the big "pay off", Bullseye gets a brain tumor and goes insane, and Elektra gets killed. Then it turns out she isn't dead. Big surprise.

Sin-City of course is Miller's opus of sorts. Considered to be his "finest". I'm not saying Miller is a bad writer, or a bad artist. But there certainly seems to be a difference in what Miller considers good storytelling and what others consider good storytelling. Many knee-jerk liberals will see a Michael Moore documentary which is all relentless evidence (however skewed its presentation is) against the Bush administration and consider that good storytelling because it helps back-up their already self-supported views. Perhaps a different person will see the movie "V: For Vendetta" and consider that the better of the two, when it comes to political discourse, because it presents political matters in a more even light and openly questions both sides of the argument. Each have their critics.

When Miller's idol Will Eisner penned "The Spirit" he made one thing clear: The Spirit aka Denny Colt was not going to triumph over evil with a smile and a flick of the wrist. The Spirit pounded his way through mobsters, bookies, cops and killers and often wound up in near critical condition himself. He took as many beatings as his enemies and sometimes he didn't win.

Miller obviously drew a lot of inspiration from Eisner for Sin City. The difference? The Spirit wouldn't take a hacksaw to somebody or graphically remove their limbs. This is all a penny in the well of course. Who cares what Eisner would have done, it's Miller's title, right? But all of Miller's storytelling seems to wander the same path. Sketchily drawn characters in over-the-top blood filled situations. Hell he had Batman take out the Joker's eye. He's like the Tarantino of comics. But where in lies the value? You can only see Miller's name on a cover before you assume that the characters within end up eviscerated and lying in a pool of blood, with the protagonist in not much better condition. It gets trite after a while. It's like reading, well I don't know if one can actually "read" a Todd McFarlane 'story' but if you could you'd get the same thing. Entrails, blood, tits and cursing.

How about some exposition? Try a story that is original, creative and doesn't rely on someone punching though someone's skull like an overripe watermelon or rehashing Kubrick's "The Killing" as a framing device. It's tired. It's the over-machismo frat boy way of doing things.

The newest Miller creation to hit the limelight is the film adaptation of his graphic novel 300, which in itself is an "adaptation" of the event that took place in 480 BC when Leonidas led 300 Spartans (as well as Thesbians and Thebans) against the advancing army of Persia at the Pass of Thermopylae and lost. Yes they lost. They fought for freedom from slavery and the Thebans and Thesbians joined them in battle (though according to Herodotus' book The History, the Thebans never actually wanted to be there and surrendered as soon as Leonidas was killed).

There are actually people debating whether or not this film is historically accurate! COME ON! First of all there are no definite first hand accounts of the war so NO ONE can be truly historically accurate. Secondly, whatever happened, it probably didn't look like a bondage fetish video with weird Hellraiser monsters populating the Persian army (which are clearly visible in the trailer). This is a worthy story to tell, but it's also another excuse for over the top gore, jingoistic storytelling and slow-motion blood splatter. He might as well just create a graphic novel called "People getting Killed" in which each panel consists of a different person being forced to meet their demise in a bloody graphic manner. No need for story, character or exposition.

It looks like an episode of Hercules: The Legendary Journeys (bad, loud acting included) with the props man from Dawn of the Dead (by the way the director is Zack Snyder, the DOTD remake director.)

So that aside, I think that Miller brought some fresh blood (pun intended) to the genre. He stirred things up when they definitely needed to be. But at the same time it seems that something different was labeled something genius just because it was different, with out any real dissection of the attributes. I enjoyed Sin City somewhat; the Daredevil run was a tad boring, but still entertaining. But you won't find me in line to watch 300 or championing the return of the floppy-haired girl Robin.