Inkdeath: We Never Die Alone

With voices of purest longing meant to sooth the passage of souls from life to death, the White Women of Inkworld are women who won’t be ignored. They are spectral, invisible to all but those clinging to that thinnest thread spanning the gulf between the misery of physical existence and the bliss of eternal rest.

Key players in Cornelia Funke’s Inkdeath, they facilitate the mortality transition; more importantly, however, they chaperon Dustfinger and Bluejay along an artificial plotline that is more concerned with happenstance than with character development. In other words, while a good read, Ms. Funke has managed to screw things up yet again.

But no one comes to this blogger for reviews, so let’s think instead.

Who are these women?

There is the story of a tomb standing on the outskirts of a long-forgotten village just south of the city of Jerusalem. If you believe the account, then you know the story of the women who found the stone cast aside revealing an empty cave and a burial shroud. Were these women (sisters Mary and Martha among them) the Biblical version of the White Women who attend the corporeal wake?

His name was Jesus and they say he was dead three days prior to the discovery of his disappearance from the tomb by his home girls, Mary and Martha. Of course, debate still rages around the issue of what exactly was meant by “three days,” but that is outside the scope of my thoughts, for now.

So is this the Messiah? Could there be others?

As it turns out, there was another third day.

Though lesser men have tried and failed, Mortimer has managed to summon the White Women to him, in spite of the fact he has not yet been marked for death. And with no interest in the living, save for those among them for whom life remains to be measured by moments, this is a feat unprecedented. But he is no ordinary man, the Bluejay, and for him they will answer the call.

For three days and three nights, this man wanders among the charges they call Dead. And then returns to the living with the man called Dustfinger.

Can the pain of passage be so exquisite as to border on the erotic? And is it the purview and privilege of messiahs and their Women to wander these temporal states?

These women who tend death, who escort from this world to the next the souls of men, are nameless, faceless spirits for whom subjugation is Love in the service of a higher power. Whether flesh or phantom, spirit or shade, these beings of empathy behold death in its uncompromising guise without flinching, and lift their voices in praise.

So that, no matter how lonely we might live, we never die alone.

Watchmen: Twelve

Reading the graphic novel, Watchmen, has been a surprisingly pleasurable and creative experience. When I first picked it up at my local Barnes and Noble, I really wasn’t sure what to expect. After all, these weren’t the superheroes I had grown up with. The Watchmen didn’t leap tall buildings in a single bound, they didn’t pilot invisible airplanes; and though there were caped and masked, not one of them were nearly as likable. Yet in spite of my trepidation, I ventured into this bright, color-paneled world with the same enthusiasm and high-hopes I have for any new read.

The Watchmen are, as a group, people with whom I would choose not to associate in the real world. Their weaknesses are so profound that it is no stretch to imagine that they would be reviled as much in our world as in their own. On the other hand, when talking books and movies, anti-heroes are much more fun and interesting to follow. Indeed, the Watchmen make for perfect counterpoints to the more banal superhero fare.

I closed this book almost a week ago and placed it back on the shelf.

But it didn’t stay there long because there was something nagging at me, something tugging at the periphery of my thoughts that I couldn’t quite turn from. So I reopened the book and sat quietly with it for a while, almost mindlessly flipping through the pates. It was late. I looked up at the clock hanging on the wall opposite my desk, and latched on to it.

It. The “something” that wanted discovering, the thing beneath the glossy surface of the story attempting to claw it’s way down from the shelf and out of the pages. A symbol. A number.

Twelve.

A few examples among several:

• Watchmen:  Six people each with a superhero alter-ego
• The book is divided into twelve chapters
• Time marches onward until the clock stops at 12:00 midnight

Traditionally, the number twelve has been symbolic of completeness and unity. In occultist texts however, there is another meaning for the number twelve, which is derived through a series of numerological calculations. The meaning is chaos.

Often invoked as part of ritualistic application of the dark arts, the spirit of chaos is known as Choronzon. He goes by other names as well (often the case when talking about matters of the occult) such as the Lord of Dissolution, the Lord of Hallucinations, or the Demon of Dispersion.

Interestingly, Choronzon’s role in the cosmology of the occult is to serve as obstacle between competency and enlightenment. In other words, his purpose is to destroy the ego that restricts us from attaining transcendence. To be freed from the ego is to throw open wide the doors behind which our wildest dreams become attainable through the power of the superego. Through the chaos of dissolution, dispersion and hallucination, the liberation of our ultimate narcissistic self is at hand, unfettered to wreak its will.

The Watchmen as novel, has opened my eyes.

So as I say goodbye to the Watchmen, I say thanks for the ride. Long after closing the book, I suspect its messages, characters, and numerous themes will continue to resonate. Any book that sheds light on the fragility of the human condition, while doing so through the eyes and actions of a band of intensely unlikeable misfits, is one that deserves much consideration and certainly another pull-down from the reading shelf. I look forward to revisiting this world –  and another like it — sometime in the not too distant future.

That is, if the clock hasn’t stopped ticking….

The Watchmen: What Comes for Us

The stories are endless yet the theme remains the same. Relevant and timeless, would that we all held this maxim close to heart:  beware the company you keep. This is perhaps the quintessence of the Watchmen.

I continue to question my perception of the world in which these anti-heroes exist as it continually changes and evolves, much like the mask behind which Rorschach hides. As well, my thoughts meander through forgotten passages of a book that means much to me:

Oh that men would praise the LORD for his goodness, and for his wonderful works to the children of men! For he satisfieth the longing soul, and filleth the hungry soul with goodness.

Such as sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, being bound in affliction and iron; Because they rebelled against the words of God, and contemned the counsel of the most High: Therefore he brought down their heart with labour; they fell down, and there was none to help.

Then they cried unto the LORD in their trouble, and he saved them out of their distresses. He brought them out of darkness and the shadow of death, and brake their bands in sunder.

Oh that men would praise the LORD for his goodness, and for his wonderful works to the children of men!

– King James Bible, Psalm 107, Verses 8 – 15

Love. Tough. Satiating.

There is a certain comfort in the belief of supernatural benevolence. Faith that we are cared for and watched over, not unlike the security young children experience when looking into the eyes of a loving parent. So to, in a similar way we feel safeguarded by those who’ve sworn to protect us from this vile world in which we live.

One measure of happiness then must surely be an ability to call forth the goodness and light promised us by the Shepherd himself, and to shield ourselves behind the conviction that we will indeed be delivered from evil.

Believers numbers are legion. But there are many among us who suspect there is something lurking beneath the shiny, sparkling surface, staring back at us from deep within the cold abyss. Something that is allowed to touch us in our hidden places; something from which we can never be protected.

Agnostic. Hopeless. Despair.

Ask this man:

There is nothing else. Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose.

This rudderless world is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It is not God who kills the children. Not fate that butchers them or destiny that feeds them to the dogs.

It’s us. Only us.

– Watchmen, Chapter VI, p. 26

Or maybe there is something else, something coming for us over which we have no control and against which we are utterly helpless. It is not the future that bears down upon us; time simply passes without regard to the whims of humankind. What comes for us reeks of intent and sentience, and advances with a will. Russia invades the world; earth melts beneath a mushroom cloud, unrest pervades the waning peace; homosexuality ushers in the demise of the population.

The dead take up arms in the battle for souls.

The Tales of the Black Freighter, a comic book within the Watchmen, is an allegorical tale that portends the inexorable doom of mankind. There is abomination aboard this dark ship intent on corrupting the earth in its savage wake. This book-in-a-book serves as a cautionary tale of what will occur if we take no steps to stop the iniquity of man that comes from within.

War, pestilence, sexual misconduct, immorality, drug use — sins signaling the coming apocalypse. The image is burned into our eyes, page-turn after bloody page-turn. As we flounder in our attempts to alter the course upon which we have sailed, the bleakness of the vast, roiling ocean carries us away.

We need an intervention. That’s one way to look at this. Another:  for the privilege of losing everything to horrors beyond our control, we could give thanks. Maybe the gas-filled corpses lashed to the survivor’s raft — including the maggot-noshed bodies of his wife and children — would have been better served by their God had they chosen instead to lift their hearts up to the Lord.

It’s all in the approach, begging us to question our perception.

The truth we yearn to believe, the one for which we cling to faith, is that for all things there is a reason. Even as wickedness incarnate scuds across the surface of the sea toward us, we remind ourselves that this is God’s will and that God will put his angels in charge of us to protect us. Although doing so negates the concept of free will, our perception is such that we are collectively desperate to believe that life has meaning, and faith a payoff.

Simple. Sweet. Salvation.

For those who seek truth, the end of the story is irrelevant. For those who seek validation, the story itself is irrelevant.

Battle not
with monsters,
lest ye become
a monster.

and if you gaze
into the abyss,
the abyss gazes
also into you.

– Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzche, Watchmen, Chapter VI, p. 28

The Watchmen: American Savior and the Obsolete Superhero

Of what use is flesh and bone when compared to light and energy? When man is no longer bound by the laws of physics, and when the distance between two worlds can be traversed by mere thought, what then separates us from the thing we call God? That is the question that the Watchmen suddenly find themselves asking following the destruction of Jon Osterman and the creation of Dr. Manhattan: the ultimate Superhero.

Transforming an ordinary man into a being of pure energy necessarily portends an end to the group now little more than a quaint clan of like-minded individuals who once called themselves Minutemen, and reduces their crime-fighting efforts to the level of antic or play. It puts the lie to the belief that these men and women — dressing up in erotic ensembles to act out self-indulgent roles of good versus evil on the world stage — are of any significance whatsoever. Playthings all, becoming little more than relics rendered obsolete. Useless. Silly.

After all, there is only a single man who can save the world from itself, as this television news anchor reports with breathless hysteria :

We repeat: The Superman exists and he’s American. — Chapter IV, p. 13

May God bless the new America.

Hollis Mason isn’t blind to this truth. Speaking to the blue man himself in May of 1962, Hollis (also known as the Nite Owl of the original Minutemen) ruminates on his newly found “desire” to retire:

With someone like you around, the whole situation changes. You can do anything. All I got to offer is a good left hook. — Chapter IV, p. 15

Without specifically stating the reality, Hollis succumbs to the sudden and rapid aging in his bones, and evenly more strongly, in his mind. This is a man who recognizes his obsolescence when he feels it. Who among them can stand against this new creation? Another step closer to God.

Or is this thing a god itself, as Janey Slater asks him in their bedroom. His response, chilling and implacable:

I don’t think there is a God, Janey. — Chapter IV, p. 11

Timeless and boundless this new being of light energy, and our expectations of him as Superhero fall nowhere short of American Savior. In his creation we have inadvertently stepped down several rungs on the ladder of life, which begs the question of free will; i. e., having created a god-like entity among men, do we allow this creation its own version of self-governance, or do we attempt to bend it to our collective nationalistic will?

In asking that question, perhaps we have accidentally spoken truth to the inferiority of our intellect. Though the possession of free will implies the freedom to exist as well as to alter the trajectory of such existence, the life that we believe to be our own may simply occur within parameters predefined by something greater — and possibly even more nihilistic — than ourselves.

After all, what becomes of the concept of morality when man becomes the creator of god among himself? The truth may lie in the eventual destruction of an imagined God, born of new-found recognition that we already are what we are yet to become.

Refuge: To Earth We Return

Refuge pays beautiful homage to the Mormon faith (of the LDS variety). The book is filled with smatterings of stories about Joseph Smith Jr., the founder and first prophet of the religion, which serve to illuminate the various tenets of faith with regard to family, ritual, and love of the land.

These glimpses into Terry’s spiritual life serve to elevate this book beyond simply that of women’s study or of a biological treatise. Or, perhaps that would be better put by saying that all things in this physical world are connected and interwoven by her faith in a spiritual world, like a tapestry of the ethereal.

The Utah desert is a mirror of ourselves, peaks and valleys through which we all pass. The earth is what we are as human, both physically and psychologically. Inseparable and immutable are the elements that comprise flesh, blood, and planet. We are born of earth and to earth we return. The water we drink is the water we are made of; the food that we eat sustains us. The ratio of water to flesh is similar to the ratio of water to land. Seasons are expressed in terms of change: birth, growth, decay, death.

But inasmuch as the book attempts to impart the wisdom of a formalized construct of faith, Refuge also borrows heavily on polytheistic aspects of religion, as well. The notion of goddess, earth mother, is ever-present in Terry’s expressive love for her homeland. In the rocks surrounding the Great Salt Lake Basin, in the canyons and arroyos, indeed within the breathing of the lake itself, the land is a timeless bond between mother and daughter.

This is the story of Demeter and Persephone….

Earth was once an everlasting Eden. Demeter, the mother goddess, blessed this world with the feminine — an endless and boundless love for her daughter Persephone, the Maiden of Spring. Demeter’s abiding happiness brought bounty and bloom to the world of men.

Eros, a mischievous god with lust dripping from the pointed tips of his arrows, fired a shot at the onlooker Hades, god of the underworld, as he gazed upon Persephone lying naked in a field of flowers fresh in bloom. Because lust and love will not go unrequited, Hades ripped open the earth beneath her and pulled  her down into the burning depths of hell, the Kingdom of the Dead over which Hades ruled. Persephone, separated from her mother both physically and spiritually, was now the reluctant courtesan of demons and bride to the dead.

Demeter, broken and wandering the earth as a human woman in mourning, vowed never again to bestow her blessing of life upon the earth. Water turned to sand, humans to dust, fecundity now a barren womb. Humanity prayed to the father god Zeus, begging him to intervene on their behalf. Out of pity, Zeus enlisted the messenger god Hermes to intercede and to demand Persephone’s release and return to her mother.

Unexpectedly, Hades conceded. Persephone returned to earth and to Demeter, who at last blessed the earth with the feminine, with her love. Persephone explained that during her time in hell she had refused to eat, praying instead for death. Then, in exchange for his willingness to release her, she gave in to his single, strange demand: that she eat but a single seed of a pomegranate.

The pomegranate. Food of the Dead.

Demeter recoiled in sudden horror, for partaking of the pomegranate meant spending the remainder of eternity among the dead. Persephone, though presently in her mother’s loving embrace, was now forever dead to her…and a cold wind passed over the earth.

But the father Zeus, interceding out of love or pity, decreed that because the maiden goddess had innocently and unwillingly eaten but a single seed, she would be allowed to return to the living a portion of every year.

*     *     *

Our spirits are inextricably bound to our bodies as we pass through life. So to, earth is bound to the heavens; a green-blue gem suspended in an eternal universe. Faith guides us through this dance between life and death, dust and spirit, earth and heaven. And as seasons come and go, our understanding continues to grow. Terry writes:

If we…believe in God the Father and in his son, Jesus Christ, it is only logical that a Mother-in-Heaven balances the sacred triangle. I believe the Holy Ghost is female, although she has remained hidden, invisible, deprived of a body, she is the spirit that seeps into our hearts and directs us to the well. — p. 241

The feminine, by whatever name given, is the power that preserves.

God Creates a Man Who Creates a God

Finoglio is in a very bad place. His Inkworld is spinning out of control, taking him along with it. He’s stopped writing, claiming that words hold too much power in his hands and with that kind of power, he cannot be trusted. Finoglio is a man finally coming to terms with the demons of his imagination.

As the writer of the book called Inkheart, it would seem that he has every right — nay, responsibility — to direct the flow of energy from one scene to the next to ensure that from his effort comes a book worth reading. That is the tenet guiding all writers, and one that those worth reading take exceptionally serious care to heed.

Assuming that Finoglio has played by said rules, is there a limit then on what can or cannot occur within the confines of the story as written after the reader closes the book? In other words, can an imaginary world function as a living organism within the fictional confines of its own literary space?

Like the toys in the movie TOY STORY who come to life when all doors and eyes are closed to them — an out of sight, out of mind, and having a ball kind of existence. But these are people (as opposed to toys). As such, there must be a framework of morals and mores, of right and wrong, even if those subject to these restrictive social contracts are fictional characters.

So, Finoglio writes their stories then becomes a part of them, and in so doing, he unleashes a tsunami-like ripple effect that causes the story to evolve into something he had not imagined. His baby is changing, growing up as it were, and it is taking his sanity along with it.

There is no better example of this than when Finoglio writes the words that “read” Orpheus into Inkworld, but with the unintended consequence of also reading into the world the only remaining copy of the Inkheart book itself.

A book within the book. A mirror facing a mirror, facing a mirror…. Where does it end? And what happens when God creates a man who creates a god? A god who meddles in the affairs of man.

Once Cast, What Remains

My wife and I saw Doubt last weekend (don’t worry, no spoilers here). We rented it on our Vudu box. I loved it and gave it 4.5/5 stars. She, while enjoying it, didn’t rate it as highly. The problem in her mind was that there was no concrete resolution to the central conflict of the story. To that sort of sentiment I was left dumbfounded. What do you say to someone who was expecting a black-and-white answer in a story called Doubt?

When it comes to issues of religion, particularly those surrounding the Catholic faith, the two of us are often on opposing sides. She, ever the ardent defender, and I, always willing to give voice to the flaws of the church, have an on-going agreement to disagree. It angers her, my ever-ready willingness to look at the bad, but I can do this because I am a relative new-comer to the Catholic faith, having jumped from the Protestant side of the fence years ago.

While the Catholic church has suffered inordinately over the centuries, many of the ills visited upon the faithful were both self-inflicted and deserved. Most prominently as of the past decade or so, is the issue of child sexual abuse. The guilty deserve to suffer publicly and privately for those acts perpetrated upon the innocent. We both believe that, strongly.

Where we part ways however, is in my willingness (she would call it eagerness, perhaps correctly) to acknowledge and speak of those travesties without the slightest pangs of shame or pain. As a lover of her faith,  she is among those collaterally damaged by the sins of these rogue priests. So, while she doesn’t bury her head in the sand vis-a-vis sexual scandals, she is not one to willingly speak of them openly. On the other hand, I am one who looks at any new priest (or even seasoned ones, for that matter) with an eye of distrust.

And doubt.

Doubt. It raises questions to which the answer is ever suspect. It is a weapon with which even the greatest of men can be brought down. A weapon that can be wielded with great success in the hands of the uncaring, unflinching, and self-righteous among us.

And once cast, what remains?

Inkspell: When God’s Story Comes to an End

And so begins my journey into Inkspell, the second book in the Cornelia Funke Inkworld Trilogy. In spite of my disdain for it’s predecessor, Inkheart, I’ve decided to give this series the benefit of my doubts because I’m hoping the flaws I ranted about in the first book might not be too much of a detraction from the potential of the series as a whole.

Here’s to hoping.

Only a few chapters into Inkspell, I’ve suddenly found myself rethinking Inkheart. Throughout the entirety of that first book, there was a strange dichotomy between the complementary concepts of “reader” and “writer.” Whether intentional or not, the more I’ve thought about, the more intrigued I’ve become.

In Inkheart, there are readers of books and there are writers of books. In addition, there is another — say, super-category — within that of reader that I’ll call Reader, someone with that magical ability to read the words of a book and bring them to life.

For the sake of shoring up the integrity of the whole, there are also those who can neither read nor write. The vast majority of Funke’s more ignominious characters fall into this category. But what about the category of character who can write, read, and Read? Oddly enough, there appears to be no one from Inkworld who falls into that classification.

Why?

Funke sets up a caste system between the reader, the Reader, and the characters of the internal story of Inkheart themselves (NB: The book, Inkheart by Cornelia Funke, is a story about a book called “Inkheart,” which is written by the fictional character Fanoglio). Funke treats Fanoglio’s “Inkheart” characters as playthings, regardless of how villainous she would (ostensibly) like us to feel about them. They are simultaneously queer and quaint; caricatures of true evil that exists in the so-called real world (our world). These players, while interesting to watch as dramatic personae, come across as little more than silver salts and trivial flashes of light.

In the plainest of terms, there is perpetual feeling of stepping into and out of Funke’s imagination, of immersion followed by a swift and jarring conscientiousness. The result is that it’s quite difficult to empathize with their problems when you feel as though the author doesn’t care enough about them to make them as heartfelt as possible.

I wonder if being able to write your own stories, then read those characters out of it or read yourself into it, might not make you something akin to a god or to God himself. Create a world, populate it, sit back and watch, put in an occasional cameo — it almost sounds, well, biblical. And to tease that thread along, what if God is just a Reader with that little extra something.

What does that make us? And what happens when God’s story comes to end and he closes the book? I’ve heard tell of a sequel, but I have to wonder…how many books does it take to tell that story.

Too Much to Lose

Throughout Gregory Maguire‘s Wicked Years series of books, there has been no mention of the mask worn by “the man behind the curtain.” That is, until now in A Lion Among Men. As Brrr’s past association with Dorothy and their communal trek to Oz is explored, we are at last made privy to the scene where the rat-dog Toto pulls back the curtain to reveal the “true identity” of the man to whom we were admonished to pay no attention.

That little man. The Great and Powerful Oz. A mere mortal. Not the green head floating among pillars of billowing smoke; not the shadow box of bones and light; nothing more than just a man. A disappointment, really. A let down. A fraud. A faker. A charlatan.

A human.

The Wizard positioned himself as a leader of the people. They looked to him for guidance, to provide that point of focus within and around which the framework of society could be constructed. He was power incarnate, a transcendent figure in whom you must place your trust. A Being whose love was both tender and fearsome; an Entity whose wrath be both mighty and terrible. You know where I’m going with this.

When the world needs to be led, a leader will arise among them. He will deliver them from unto themselves. The Wizard filled that role. He perpetrated his charade upon the masses and promulgated his necessary ascension to power among the Believers. The people need their heroes as they need their gods. Their faith requires that the man behind the mask, remain behind the mask. For if we could fully comprehend the mysteries shrouded within the Mystery itself, what good could it do us?

The truth shreds the mythos. The mask facilitates exaltation. Worship comes easy when you cannot be seen or understood — or known.

Though I am no pretender to any so-called title, I too stand behind a mask. It shields me from discovery and allows me to survive as actor in a play in which I’ve been unforgivably miscast. Or, I wear several masks to hide the freak that dares want what the others have. The masks change from day to day depending on my state of mind, the community around me, the responsibilities expected of me, and the marks that opportunity allows to stumble within my craven reach.

I am never one man and I will never be the man you see. I can’t.

There’s too much to lose.

I Want To Burn

I was pleased to read (hear) that Daniel had embraced the Christian faith. Not out of some sense of fellow-Christian camaraderie, but rather because I find it intriguing the juxtaposition between a disability such as autism and the embrace of a concept as intangible as faith. Indeed, Daniel addresses exactly that point when he states (very sloppy paraphrasing to follow) that mysteries such as the Holy Trinity or the resurrection, though quite difficult for “normal” people to reconcile with what we refer to as common sense, he (Daniel) finds it possible to embrace.

So if Daniel can do it, why can’t I?

It startles me to think that a man who sees numbers as colors and shapes, and who is able to manipulate those concepts into concrete mathematical gymnastics, would want anything to do with the concept of a higher power, let alone be able to wrap his mind around it. I can’t do it; I won’t do it. Yet here is this man so savantishly (forgive the construction) spectacular with out-of-this-world intelligence, who wants to believe in God. Why?

Why do people feel a need to believe in a god? What is the benefit?

I used to believe that it was because God (religion?) provided a framework within which believers could make “sense” of the confusion of the world around them. It provided a method and reason for the acceptance of the pain and wrongness of a life over which we had very little control. God works in mysterious ways, or All things work together for the Greater Good, or It must be in God’s Plan, these colloquialisms and a million others are nothing more than pious platitudes, verbal slaps on the back.

On the other hand, I get it. We all need help from time to time. When your child is lying alone in a cold, sterile operating room, their chest cracked open and a broken heart quivering in a pool of blood, who ya gonna call? My son prayed last night that God would let the Pistons beat the Cavaliers. Was his prayer less legitimate than any other? Was he wasting God’s time? Does God give a shit about the small stuff?

What is God for?

Does it take a mind like Daniel’s to find faith? Obviously not, as the world is full of believers. So I suppose it comes down to choice: you either choose to believe or you don’t. Those who choose the latter will tell you that all is well, that science is reason, and that the concept of God is just a holdover from our more modest, primitive origins.

While those in the former category will waste no time waving the Good Book in your face, spittle flying from the corners of their gaping mouths, as they condemn you to an eternity of Fire and Brimstone on behalf of their Lord and Savior. And as we butt-in-the-pews-Sunday-in-Sunday-out types will tell you, fear is a powerful motivator. Daniel lost his fear of integrating into groups of people by doing exactly that and facing his fears, moving outside his comfort zone.

So what’s the answer for a simple guy like me? Why is it that the more time I spend among the faithful flock, the more I want to burn?