Batman Matters

Wow, I had a mother of a dream last night. And at a time when I’ve been searching for my calling.

Transmit Light

What doesn’t transmit light creates its own darkness.

Marcus Aurelius

Reasons to Breathe

The hatch opens and a beam of scorching, orange light slams me in the visor. I gasp, stagger backwards into the airlock, managing to find the touch-pad to close the hatch. Slumped against the rear wall, I double over, hands fumble about my helmet. A thick, black wave is surging upwards from my gut, reaching for my heart and brain.

Three years of training kicks in. Inhale, one, two, three, four, five. Exhale, one, two, three, four, five. Again. Good. My suit pumps plasma into my blood stream to regulate my heart rate. If my nervous system doesn’t stabilise in 12.9 seconds, my suit is programmed to inject me with phenobarbital which will induce a coma. Brother One doesn’t need their astronauts panicking and jeopardising expensive equipment. So I breathe again, this time deeper, much deeper.

---

Story starter idea

Undone

Undone to me
free to choose
another name
another place
to sit
and listen
si-
lent-
ly-
so mercifully
kind.

Undone to me
free to choose
each step
each soothing
word
and small
em-
br-
ace-
so mercifully
kind.

Undone to me.

---

Tower of Strength

The tower has learnt strength through solitude.

All night it stands alone. Its white stone blocks to the wind and cold. Dozing, remembering comets and stars that were kings and queens.

If a bird settles on its spire, the tower wakes for a moment. Faint scratch of claws. Yawn. Returns to snoozing.

Soon the new morning creeps upon the hilltop. Eager tourists scramble up the castle walls. Without missing a beat, the tower knows its seclusion is at an end. Hundreds of feet stamp through its interior. Elbows rub against its window ledges, girlfriends giggle, children beg for sweets and bread, tour guides blah blah blah.

Silence would be ideal, but the tower remains stoic. Men built me. Men and women do as they wish. And yes, there is the satisfaction of posturing for painters and film directors when the air is bright. Even towers have an ego.

Anyway, this all will finish. When it’s late and Mother’s chilly fingers push the crowds into retreat down to the city. The tower has studied this a hundred thousand times. Long summer days also eventually vanish and swiftly the midnight returns.

Breathing the black space around it, the tower chuckles and embraces the absence of sound, the perpetual bliss of silent communion with the universe. It has gained strength through solitude by weathering many raging waves.

Now for dreams.

---

We See Plants

When it's dark we go to see the plants
no one else knows they're there
in the window of the entrance way
bright Mexican display of
flowering hearts 
that laugh and love
love and laugh
I've dreamed of showing you
since the night we danced.


---

Green Tea In A Green Forest

Alan laughed through his cigar and released the bow string. The arrow shot up into the clouds and vanished.

French Toasted

Cool art by Michael Keum that makes my eyeballs vibrate. 3D glasses not required.

A Separate Event

She sits in a yellow chair. A crow in the cedar tree. A snail without its shell, twisting in sticky circles on the stone path. Pinewood fragrance – wet, warm, comforting.

Love For Imperfect Things

Haemin Sunim found me while I was living in Porto in northern Portugal last year. Things weren’t going terribly, but I wasn’t happy. Looking back, I see how extremely lonely I’d become.