We Could Be Superheroes

My friend Steve has a theory that everyone has a low level super power. He proposes that everyone has an ability that is both innate and unique - some form of minor brilliance.


Steve's low level super power is parallel parking. He can do it so deftly and accurately that he is almost inclined to take a photo of his accomplishment upon completion. He is unable to walk away without a lingered moment of admiration, a tear, an appreciation of exquisite beauty.
He uses another friend, Tim, as an example. He reckons Tim's low level super power is the ability to roll a Yahtzee (five dice of the same number) on command. He has an innate ability to do so, and does so frequently.


At first I thought Steve's low level super power theory was a bit silly but the more I thought about it, the more it actually began to make sense. I thought about the vast array of untrained talents people possess. I thought about those of my friends and that of my own. Perhaps talents were just low level superpowers. Being a sucker for romanticized notions, I started to prefer viewing them in such way.


So began the conjured images of latex suits, flowing capes, and staunch silhouetted poses on tops of skyscrapers. I imagined pride in one's own self worth and identity without ambition for attention or limelight. For superheroes, joy in using their talents was enough. It was like a necessary worship for something greater. They did so for the betterment of humanity and that's all that really mattered.


I've got lots of friends with amazing superpowers; the power of encouragement, the power of motivation, depression-eliminating/life-affirming laughs, step-aside-MacGyver DIY skills, musical genius, artistic vision. Each person is unique and each has something different to add that others can't. We're all like X-men mutant freaks or untrained Harry Potter Wizards. We needed to go to some kind of school where our abilities could be fostered and subsequently set the world alight. 


I dig Steve's theory. We all have a low level super power. Embrace it. Use it. It is your destiny.


But with great power comes great responsibility. Remarkable giftings also became burdens. Clark Kent had no free time and everyday was destined for interruption. What if he decided not to fly anymore? What if he preferred to say, just toil away in his office and pay off a mortgage. What if Peter Parker preferred to.... I don't know.... host LAN parties? What if the Ninja Turtles couldn't be bothered fighting and got fat on pizza in the sewer?
I refuse to believe that people want to live an ordinary, predictable life. Does anyone get a kick out of it? Do people want to wear jeans and a t-shirt or elaborately designed, striking latex?
Maybe boredom is fate for people that shy away from using their talents and rising to challenges. We need to ask ourselves what stirs our souls? What makes our hearts beat faster? What do our bodies long after?
I would put money on Superman suffering from depression if he suppressed his ability to fly and see through walls. He would be able to put up with it for so long, but eventually the psychological guilt would consume him. Someone at work would complain about a mundane task he had performed one day such as photocopying (maybe the corner was slightly blurry) and he will get enraged. "You don't know what I'm capable of!" he will scream internally. "I can fly! I can run faster than a cheetah!" But the truth is, he will have not performed these tasks in so long that he will question his ability to perform them still. Such realization will cause him to die a little on the inside.


In the same light I ask; 


What would Peter Parker be if not Spiderman? 


Where would Mary Jane's affections lie?


The problem is I know so many talented people that aren't embracing and using their superpowers. They're toiling away in offices when they should be pioneering gastronomy, they're selling cell phones when they should be animating, walking grannies when they should be writing.
Sure, we know the reasons for the above: the struggle to earn a living, the realities of such a money orientated, commercially driven world.
But maybe that is part of the cost? Maybe financial difficulty is part of the superhero's burden. To be caught in a battle to pay rent and support a family whilst pursuing world redemptive awesomeness. Capitalism. The enemy is capitalism. Greed, our kryptonite.


If you think about it, life is pretty amazing. In each of us burns this undeniable desire for joy and pleasure. It just needs to be channelled righteously and purely. In unity. In love. In the name of freedom. People have forgotten how special they are. They don't realize how much potential they have. What we need to do is acknowledge it and celebrate it. Pursue the things that make you live. Pursue life and all things good. Everyone has a choice and there is no depravity: Seek light to illuminate the hero, or decay reclusively into the anti-hero.


Roll your Yahtzee.


Parallel park your car.


Live inspired or not live at all.

This blog was inspired by Sufjan Stevens, who possesses the superpower of life changing beauty and inspiration, especially when viewed live in concert. The 25 minute music clip Impossible Soul, attached below, is less of a song and more an opus of metaphysical search, prognosis, and resolve. The song itself contains five different movements. Find the time to listen to it properly and consider your own superpowers in the process.

music.sufjan.com

The Best Valentine's Day Blog EVER!

Okay, now that I have your attention, I bring you an original short story.  
I dedicate this one to the lovely but elusive Mari Van der Vyver, who has the most amazing chuckle in the history of the planet, and needs to contact me ASAP.

Juliet, and Romeo

The bed was coercing their bodies together. It was an old lady that had grown up in tough times, witnessing all kinds of pains and hardships, and now in its old age desired only one thing – to witness love. The sag in the bed and resultant roll-together was that bad.

Ron is awake and clings to the side of his bed tightly. He knows that he must not wake her for if he wakes her, she will sigh and it won’t be any ordinary sigh, but a sigh that speaks of pain. It will be long and drawn out. It will be a sentiment alluding to all of Ron’s short comings and inadequacies as a man. They will be rattled off in exhaustive details, both exemplary and metaphorically, covered from every angle and perspective. Simply put, it will proclaim her unhappiness in their relationship and her bewilderment for volitional persistence with the current situation.

Ron thinks back to happier times. He thinks back to the beginning. She had been so beautiful and radiant that night on the stage. She had a light about her, her voice like innocent and transcendent yearns for love, their source completely pure. That was when he first saw her. It had interrupted his admiration for the Oxford grass on which he sat. He had never seen or felt grass that was so soft! So lush! He wanted to roll all over it, to body slam it, but he withheld such urges amidst the sophisticated crowd. He would only talk about Eliot or Lewis, the weather, Darjeeling first cut teas. He had researched such topics earlier and kept repeating them in his head.

She has her back turned to him as she sleeps. She had begun to lie like this as of late. Ron, while still clutching the bed edge, carefully turns his body over to face hers, his movements slow and laboured to minimize vibratory ripples through the springs. He looks at her brown mousy hair, long and wildly splayed on her pillow. He traces down her neckline to her shoulders, her night shirt wide at the neckline and nearly falling off, then down around her chest, each breath a small expansion, a gentle rise and fall. Longing and desirous for connection, he starts to breathe in time with her. Their chests expand together and then passively deflate. They share the same proximity, oxygen, life, and then let it go. Ron takes satisfaction in this. He desires to be one with her, that they would breathe together to make one giant breath. He wants to spoon her so that they would become one giant body, because he is convinced that life is better when two are one. Everything is stronger. It is the way things should be. Instead he clings to his side of the bed awkwardly, the distance between them a gulf.

Ron had not given much thought to fate and alignment of stars, but when he saw her for the first time he had felt an energy and connection to the universe, it sparked an instantaneous belief in such things. It was ironic and rational therefore that she was playing the role of Juliet in the play, the epitome of romantic love, her bare feet dancing upon this most amazing grass like an Eden, the beginning, where loves intention first set ablaze without defect. He could feel his heart pounding as if metronomic for the world, its pace perfect, to the rhythm of Romeo’s courtly strumming. And at that very moment her eyes did meet his in the crowd, a conclusion to all the tension and energy, an explosion of both metaphysical prognosis and resolve. They both knew that they would chance upon the same pub later, phone numbers exchanged. Through telecommunication they would build a bridge, from that bridge a bed, and in that bed sweet, sweet love.

Ron looks across the bed and sighs. Things were so good in the beginning.

He remembers the days and weeks that ensued where they both floated on clouds, the hand holding and skipping through Oxford’s leafy streets, the laughs, the banter, the joyous drunken moments of youth, a world seen through new eyes. But then came the cracks, at first small, minor complaints; mismatching musical preferences, hygiene habits, views on each other’s parents. Then the perfect world split open, minor grudges becoming full scale arguments, heated exchanges screamed at close proximity, doors slammed, toilet seats left up, food chewed too loudly and with an open mouth. Every action became symbolic of protests, cunning and suggestive. Deliberate. They would plot against each other silently but in each other’s presence. Hubris fuelled psychological voodoo, Jedi mind tricking, the atmosphere ominous and potent, a chaotic imbalance of Yin and Yang. 

Distraught, Ron starts to think about the story of Romeo and Juliet, his arm fatiguing as he does so. He looks for reasons, answers to how his relationship could fall so far from grace. Then it dawns on him. Romeo and Juliet were only together for days! All they knew were the initial moments of attraction! The lofty passion! Their whole relationship centred and ended in the honeymoon phase! They didn’t know each other well enough to hate! Their visions were clouded by desire, faults overlooked by lust, discrepancies trumped by chemistry! 

Ron’s eyes are opened wide with his epiphany. He sees everything clearly. The story of Romeo and Juliet was wrong! The real tragedy would have been if they had remained together! They would have learnt to hate their only love! They would have fought and argued then run back to their respective families, the Capulet and Montague feud newly replenished and inspired. This was how the real story went! This is the real tragic love story! 

Again Ron looks over at her sleeping placidly - the gentle rise and fall of each breath. This was her in her most peaceful state, she was harmless but still – Ron’s arm turning numb from its persistent grip on the bed edge – making him suffer. With Ron’s free arm he glances at his watch. It was past ten in the morning. She was so lazy! And still, if he woke her up now he would have hell to endure, she would moan and hold a grudge all day. She would complain of her robbed sleep, use it as an excuse for lack of shared chores around the house and would tell Ron that he was not sensitive or aware of her needs. Ron thinks of all her persistent complaints and nags. He starts to question the last time she said anything positive. He watches the gentle rise and fall of each breath and begins to detest them all. He detests her sleep. He detests her constant complaints, her selfishness, her dreams! He looks at his arm that clings to the bedside and starts to feel stupid for doing so. He shakes his head both at himself, her, and the ridiculous bed in which they shared. He lets go spiralling, colliding into her in the middle. Ron decides come what may. Awake the beast! Love is pain! Love is suffering! Love is a collision and then picking up the pieces of an ugly mess only to tenderly try to put them back together again finding the pieces too intermixed. He will give his all to her and love her despite her quirks, her defects, her verbal knives and belittling blows. He is a romantic and will therefore bleed for the cause.

And so on and so forth...

Music for the People

I’ve spent the last three weeks on a road trip, a lot of that time in the car driving past fields, through rain forests, along coastlines whilst listening to my iPod, or silence, fail that, the radio.

It’s always awkward going on a long road trip with people, even if they are close friends, lovers, or family. There is always that argument on what should be listened to, or whether there should be any listening at all, attacks on music preferences taken personally, silent grudges kept until an eventual explosion, and then the radio goes on. A treaty of peace. The United Nations. Collective resignation.

And so I have mainly listened to the radio for the past three weeks, my musical library not stretching wide enough to come within conservational coercive distance from that of my travel partners’ or vice versa. We listen to Classic Hits, The Rock, Solid Gold, the odd section of Newstalk ZB, and I highlight the cultural significance of Radio Sport when cricket is on. We hear the same awful rotations of songs, sometimes singing, sometimes saying “I can’t believe this is music!” We bang our heads on respective aspects of the car interior, complain that the emcee talks too much, complain that there is too much advertising, then wish for more advertising or talking after the next smattering of ‘hit’ songs are played.

I look at my iPod and she at hers.

We consider reprisal of their connective duties to the speaker system. 

I consider listening to her music and she considers listening to mine.

We decide that radio stays on.

Songs are rotated so frequently that I start to know them on a personal level. I learn every unfortunate, cliche lyric. I start to imagine the inspiration behind the song. The chain of events that brings the song into being;

Someone writes a song. Song passed to Record Executive. Record executive makes phone call, sets off a jumbled chain of various phone calls. Neo Britney Spears picks up the phone terminating jumbled chain of calls. Told by manager that she has a new hit song including interlude by yet to be determined rapper. She hangs up, redirects attention back to mirror, insecurely questions the size of her breasts and need for surgery, looks at an adorned poster of Madonna in her glamour days and says a prayer.

I am convinced it goes something like that.

I start to question the inventiveness of the song writer, the substances smoked, the therapy sessions that ensued out of guilt, the soul-less Record Executive and marketing department, Simon Cowell, xxxx Idol winners, the dim-witted consumers and fans. I despair.

I mean, listen to the lyrics. From Pink’s song Funhouse;

This used to be a funhouse

But now it's full of evil clowns

It's time to start the countdown

I'm gonna burn it down down down

I'm gonna burn it down

9, 8, 7, 6 5 4, 3, 2, 1, fun

I had to ask myself: These aren’t the lyrics I’m hearing, are they?

But yes. Yes they are.

And then she goes on...

Oh, I'm crawling through the doggy door

My key don't fit my lock no more

I'll change the drapes

I'll break the plates

I'll find a new place

Burn this fucker down 

(sounding really bad ass with that last line before repeating;)

do do do do dodo do

do do do do dodo do

do do do do dodo do

do do do do dadadada

do do do do dodo do (9, 8, 7, 6 5 4, 3, 2, 1)

do do do do dodo do

do do do do dodo do

do do do do dodo doo

This, my dear readers is a radio hit.

Or this song by Bruno Mars;

I’d catch a grenade for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah)
Throw my hand on a blade for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah)
I’d jump in front of a train for ya (yeah, yeah , yeah)
You know I'd do anything for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah)
Oh, oh
I would go through all this pain,
Take a bullet straight through my brain,
Yes, I would die for ya baby

It sounds like the sort of song an Islamic fundamentalist would sing in worship but it’s not. It’s about a guy who is a bit sore after being jilted by a girl.

I can picture him pacing his lounge room floor distraught. He is thinking:

F*** that bitch! I loved her! I would have done anything for her! I would have f***ing jumped in front of a bus for her. I would have jumped out of a plane for her, taken bullets for her, caught a grenade for her....

He then pauses, no longer so distraught. He smiles surprised. Holy shit, he thinks. I’ve just written a song!

What irks me most is that the people responsible for all of this pollutive auditory stimulus are getting rich out of it. Every time one of Pink’s songs are played on the radio she is earning money. She’s got to be sitting at home laughing. All of the rappers must be doing it too. It’s a hard life turning up to a recording studio and saying: “Uh. Yeah. Uh. Yeah. Say what? Uh. Yeah” repeatedly into a microphone then rapping two or three lines like;

Yeah girl, you were always the one for me, got butterflies when you first noticed me, got you on my mind all of the time, you the inspiration for this rhyme, I was in a dark place and you was there to comfort me, in a tough spot you were my liberty, now that we got each other we like a lab mixing perfect chemistry, your love’s a drug, I feel it when we f-, come baby come, scream it from your lungs...

And then I’m hearing it on the radio a few months later and wanting to shoot myself.

But it is I who am listening to it. I who has been listening to it for the past three weeks as I have driven in my car.

Music on the radio is an ugly illustration of the human condition. What I hate on the radio is what I hate in humanity. Radio plays our anthems, most meaningless, intellectually shallow. We live for bastardized themes of love, and heartache. We procreate to it. We use it for escapism, comfort, and meaning. We are that pathetic, that lost, that ugly, that different, but that similar. It slowly shuffles itself through generations, these common themes and nuances, our common bond. 

That’s popular culture.

Towards the end of our trip I’m listening to my iPod plugged into the car stereo speakers and  she’s listening to hers through her headphones.