Gone in Eight Seconds

I use Tumblr as, among other things, sort of a collection of things that inspire me. Stunning photography and artwork are certain to catch my eye and be saved to my favorites there. I remember one photograph in particular that was quite inspirational as I was working on character development for my novel. At least once or twice weekly, a really unique piece of art will catch my eye there and have a similar effect. 

There's an interesting sort of detachment that happens, though, when you're viewing artwork on a computer monitor...sort of an extra degree of separation than one would experience in the gallery or museum. Often, at least in larger museums, sitting areas will be strategically positioned for pausing to really experience a work of art, to let it soak in and to contemplate the piece. That really doesn't occur when seeing artwork in a blog feed. Something is lost in translation, if not in the visual presentation of the work, then in the experience. 

A few years ago, one of my dear friends gave a lecture on how the viewer engages art. I remember specifically his mentioning that the average viewer pauses for about eight seconds in front of a piece of art in a gallery or museum before moving on. I don't think that this is inaccurate, because I actually see very few people using those sitting areas that I mentioned when I visit a museum or gallery. I jokingly said something to my friend after his talk to the effect of, "So, what I hear you saying is to look for at least nine seconds before I move on?" Whenever I pause for a few seconds to view artwork that shows up in my Tumblr feed, and start to scroll again, I remember my friend's words, and try to take a breath to appreciate what I'm seeing instead of moving on to something else. 

There's something about speeding past a work of art...and I mean "art" in the general sense, not to speak of any medium in particular...that cheapens the experience, devalues the work, and even steals from the artist. The same is true in reading a book too quickly, without pausing to consider the chapter that you've just finished, or pausing to really experience the song that you've just heard. Moreover, we're robbing ourselves, as well, of the experience...perhaps inspirational, or moving, or even life-altering...that we might have had by simply engaging the work of art that we have the privilege of viewing. 

And it is a privilege, because many people in various parts of the world....including our own proverbial back yards...will never have such an opportunity, or have it very rarely. 

As passionate as I am about the possibilities brought to us by our technological innovations, I am ever aware that we stand to lose much if we let ourselves be carried away. Instant access to information can, I think, lead to a loss of appreciation for that information. What once was memorized is now simply accessed at any time, and there is much that is less tender, less loving, about accessing something instead of memorizing and truly getting to know that thing. 

So it is with speeding past art in our streams of data. When we do...and we all do...I don't think that we realize what we have. 

Which is a shame, because what we have...our wealth of creativity and common ground...is a truly beautiful thing. We just need to stop and appreciate it. 

A Review of "Iron Man 3"

I confess, I've been a bit out of the loop lately. I didn't realize how imminent Iron Man 3 was until after Christmas, and still it managed to take me by surprise on opening weekend, so much so that it took me nearly a week to make it to a theatre to become eagerly absorbed in the next film in the Avengers canon. Waiting a week to see a film based on the comic books of my childhood is...well, nearly unheard of for me, so much so that I grabbed the first show that I could when my schedule permitted, even though it was in (what I consider to be vastly over-rated) 3D.

I had, of course, heard rumors abounding of how this Iron Man film was taking a different directorial approach than the first two, and I tried to distance myself from those, because they're the sorts of rumors that make me nervous. And, let me say up front that the rumors proved true, but not in a bad way. This is a new tone for an Iron Man film, but its consistent with the evolution of Tony Stark's character that unfolds during it's two hours and fifteen minutes.

This film walks us through Tony's past, before he became the self-sacrificial hero that we witness him become in the Avengers. The story is connected with flashbacks to Tony's self-absorbed history, during which we discover that his arrogance is at least partly responsible for spawning the villains with which he is confronted today. This is a technique of comic book storytelling that has a thorough history, and I think that it's done well here. Favreau show his artistic depth as he explores a different way to tell Iron Man's story.

Stark has always been a fragile person behind his bravado. This was seen in the comics in his struggle with alcoholism. Iron Man 3 picks up with the emotional aftermath of the Avengers, with Stark experiencing what is likely post-traumatic stress symptoms that are crippling his health as well as his relationship with Pepper. He begins making rash decisions as his flashbacks and anxiety escalate, and he becomes absorbed in his technology during his sleepless nights. He forms, in fact, a relationship with his technology, even more symbiotic that we have previously seen. He tells Pepper early in the film, "I am Iron Man," and the undercurrent is explicit to the audience that his self-perception of his identity is completely enwrapped in his armor.

Robert Downey, Jr. delivers another outstanding performance as he portrays an insecure and nearly broken Stark who can't move past his near-death experience shown in the Avengers. His insecurity, however, escalates into foolish bravado in the face of an attack on those close to him by a terrorist known as the Mandarin, and impulsively challenges the villain on the airwaves in a manner that places everyone near him in mortal danger. The writing of the screenplay shines, though, as Stark comes full circle to a repentant stance as he apologizes to Pepper for placing her in danger, and promises that he will never do so again.

The bulk of the film involves the Iron Man without his armor, a broken Tony Stark struggling to not only win confrontations with powerful villains but also to come to terms with himself as he finds himself stripped of the identity behind which he has hidden. The process of his working through this crisis in fascinating, and there's almost a theology of a broken man relying on his creations to make him whole, only to find his creations also imperfect in his image, at play here. Ultimately, Stark chooses to accept his imperfections and confront them with his own humanity instead of attempting to mask them with seemingly perfect technology, and becomes more whole for it...complete with new relationships as evidence of his change. This, I think, is a new component of the nature of a hero.

Now, back to the 3D. This film is actually worth it, as the effects are not overbearing or distracting, as many 3D films are. The action sequences are all well-paced and well-choreographed, but I'm a bit disconcerted with Stark's raw motivation for revenge in this film, and his willingness to use his weaponry so quickly in lethal force (he even instructs J.A.R.V.I.S. at one point to "terminate with extreme prejudice"). The level at which this occurs seems contrary to how we've seen Stark's character develop in recent films.

Rhodes returns, not as the War Machine, but as the Iron Patriot, an extension of Captain America's symbolism for the country and one of many (and the most subtle) references to the Avengers scattered throughout the film. The continuity here is excellent, but long-time comic readers will find it a bit odd to see Rhodes in the armor at its inception. The Extremis virus is a central plot point in Iron Man 3 (you might want to familiarize yourself with the Iron Man: Extremis animated mini-series before seeing this film...it's available on Netflix), but what transpires with it seems a bit too wild in the very end...I'll say no more to avoid spoilers.

The major disappointment of the film is the Mandarin. While visually stunning, this arch-villain of the Iron Man comics is transformed into a character that is quite impotent here, and to say that liberties were taken is to call major body work a paint job. I am left frustrated with Marvel's failure to make such a rich villain into a critical character. It was as though two villains are too many to introduce in one film...which makes me think that the writers shouldn't have tried.

While this is a good film in general, it left me feeling empty and disconnected, especially after the compellingly complex storyline of Iron Man 2, and the amazing experience that was last summer's Avengers. While Stark's character evolves in striking ways here, the overall plot of the story I found wanting...an odd juxtaposition of a thorough through-line with conflict that fell flat.

Still, I'll call it necessary viewing for super hero or comic book fans. And, as if you haven't gotten used to this by now, yes there's a hidden ending after the credits. A humorous, but odd,  hidden ending that will leave you with little to go on regarding upcoming Marvel events. Which, while perhaps disappointing in its own right, is in step with the rest of the film: a character-driven interlude that left me snatching in the air for something more, only to leave with a tasty appetizer instead of a delicious feast.

Cookies and Milk

The scheduling of being a full-time student has been tighter than I had ever expected now that I have added "father" to my list of roles played each day. Squeezing in work, school, family, and occasional sleep requires approximately five more hours than the 24 I have to work with.

I also have difficulty focusing at times as I stop to be astounded by the human becoming that is our beautiful little girl, running and talking (with a vocabulary that far exceeds her age, mind you) and telling Daddy and Mommy alike that she loves us. Just this afternoon as I arrived home from class she came running across our driveway to meet me, all grins and excitement at my homecoming. With commutes and various other complications factored in, though, most weeknights end with my having just enough time to have dinner with my wife and daughter and maybe an hour of playtime before putting that little angel to bed.

Something that I said before we even had our daughter...a responsibility that weighs heavily on my thoughts...is that it is non-negotiable for me, absolutely critical,  that our daughter grow up feeling safe talking to me about anything, knowing that she can tell me anything, that I will never judge her, and that I will always be on her side. The depth of relationship I long to have with her by nature conflicts with my responsibility to provide a stable environment for her, because the latter involves a moderately successful career (and, thus, the school to make said career possible), which pulls me away from home.

How to reconcile these two important roles?

Sundays are the day that always give me time, and so I knew that would be part of the answer. And, one day, I was dreaming back to fond memories of our life in Virginia from only several months ago, and I remembered, one night when Karen was teaching her night class, taking our daughter with me to a nearby restaurant so that I could get a cheeseburger. She was, of course, far too young for anything but a bottle at the time, but we had great fun (and she managed to grab the attention of every waitress in the place...did I mention that she inherited her mother's beauty?).

Then, I experienced a collision of ideas that results in inspiration. I needed to repeat such an excursion on a regular basis, and Sundays seemed to be free. And, since it only seems logical that I pass down my love of cookies to her (Karen affectionately refers to me as "cookie monster"), the obvious (and affordable) solution seemed to be cookies and milk.

Because, every child should love cookies and milk!

So, every Sunday afternoon for the past three months, I have announced to our daughter that we're going for "cookies and milk!" She has began to jump for joy and repeat, in her adorably mis-pronounced way, "tooties and milt!" And, off we go to a coffee shop or some similar arrangement, where we split a cookie and have Daddy-daughter time.

Every Sunday.

Okay, there was an exception one weekend caused by an unexpected night of projectile vomiting, but that one notwithstanding....every Sunday.

My point with this isn't just a routine or a ritual, though. When Karen and I were expecting, I had coffee with one of my spiritual leaders. He recalled his fear upon discovering that he and his wife were expecting their first, and he said that raising your child is a chance to correct many of the things that you've done wrong, to help your child not make those same mistakes. I've hurt those that I love by not being fully present because of the distractions of multiple responsibilities. I'm not proud of that. I want our daughter to know right up front that, whatever else is going on, Daddy will always carve out dedicated time for her. I also hope that, for the rest of her life until (and even after) she is an adult and makes her own way in this world from which I often desire so intensely to protect her, that, whatever is happening in her life, whatever troubles keep her awake or concerns that she carries, she will always be able have cookies and milk with Daddy and tell me anything. Anything. Because I want her to know that I will always listen, and that her Daddy always loves her and will make time for her.

I don't know if this will take off, if she will grow to dislike cookies or milk (perish the thought, but it's possible), or if it will survive the teenage years in which it will be less than cool to have a childhood snack with her father. Perhaps, even if it falls victim to such a fate, it will rebound later in life. The important thing, though, is not the snack itself, but the time. The more she talks, the more I will incline my ear to listen. And, one day, perhaps she will interrupt my work to tap me on the shoulder with a concerned look and say something to the effect of, "Daddy? I need to talk. Cookies and milk?"

At which point, life will stop and my attention will belong solely to her for whatever she needs. And, should she ever read this blog and perhaps this entry later in her life, then know, dearest, that you have my attention whenever you need it.

Because I never knew that I could love anyone this much, and this routine seems the most practical way to implement my desire for her to know that very thing.

A Review of Shazam! Chapter Eleven

The word "family" can mean something a bit different to each of us depending on our childhoods. It's always held a positive meaning for me, because I am blessed enough to have a strong and cohesive family unit, even larger now that Karen and I are married. That said, it still gets messy sometimes, because we're all...remember this word...mortals. Still, family can be a great source of strength to conquer the obstacles, challenges, and even the evils that we face at moments in our lives.

Family has been a sort of through-line to DC Comics' New 52 re-boot of Captain Marvel, now going under the name Shazam, which has been appearing as an additional story line in the back of Justice League. I've written before how DC is winning me over with their story, and how they're capturing the struggle with the nature of a hero that any human would face, and certainly a child...a struggle that is perfectly portrayed in the character of Shazam.

Chapter eleven of the story (and I'm a bit late in reviewing this, as it's almost two weeks old now), picks up with young Billy Batson running underground in his attempt to find the wizard, where he intends to plead for the removal of his powers. Billy is convinced that he is no hero and that his powers were granted to him by mistake, and is terrified of transforming himself back into Shazam, because then the evil Black Adam will turn his terror of the city above on his intended target...young Billy.

There is wonderful moment when some of his young brothers and sisters from his adopted family...friends who are standing by him even though he was quite mean to them initially...doubt Billy's mental well being when he commands an abandoned subway to take them to the wizard. That is, all save one of the youngest members of the family, who believes in magic. Then, when Billy encounters the enchanted Francesca, the mystical face in the mirror, on an iPad screen, a voice that none of his young companions can hear, another member of the group insists that everyone believe that "Billy can see and hear things we don't."

"Magic things!" replies the youngest, and wonders aloud why they can't see and hear these things, as well. Francesca asks Billy to communicate to his young sister that this is because she has not established a connection to magic, a cryptic statement at first. This, though becomes quite important...and emphasises the theme of family...when Mary, the oldest sister, hears Francesca speak a single word: "Family." Has a connection to magic through the bond of family began for Mary (long-time comic book readers know where this is going, I think)?

Francesca's encouragement to Billy is inspiring, though it falls initially on ears finding it suspect. It is in overcoming the fears and challenges that we face, she insists, that we become "more than mortals." There's an odd bit of philosophical dualism injected into the story here, as Francesca explains to Billy that, his bond to the magic lightning that has made him Shazam being irreversible, he and Black Adam, the only other champion now bound with the lightning, are "forever connected."  Writer Geoff Johns fleshes this out a bit later though, as Francesca begins to explain...

(Permit me to pause and give you fair warning that everything that follows will contain massive spoilers, in case you want to read this issue and haven't already)

...Black Adam's origin, one of tragic isolation and loss of childhood innocence paralleling, and indeed exceeding, Billy's own. Artist Gary Frank does a masterful job of revealing Billy's shock and horror at this connection, as he realizes how alike he and his evil rival terrorizing the streets above them are.

This realization changes Billy in a moment, as he embraces the fact that he suddenly views Black Adam as someone who can be saved, and himself as the person who can reason with Black Adam. In this pivotal moment for his character, Billy rushes out of the subway to confront Black Adam, not with the power of Shazam, but with the appeal of one orphan to another...the appeal for Black Adam to choose good as Billy has.

The ending...well, I won't spoil everything here, but this issue is a great portrayal of the nature of a hero as Billy chooses to overcome his fear and place himself at risk in order to not even necessarily defeat, but to save his adversary. Billy chooses the ultimate good, the good that will make Shazam a centerpiece of the DC universe, and a good to which all of us reading can aspire. In Francesca's words, this is the good that makes us "more than mortal." Again, this is why superhero mythology carries such huge philosophical and theological ...even spiritual...importance.

I can't wait for next month's issue...more to come!

Slowly Adapting

I remember this local store in my hometown that my parents used to visit nearly every week in some capacity or other. I couldn't tell you what the store sold specifically. In my memory, perceptually distorted now (way) more than twenty years later, the shop seemed like perhaps an antique store, or a place similarly cluttered. I was never interested in what they sold in the front. When we visited, I went to the back, where there were four walls that were bookshelves, floor to ceiling, of used books. There was a hush that fell when you walked into the back of that store, as though the words, thoughts and ideas contained within those thousands of pages absorbed the stress of the outside world. I loved going there. My love of bookstores began at an early age, and have stayed with me since.

Today, I still love visiting used bookstores. I have other motivators now, as well...namely, that I would much prefer to give my business to a local establishment. This is the same reason that I make every effort to buy my comic books from local shops, as well, even though I find reading them digitally to be quite addictive.

This weekend, I watched our daughter run and squeal excitedly through the children's section of our local library. I am thrilled that she is thrilled around books. She brings them to us, asks to sit on Daddy's lap and have a book read to her. I want her to fall more and more in love with books every day.

The reason that I'm excited by new media is that it makes possible the discovery of great art, important ideas and critical information to those who quite possibly would not have had this access in the beginning. Yet, this leaves me torn at times. I was exploring our same library's ebook offerings this weekend, and found them sorely disappointing. When I decide to buy a new book, the first place I go is to my Nook. I would rather download and click than turn pages. I think that it is wonderful to have access to great books in this way. And, all the while, I'm cognizant that we may be losing something important in the transition. In the interest of balance, I try to do things like visit used book stores regularly.

Still, this passing concern re-surfaced over the weekend when I read this article about the controversy over the first sale doctrine. This court case is fascinating as it depicts how our legal system struggles to keep pace with technological innovations. We're potentially at risk of legal action with the most innocent and natural usages of our technology, it would seem, and even those who prefer to purchase our media legally aren't safe.

Of course, this brings us around to the issue of big businesses controlling artistic expression in the name of profit, as well, but that is a topic for at least one of its own posts.

One of two things needs to happen: either our legal system needs to keep pace, or our innovation must slow. I don't want innovation to slow, for exactly the benefits that I mentioned earlier. And, I don't think that it will. I know that I want our daughter to enjoy the same freedom of passing books and music that she loves between friends and family as I did in my childhood. I want that to be even easier for her than it was for me, and I don't want legal tripwires to prevent that from being a part of her life, or to limit it in her life.

I think that it might, though, if we don't learn to speed this process up a bit.

Photo Attribution: JvL under Creative Commons

Again. And Again.

My first year living in New England, and Boston is the subject of senseless violence in what is now being referred to with the "t"-word. If I am to apply the seriousness by which my friends in other parts of the country take these events...that is, by which events cause phone calls and text messages to arrive inquiring as to whether or not I am okay...as a litmus test for their level of tragedy, then I suppose I haven't experienced anything quite of this magnitude since that day on a past September that we all wish had never occurred. Still, those of us in the U.S. now have another day on which we will be able to identify where we were and what we were doing when we heard the news.

The 9/11 attacks were particularly dramatic for me as I was traveling by air when they occurred. When the tragedy of Virginia Tech was wrought, I lived only about an hour away. On Monday, I was in class just outside of Boston. My first instinct was to feel what those who orchestrate these events want us to feel: fear. Or, at least uncertainty. I've never panicked during these events, but one certainly feels anxious at times.

Now, another moment has occurred in which I want to scream as loudly as I can, "For God's sake, for the sake of all that is holy, we have to stop killing each other!" Yet, man never seems happy unless we're doing just that. Often in the name of an ideology, or under the flag of patriotism, or occasionally even in the name of God (which doesn't make Him happy at all, I suspect), we continue to do exactly that. We ambush, we invade, we attack, we let the wrath of our righteous anger fall.

I'm not sure our anger is righteous, but when we hear that the fatalities of this latest attack include a child, our anger is at least justifiable. And, so, angry we are.

And stern if veiled threats are made from a leader's podium.

And, days or weeks or months from now, actions of retribution will be taken in the name of justice, and more bodies will likely be added to the count. Who knows? Perhaps we'll find yet another reason to wage war against someone else.

The cycle will continue, because it's easier to respond to violence with violence than to take the higher ground. Partly, I think, because the higher ground is obscured in these moments. As I said, our anger is justifiable. It is difficult to see higher ground through such a fog.

Still, that doesn't stop the cycle.

I'm not naive enough to think that it will stop, though, at least not completely. Sociologically, I see it continuing. Theologically, I see it continuing. Realistically, I know that it will continue. That grim resignation, though, does nothing to lift the weariness that I feel in my soul when I know that more souls have been ripped from our company without cause or reason. I'm so, so exhausted with the weight of the knowledge that human life continues to be taken by other humans.

Karen said to me last night in a succinct moment of realism, "It will only get worse."

"I know." I responded. "But that doesn't make it any easier to take."

Backward and Forward

I was a sophomore in high school when America entered yet another war, and I remember sitting in the back of my parents' car on the way to a church service and hearing on the radio that what had become known as Operation Desert Storm was in full swing. We went home that evening, and I turned on the television to see coverage of what was transpiring on the other side of the world. I had never been cognizant of my country being at war before, and I felt all of the anxieties and emotions that went with it. I didn't know where to turn as news channels were concerned, and I remember settling on CNN, simply because that was the one that I could think of and find first.

The network sort of stuck with me. I remember how the programming changed through the years, as I watched it nearly every morning, especially after I finished college. I don't watch much live news programming any more, as cable is a relic of a bygone age in our household. Still, CNN remains a primary source from which I get the headlines, usually via phone or tablet somewhere between breakfast and the end of the morning commute. Taking the time to watch a program in the morning really isn't so much a luxury that I have any more. 

It's interesting to reflect on how my news watching has changed over the years. I transitioned from cable, to podcasts, to streaming live coverage, to reading it within a mobile application. The progression has seemed so natural that I really haven't even thought about it. 

Until the most recent update to CNN's iPad app, though, which now launches with the sound byte of James Earl Jones proclaiming, "This...is CNN", apparently a network-wide return to its roots. Hearing it took me back to random evenings in high school sitting in front of the television. There was a segue from this into a general memory of spending weekday evenings watching television with my parents, and the feeling of safety and family that such a memory invokes. 

Now, I'm more than aware of the studies linking regular television viewing to degradation in family communication...we haven't let our daughter watch television until nearly the age of two. The memories of doing so with my parents, though, remain a wonderful recollection for me today. 

I wonder if our daughter will experience anything similar, as watching broadcast programming is such an increasing rarity. I don't think that there's anything missing in that experience, per se, but I am curious as to what events that Karen and I consider commonplace will evolve and form wonderful memories for our daughter...and maybe that she'll even nostalgically blog about later in life at some point. That will be beautiful news to me.