“Can you imagine what I would do if I could do all I can?”
(Sun Tzu, Ancient Chinese philosopher)
(Sun Tzu, Ancient Chinese philosopher)
There are no real super-heroes. Although we like to think there are, they are primarily confined to the pages of comic books, Saturday morning cartoons and blockbuster films like The Avengers. True heroes have no real special powers to battle the injustices of this life. Policemen, firemen and the like are mere mortals, restricted by their humanity, but heroes nonetheless. As children, we imagine the tales to which we are exposed are somehow real in their representation, but they are not. Like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, super men are high myth and legend, created to inspire the imagination and reveal lessons that otherwise might have to wait until we discover them academically or exponentially as full grown adults.
Every super-powered character is an archetype, designed to enliven our sense of justice and teach us the hard lessons that may not occur naturally through experience. In antiquity, there was no shortage of these larger than life figures. In Homer’s the Iliad and the Odyssey, Odysseus (also known as Ulysses) is renowned for his “brilliance, guile and versatility” and is hence known as “the Cunning.” In Roman and Greek literature, Hercules (Heracles) was a demigod, the son of Zeus and a mortal woman (Alcmene). In classical mythology, “Hercules is famous for his strength and for his numerous far-ranging adventures.” The Scandinavian epic poem Beowulf introduces us to the title character, who manifests much bravery and the skill of a great warrior in defeating the monster known as Grendel and her mother.
In Biblical literature, there is no shortage of mighty men with wondrous powers. Noah seems ageless, living to almost 1000 years. Samson’s hair gave him incredible strength and Daniel was able to survive a raging den of lions. Moses welded magic that could control the elements and even summon death. In the New Testament, Jesus walked on water and calmed the storm while his Apostles could speak in any language while trying to convert Pagans to their new religion. It would appear that in the past there was no lack of super beings. It is a curious thing that we have been left almost empty handed in our modern age. A few self-professed healers and psychics are the only lifeline we have to those with special abilities. It is no wonder that the adventures of fictional characters like Spiderman and Superman draw us in and reinforce the primal lessons that we find in more scholastic works.
Every super-powered character is an archetype, designed to enliven our sense of justice and teach us the hard lessons that may not occur naturally through experience. In antiquity, there was no shortage of these larger than life figures. In Homer’s the Iliad and the Odyssey, Odysseus (also known as Ulysses) is renowned for his “brilliance, guile and versatility” and is hence known as “the Cunning.” In Roman and Greek literature, Hercules (Heracles) was a demigod, the son of Zeus and a mortal woman (Alcmene). In classical mythology, “Hercules is famous for his strength and for his numerous far-ranging adventures.” The Scandinavian epic poem Beowulf introduces us to the title character, who manifests much bravery and the skill of a great warrior in defeating the monster known as Grendel and her mother.
In Biblical literature, there is no shortage of mighty men with wondrous powers. Noah seems ageless, living to almost 1000 years. Samson’s hair gave him incredible strength and Daniel was able to survive a raging den of lions. Moses welded magic that could control the elements and even summon death. In the New Testament, Jesus walked on water and calmed the storm while his Apostles could speak in any language while trying to convert Pagans to their new religion. It would appear that in the past there was no lack of super beings. It is a curious thing that we have been left almost empty handed in our modern age. A few self-professed healers and psychics are the only lifeline we have to those with special abilities. It is no wonder that the adventures of fictional characters like Spiderman and Superman draw us in and reinforce the primal lessons that we find in more scholastic works.
“Some parents say it is toy guns that make boys warlike. But give a boy a rubber duck and he will seize its neck like the butt of a pistol and shout "Bang!"
(George F. Will, American journalist/author))
(George F. Will, American journalist/author))
The black bodysuit my Mom made for me fit until I was almost 12 years old. It hung loose and carefree on my form and it covered me completely. Originally, it had been crafted as a bat costume, with cardboard wings and a hood. I can remember vividly running down Roywood Drive , in Toronto
Of all the things I wish I still had from my past, that black exoskeleton is one of the heirlooms most desired. It held my innocence, the hero I once believed I was, all tucked away in its pockets and stored with the way I used to be. I was activated by the donning, swept into a different world and a different way where good and evil still had clear lines and God was more of an ally and not so much a foe. Unfortunately, it was lost to time and the pubescent distraction growing up always seems to bring. I never felt more free, or more in tune with my true nature, as I did whenever I stole away and turned from boy to champion. It was such an easy process, one I wish I could still manifest.
It is a pity we abandon those things we later tend to hold so dear, at least in retrospect. Alas, my black costume, hood and all, has crumbled like missing moments from my recall of an infancy long gone into dust. It has fallen with all the castles and all the heroes and all the wonders my mind could once create. I can journey to then, but only in glimpses, as if putting together a puzzle of what really happened and what I once believed I could be. Nevertheless, it still holds a place for me. I close my eyes and I am transported, back to a kinder life and a safer place. In that fraction of space and time, so returns the Black Beetle.
Of all the things I wish I still had from my past, that black exoskeleton is one of the heirlooms most desired. It held my innocence, the hero I once believed I was, all tucked away in its pockets and stored with the way I used to be. I was activated by the donning, swept into a different world and a different way where good and evil still had clear lines and God was more of an ally and not so much a foe. Unfortunately, it was lost to time and the pubescent distraction growing up always seems to bring. I never felt more free, or more in tune with my true nature, as I did whenever I stole away and turned from boy to champion. It was such an easy process, one I wish I could still manifest.
It is a pity we abandon those things we later tend to hold so dear, at least in retrospect. Alas, my black costume, hood and all, has crumbled like missing moments from my recall of an infancy long gone into dust. It has fallen with all the castles and all the heroes and all the wonders my mind could once create. I can journey to then, but only in glimpses, as if putting together a puzzle of what really happened and what I once believed I could be. Nevertheless, it still holds a place for me. I close my eyes and I am transported, back to a kinder life and a safer place. In that fraction of space and time, so returns the Black Beetle.
“I reject your reality and substitute it for my own.”
(Adam Savage, American Industrial/Special Effects designer)
(Adam Savage, American Industrial/Special Effects designer)
We moved from Toronto Ontario to Strathroy Ontario Catholic School
The home we maintained onArthur Street , which piggybacked onto the schoolyard, was huge and had a spacious front and back yard. In the far rear of the grounds was an old wooden shed which must have been used at one time to store a tractor and other maintenance equipment. It is within the decrepitated remains of that building that we found our cats Muffy and Misty, newly born and feeding on their mother Molly. A squirrel we called Charlie lived somewhere in the rotting mess, returned to the branches above having been healed from a wound thanks to my Mother. For a disheveled and broken down frame, it served its purpose well. At least it served its purpose well for me. It was the perfect hideout for my intentions to free the neighbourhood of what I called the “Children of Doom”. Since we were located so close to the Catholic school, our precinct was heavy with Portuguese families, each one hatching hairy child after child, demonized one and all by their attention to ugly homes and the prominent use of squirrel as a food source. I was 12 years old and I did not recognize such things as prejudice and stereotypes. I was on the verge of an innocence lost but I had yet to wander very far into that territory. I was merely creating fabricated villains that I could vanquish from the world I was about to create.
My black hood covered all of my head but the face. I took aluminum foil and covered a goalie mask with it, magically rendering it a harbinger of swift justice. My bodysuit fit me well and my leather winter boots acted as insulation from the fires of hell I had decided to battle. I wore black bicycle gloves and carried a hockey stick wrapped in black utility tape. I spray painted my 10-speed army green. Suddenly, I was ready to launch my heroic assault on the minions of Arthur Street. I was prepared and I was ready, but first it was time for dinner.
I road quietly down the back lane off our street and intently zoomed around the corner. I was full force, a mix of black and silver and army green, streaking like those daring men you see on TV. There before me stood several young children, dazed and confused by the entity before them. I rode rapidly past them all, laughing out loud and swinging my long black weapon, like a cowboy wrangling a steer at the rodeo. I stopped with precision and cast my staff’s tip upon the ground. They stood for a moment, even more confused. I started on my steed once again, heading directly towards them this time. They scattered like chickens, ironically enough, and fled to the safety of their humble abodes. I silently headed back to my headquarters.
Throughout that summer, I championed the cause of my imagination. I rode through the neighbourhood almost daily, all vacation long. The kids of the area took way too much time to catch on. I would chase them about like pigeons, wanting to play hardball but sympathetic to the species. Occasionally, I would do battle with some bully, hopping off my mighty transport and fisticuffing until defeat was achieved, or until my Mom called me home for Star Trek reruns.
When my identity was questioned, I would dress my sister in full garb, having her prance about some backyard as a demonstration I was not the man in question. What fun we both had. As far as I know, outside my family, no one ever really learned the alter ego of that masked vigilante. I was sure he was a sight they would never forget. It was a rush to transform into someone I clearly was not. I took to the part like one of the neighbourhood kids would take to Jesus. The thrill of it all still has to be equaled. No rollercoaster, no love affair, has ever matched the excitement and adventure I discovered simply by placing myself into that old bat costume and becoming the Black Beetle.
The home we maintained on
My black hood covered all of my head but the face. I took aluminum foil and covered a goalie mask with it, magically rendering it a harbinger of swift justice. My bodysuit fit me well and my leather winter boots acted as insulation from the fires of hell I had decided to battle. I wore black bicycle gloves and carried a hockey stick wrapped in black utility tape. I spray painted my 10-speed army green. Suddenly, I was ready to launch my heroic assault on the minions of Arthur Street. I was prepared and I was ready, but first it was time for dinner.
I road quietly down the back lane off our street and intently zoomed around the corner. I was full force, a mix of black and silver and army green, streaking like those daring men you see on TV. There before me stood several young children, dazed and confused by the entity before them. I rode rapidly past them all, laughing out loud and swinging my long black weapon, like a cowboy wrangling a steer at the rodeo. I stopped with precision and cast my staff’s tip upon the ground. They stood for a moment, even more confused. I started on my steed once again, heading directly towards them this time. They scattered like chickens, ironically enough, and fled to the safety of their humble abodes. I silently headed back to my headquarters.
Throughout that summer, I championed the cause of my imagination. I rode through the neighbourhood almost daily, all vacation long. The kids of the area took way too much time to catch on. I would chase them about like pigeons, wanting to play hardball but sympathetic to the species. Occasionally, I would do battle with some bully, hopping off my mighty transport and fisticuffing until defeat was achieved, or until my Mom called me home for Star Trek reruns.
When my identity was questioned, I would dress my sister in full garb, having her prance about some backyard as a demonstration I was not the man in question. What fun we both had. As far as I know, outside my family, no one ever really learned the alter ego of that masked vigilante. I was sure he was a sight they would never forget. It was a rush to transform into someone I clearly was not. I took to the part like one of the neighbourhood kids would take to Jesus. The thrill of it all still has to be equaled. No rollercoaster, no love affair, has ever matched the excitement and adventure I discovered simply by placing myself into that old bat costume and becoming the Black Beetle.
“Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere.”
(Albert Einstein, German-born Theoretical physicist)
(Albert Einstein, German-born Theoretical physicist)
As summer ended and school summoned both hero and villain alike, I knew that the reign of the mutant-insect-man would soon come to an end. I remember placing my wonderful black suit and hood, with my silver foiled mask and bicycle gloves, deep inside the recesses of an overburdened closet. For the life of me, I cannot recall what became of them. Perhaps, with time, they changed and like my imagination became quite hidden and mostly lost. Perhaps, on some dark night, another brave soul stole into my domain and was granted reprieve through the power I once yielded so succinctly. Eventually, even my headquarters fell away, gone forever.
When I look back on the life I have led, I overflow with laughter and wonder and a pleasing sense of achievement whenever I revisit those tales of the Black Beetle. They have become fragments of light from my somewhat dark and bitter past. My Mother and I used to sit in the kitchen and endlessly chuckle while we remembered the way things used to be and how easy it was for me to be both a superhero and a royal pain in the ass. Even to glimpse in my mind those poor children’s faces is enough to illuminate my day with glimmers of joy and happy reflection.
Like with most things in life, the past is but a mirror, reflecting the best and often the worst of a life so lived. I wish I could still close my eyes and create a place where I could stand so complete in my innocence. If only I would imagine being a greater soul and freeing those trapped by tyranny and oppression. I just can’t seem to manifest the freedom required when shifting into dreamscape or notion. I suppose that as children, we are not so weighted down by the ways of this world. For them, it seems easier and life tends to be viewed without judgment. People who are different, with different coloured skin, can be transformed into the villain without all the perplexing drama of political correctness and social conformity. Things are merely because they are.
I still long for simpler days and I have even wished I could host a return of the Black Beetle in some marathon of Saturday morning programming. I cannot. Time has stolen the one power the Black Beetle has which I do not, childhood imagination. I can still close my eyes and wish I could. I can still take myself to a place where I think I can, but there are no more superheroes set to save the world. There is seldom laughter for the things which used to be. Like with all great tales from the past, there is only longing and a sense that things were better when and where.
They tell you that you have to grow up and put all your childish ways behind you. We then become so lost in today that we forgot almost all of our yesterdays. Eventually, the child within disappears altogether. We are adults, we play adult games and dream adult dreams. Our imagination dies with the very part of us that once fed its course. We hunt in our memories for those simpler things, the kinder ways that stroked our sensibilities and revealed the incredible. They vanish as adulthood weaves complexity and delusion into our lives. Time is supposed to be our friend, but it strips us of the past and leaves only teardrops swimming in an ocean of all we have ever been.
We cannot go back even if we want to. The best we can do is recall those moments and in them find a better place where we can hide ourselves. Never again will the streets of my small town shudder at the fury of the Black Beetle, but in my memory he can ride again. It should be easy to just shut my eyes and journey back to that friendly place and that uncorrupted time. I might go back to the way things used to be, a mindscape. Unfortunately, there is something now missing, as my body ages and my mind fixates on the man I turned out to be. There is no more make believe and there are still no superheroes. I have looked but not one can be found.
When I look back on the life I have led, I overflow with laughter and wonder and a pleasing sense of achievement whenever I revisit those tales of the Black Beetle. They have become fragments of light from my somewhat dark and bitter past. My Mother and I used to sit in the kitchen and endlessly chuckle while we remembered the way things used to be and how easy it was for me to be both a superhero and a royal pain in the ass. Even to glimpse in my mind those poor children’s faces is enough to illuminate my day with glimmers of joy and happy reflection.
Like with most things in life, the past is but a mirror, reflecting the best and often the worst of a life so lived. I wish I could still close my eyes and create a place where I could stand so complete in my innocence. If only I would imagine being a greater soul and freeing those trapped by tyranny and oppression. I just can’t seem to manifest the freedom required when shifting into dreamscape or notion. I suppose that as children, we are not so weighted down by the ways of this world. For them, it seems easier and life tends to be viewed without judgment. People who are different, with different coloured skin, can be transformed into the villain without all the perplexing drama of political correctness and social conformity. Things are merely because they are.
I still long for simpler days and I have even wished I could host a return of the Black Beetle in some marathon of Saturday morning programming. I cannot. Time has stolen the one power the Black Beetle has which I do not, childhood imagination. I can still close my eyes and wish I could. I can still take myself to a place where I think I can, but there are no more superheroes set to save the world. There is seldom laughter for the things which used to be. Like with all great tales from the past, there is only longing and a sense that things were better when and where.
They tell you that you have to grow up and put all your childish ways behind you. We then become so lost in today that we forgot almost all of our yesterdays. Eventually, the child within disappears altogether. We are adults, we play adult games and dream adult dreams. Our imagination dies with the very part of us that once fed its course. We hunt in our memories for those simpler things, the kinder ways that stroked our sensibilities and revealed the incredible. They vanish as adulthood weaves complexity and delusion into our lives. Time is supposed to be our friend, but it strips us of the past and leaves only teardrops swimming in an ocean of all we have ever been.
We cannot go back even if we want to. The best we can do is recall those moments and in them find a better place where we can hide ourselves. Never again will the streets of my small town shudder at the fury of the Black Beetle, but in my memory he can ride again. It should be easy to just shut my eyes and journey back to that friendly place and that uncorrupted time. I might go back to the way things used to be, a mindscape. Unfortunately, there is something now missing, as my body ages and my mind fixates on the man I turned out to be. There is no more make believe and there are still no superheroes. I have looked but not one can be found.
“When childhood dies, its corpses are called adults and they enter society, one of the politer names of hell. That is why we dread children, even if we love them; they show us the state of our decay.” (Brian W. Aldiss, English author)
Sources
Tales of the Black Beetle
Tales of the Black Beetle
(Originally Posted Wednesday, November 17, 2010)
http://simplekel.blogspot.ca/2010/11/tales-of-black-beetle.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hercules
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beowulf
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