THE WORD (La Palabra: originally published in Dentro
de la Viñeta – the Spanish journal of comics)
#3 “THE CHAOS”
From time to time I have a dream. I am on a journey through the complex
landscape of my life. There is a place I
must be, an appointment I must keep, but circumstances conspire to detain and
distract me. My friends and family - who
I feel I must bring with me to my goal - wander off from the trail, engrossed
in their own agendas. Frustrated by
their wilfulness I try to muster them, herd them back on course. Don't they know how important this is! Now institutions and bureaucracies impede me…
the law is on our trail… vehicles break down, become mired in mud… the
escalator is going the wrong way… an old girlfriend is having inappropriate sex
in the airport lounge and customs have arrested my son. Time runs out. We have missed the boat… but no one
cares. Panic builds in my chest. I thrash and mutter, swimming upwards towards
the light of consciousness…
Awake, I lie in bed, relief flooding
through me. Disaster has been abandoned
to the dream. I have another chance to
assert control… make the world dance to my tune. A shower, a pot of coffee, an hour of radio
news and then it is time to crack the whip… turn on the computer… assemble my
unruly cast of characters, line them up and sternly inform them of the route I
have planned to the next waypoint of the plot.
They seem to listen to me, nod their
assent and smile, willing, co-operative colleagues in the adventure of our
story. We step out, filled with
confidence and energy… the country spreads, inspiring. We march in expectation. The secret valley is across the next river of
mystery: the next hopeful hill hides the lost civilisation that will dazzle us
with knowledge and riches… reveal the meaning we crave. This time we're going to get there.
Two hours later I am a demented
sheep-dog snapping at the scattering heels of my cast. They tricked me, waited until we were deep in
the wilderness of confused ideas and then rebelled against my authority… tore
up my map and tossed it -- like so many fluttering butterflies -- to the
wind. Now they mock me, speaking an
unintelligible language instead of the lines I carefully honed for them…
discovering weird, dangerous motives and acting impetuously on them without
consultation or permission… taking over my story and recklessly mutating it…
trying to humiliate me, make me look stupid and inadequate... a naive
student-teacher at the mercy of the hip savagery of his class.
I want to abandon them… screw them up
and toss them aside… snacks for wild beasts… food for the bottomless swamps and
flesh-eating plants that beset this territory.
But I need them. If I give in to
fatigue or panic I will starve… see my family sold into slavery or prostitution
to pay my debts, my self-respect withered by their silent, piteous accusation…
So I get serious… hack out words from
the solid rock and, painfully, brick by agonising brick, construct an
architecture to grab the attention of my anarchic characters… seize their
curiosity, seduce and lure them inside it.
It takes forever, but one by one they enter to wander the halls of my
edifice. When I have them all, I lock
the doors.
Now I can observe and record their
suffering, spy on their personal dramas and private moments, play with them at
will, weave my story fresh from their misery. Too bad. They had their chance. They could have been my friends, but now the
bastards must be my prisoners, tortured, set at each other's throats, their
souls sold to finance my vile habits.
Night comes. I turn off the computer. It is lock-down in the story-book jail. While my characters weep and masturbate in
their electronic cells, I smother my conscience in white-noise TV... then
retire to bed: "to sleep, perchance to dream…".
My ongoing monthly comic book, THE GREAT
SATAN, is now called OUTLAW NATION (DC Vertigo). Number one was published in November
2000. Somehow, I have managed to
complete seven scripts, but I don't know how long I can go on. The inmates are getting restless. I hear rumours of escape tunnels… violent
mass breakouts… condemnatory reports by the commissioner of corrections…
Writing is a war of words. There can be no winners and it never ends.
©2000 Jamie Delano