(Originally published at RevolutionSF.com, 2001)

Congressional hearings on the evils of a form of entertainment. Medical professionals commenting on the downward trends among youth, and pointing at pop culture as the cause. Parents scrambling to protect their young and innocent puppies from the horrors available for less than the price of a grass cutting.

Rock and roll? Movies? Television? Nope – think further back, almost 50 years, in fact, to 1954: Dr. Frederick Wertham’s Seduction of the Innocent and the resultant Comics Code Authority. According to Wertham, “Hitler was a beginner compared to the comic industry,” and since this is the US Government we’re talking about here, a psychologist with half a box of crayons was given full credibility. The comic book industry – at the time focusing more on romance, science fiction, westerns, and horror than the super-heroes of today – was forced to create a self-regulating commission in order to avoid being shut down altogether. The result was a bunch of watered down stories, numbers of publishers closing up shop, and the near end of comic books.

Jump forward to today, and Marvel Comics’ recent decision to abandon the Comics Code stamp altogether in favor of a self-regulating code. For reasons that I can’t quite wrap my brain around, other companies have decried the move, although the announcement was greeted with rousing cries of apathy from the general public. Why the big fuss?

Frankly, I don’t get it. I’ve always been aware of the little stamp that appeared on the covers of all the Marvel and DC books. You’ve probably seen it – go back and check back issues. Casual readers (and parents, most importantly), are probably not even aware of it. Of course, this is where the problem comes in.

Were the average parent to pick up a comic for their young child (and by young, I mean under 12, or of the mental / emotional age that parental guidance is still needed), would they notice if the Code stamp were not there? Would they even know what it stands for if they saw it? Somehow, I doubt it. For instance, take a look at the pictures below:

Which one doesn’t have the stamp? That’s right – Spawn #1, one of the all-time best-selling comics. And while there’s nothing particularly adult about the comic (and that may be the understatement of the week on many levels), there are some concepts in there that parents might not want their kids reading about (say, the topic of the hero being a soldier of Hell�.).

All that said, the stamp itself has become largely meaningless over the years, nothing more than a meaningless habit. For some examples, look at the provisions of the original Code:

“Policemen, judges, government officials and respected institutions shall never be presented in such a way as to create disrespect for established authority.”

Personally, I can’t name any comics with dirty cops. Oh, wait – yes I can. And then there was DC’s Vigilante – who just happened to be a judge when he wasn’t a costumed – er, vigilante. Order in the court, indeed.

“Nudity with meretricious purpose and salacious postures shall not be permitted in the advertising of any product; clothed figures shall never be permitted in the advertising of any product in such a way as to be offensive or contrary to good taste or morals.”

Ahem�.

“All characters shall be depicted in dress reasonably acceptable to society.”

You hear that, Wonder Woman?

“Inclusion of stories dealing with evil shall be used or shall be published only where the intent is to illustrate a moral issue and in no case shall evil be presented alluringly nor
as to injure the sensibilities of the reader.”

So – evil is not cool, right? Being rich and powerful like the Kingpin – nah. Being U.S. President, like Lex Luthor? What kid could possibly want to emulate that?

Oh, wait – my favorite:
“Females shall be drawn realistically without exaggeration of any physical qualities.”

Heeheeheeheeheeheeee�

Marvel’s proposition is to actually put the contents on the front of the book, like so:

Which, frankly, makes a hell of a lot more sense to me. Parents can now more easily identify what they do and don’t want their kids reading, or at least what things they need to talk to their kids about before the book gets sealed away in Mylar. Store owners can be forewarned as to which books need to be placed on higher shelves, out of the reach of the little ones.

And I’ll finally know which titles will satisfy my lust for blood and graphic sex, feeding my fantasies and plans for the future. But don’t worry – I plan on blaming it all on Archie – Comics Code and all.

One of the keys to a happier life is accepting what you do and don’t have control over; acting on the things that you do, and letting go of (or working to change) the things that you don’t.

There is a dream I have yet to dream.

The sunlight creeps lazily through the cracks in the blinds, fitting for a Sunday morning. I sit, back to the wall, comfortable on the floor to watch her dreaming fitfully in the amber dusky dawn. She is a painting stolen from childhood dreams, dreams of hope, hopeless dreamer I was.

And now she is here, stirring before me, trusting me to watch over her as she dozes, my first, last, and every thought.

She rises, gliding from point to point as she moves about her day. She stops to kiss me gently on the lips, to run her hands playfully through my hair, to touch my hand. She is unconscious of how radiant she is, of how my heart sometimes forgets to beat and my lungs forget to draw air when I am with her, of how much she means to me.

And she pauses, by the bedstand, in front of a picture of us. And she smiles, forgetting my presence for a moment to think of me. And she sees the note I wrote her as she slept, picks is up, unfolds it, reads the dream that I never dreamt but lived instead. She is silent, motionless, but when she finally does turn toward my seating place, I see a small solitary tear running down her cheek. She smiles, moved by my words and my eyes and the way they drink her in, and whispers.

I love you.

She is standing alone on the stage. The blue light streams down from a single bulb above her, bathing her in a cool radiance. She is thin, lithesome, an angelic faery waiting for the first notes to come through to her. Her eyes closed, her face placid and calm, she is a statue, carved from the perfect earth and ore. The darkness around her a frame, the wooden stage beneath her feet a pedestal.

Through the solitary window across the room comes the first note, a single chiming tone, ringing on into infinity. As the echo fades, a moment that stretches forever, her eyes slowly open, a seductive motion of which she is innocently unaware. The second note follows, hesitantly, as if frightened away by her humble beauty. A third note is carried by the breeze, a fourth, trailed by a rich minor chord, a major seventh, a suspended second. With each note, the statue comes to life more and more, slowly but without any fear, without uncertainty.

The song is a gentle etude, romantic and strong, and her body flows, a river guided by a composition. There is perfect unity between every muscle, every joint, every fiber of her being. The piano is joined by a cello, then a guitar, and finally a french horn, the unique quartet sounding every bit as natural as a full orchestra. The picture is a majestic puzzle, a moment trapped in time and frozen in motion.

He dreams of her dance, and hopes, sitting alone on the cold concrete floor before her stage, never to awaken.

�There was a time not so long ago�� he thinks, and then places the pen silently on the maple desk in front of him. What about that time? It wasn�t so long ago, after all; shouldn�t the memories be clearer, less foggy? The memories were dreams now, rich and vivid upon awakening, but fading as he got closer to pen and paper.

If it weren�t for her, none of this would matter. He could be spending his days lying on the ratty and worn couch, playing his brother�s video games and staying stoned in a rich haze of Californian Long Hair. Once a week he and the guys could hop into whoever�s car had gas, cruise down to the beach and catch the rays and the waves, drinking enough cheap tequila to kill a small nation before noon. But no � she had to come into the picture, her milky skin and lithe fingers that played him like a harp and crystalline blue eyes� Those eyes, so like stars that sometimes he thought he might go blind staring into them, knowing full well that she couldn�t see him watching her longingly but that she could feel his gaze, piercing her, tracing straight to and through her core. He had never seen anything as clearly � certainly not in the last ten years, since Ernie had introduced him to the soothing powers of the beer bong.

And she knew, and he knew she knew, and it was all part of a maddening circle that spiraled through his brain, winding deeper and deeper, threatening to bore through to his feet if he dwelled there too long. But part of him couldn�t help it, just couldn�t avoid wondering what it would be like to touch her arm, to trace the curves of her dancer�s body with his calloused fingers, to kiss her mouth, softly�

The sound of Henry�s car door slamming shut snapped him awake from his daydream. Henry, home again at sunrise from another long night of pounding Jagermeister and cheap beer at the roadhouse he called home, probably wearing fresh bruises or a busted lip like some badge of honor, another night wasted. Henry, who would pass out (if he was lucky) or want to start yet another fight (if he wasn�t).

His hand reached instinctively for the lamp, but paused as he realized that it was too late; even with the sun brightening the sky enough to give the birds their wake-up call, even as many copies of the world as Henry was probably seeing, he would have seen the late, would have known that he was still up, dreaming about her.

The door opened quietly, a breath in the sticky summer dawn, and shut with an angry clap that startled him firmly into the here and now. Gone are thoughts of her, of the way her feet seem to never touch the floor when she walks, replaced by the cold hard sting of Henry�s drunken fist. He could slump over on the desk, the voices say, pretend that he fell asleep after a long night of reading, but then Henry would have the element of surprise on his side, as well as size.

The refrigerator opened, and the familiar clink of the night�s last beer kept the routine going. Any minute now, Henry would walk past his room turning off the hall light, then return, three heavy footsteps echoing for hours in his head, and tell him quietly

�She asked about you tonight.�

He was dreaming. He had fallen asleep on the desk after all, and was now dreaming of a better place, a better time.

��dja hear me?� Henry�s slur is different � just as strong as normal, but calmer, subdued, almost accepting. ��liz�beth asked about you. Wanted to know how you are. When you�re coming back to see her.�

He thought the moment might last forever.

“Tiny Dancer” (Elton john)

Blue jean baby, L.A. lady, seamstress for the band
Pretty eyed, pirate smile, you’ll marry a music man
Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand
And now she’s in me, always with me, tiny dancer in my hand

Jesus freaks out in the street
Handing tickets out for God
Turning back she just laughs
The boulevard is not that bad

Piano man he makes his stand
In the auditorium
Looking on she sings the songs
The words she knows the tune she hums

But oh how it feels so real
Lying here with no one near
Only you and you can hear me
When I say softly slowly

Hold me closer tiny dancer
Count the headlights on the highway
Lay me down in sheets of linen
you had a busy day today

Blue jean baby, L.A. lady, seamstress for the band
Pretty eyed, pirate smile, you’ll marry a music man
Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand
And now she’s in me, always with me, tiny dancer in my hand

Love can blind you, but so can a face full of pepper spray.

I’m in the midst of a field, lush green and yellow grasses rippling around me, a pond talking to the spring breeze. There are trees in the distance, and capping those, mountains covered in snow still falling fresh. Behind me unseen is the ocean; I don’t turn to know this – can’t, in fact – but the smell of the salt air tells the secret.

And from somewhere comes music, familiar lyrics and music drifting quietly:

“I lie awake
Watching your shoulders
Move so softly as you breathe”

Why am I looking for speakers in the tall grass? I know they’re not there — and even if they were, what would power them? — but I search anyway. And as I continue, kicking through the undergrowth with prodding feet and swimming through the field, a bizarre and tangled breast-stroke, the music continues:

“With every breath
You’re growing older
But that is fine if you’re with me”

I know the song, but I can’t name it for the life of me. And somehow I know that that is the key to all of this — the field, the mountains, the trees, the unseen ocean. So my search for the speakers continues, because that’s how I’ll remember.

I pause and look skyward, to find that the blazing and brilliant sun has been replaced by an angry black void of a cloud. I’ve never seen a cloud come in so quickly — nor one that absorbed the light, not just blocking the sun but somehow sucking up every bit of the world around it. And I think to myself, or maybe even say aloud, that I should be afraid, scared to death — but I’m not. And there’s a detached curiosity with that realization, like maybe I’ve become a robot, replaced with metal and plastic and circuit boards when the sun was being buried.

“The ray of dawn
Plays on your eyelids
A sleeping beauty dressed in sun”

Which is a funny line, since the sun is hiding. But it’s not so funny, because I’ve come upon a clearing in the field. This is the center of the world, something inside says. The absolute middle of my life. The ground is charred black, as though a bomb had detonated away the grasses in a perfect circle. And what’s not so funny about the music is that there’s a bed in the middle of all of this, bathed in a single beam of sunlight, the covers writhing in motion as the girl underneath rolls over to face me, staring holes in my heart through her closed eyes.

“I believe this heart of mine when it tells my eyes
That this is beauty
I believe this heart of mine when it tells my mind
That this is reason”

As the music crescendos, building to a heartbreaking climax, I roll over, no longer or never in a field or even outside, but now in my own bed, surrounded by cats of a million owners. And I close my eyes, content to return to sleep, having had my glimpse of her for the day. I shift my legs, adjusting to the right sleeping position, and I feel an arm, whisper-light, the featherless wing of an angel, and the arm falls sweetly across my chest, embracing me with all the power of night.

“I believe this heart of mine when it cries at time
That this is forever
I believe this heart of mine when it tells the skies
That this is the face of God”

And I feel her head nestle softly against my back, her hair bushing my shoulder blade, tickling, and I see through the window that the ocean is closer than I realized, and I wonder why the men trimming the fields are still at work. It’s Sunday, and life is too wonderful to be working.

Just a prediction.

Upheaval welcomed here, by the way.

km

To balance out the brilliantly good:

It has been my thought for some time that there is balance lacking my world. This has been the case for far too long, perhaps too long to ever be righted in my head. But that doesn’t mean I don’t try.

How do you repay amazing friendship after too many years of neglect and self-important, egocentric behavior?

Having been on the opposite side of this situation, my initial devil’s advocate reaction is that you don’t, because for all the thought and sometimes bitter joking, it’s unimportant in the end. But that’s also my often-uncommon thinking, not at all based on popular study.

Something that must be considered more carefully in the coming days.