What If … ?
What If … Jack Kirby had been treated with fairness and respect by Marvel?
What if … Darkseid, Orion, and the rest of the New Gods existed in the Marvel Universe?
©2012 Kent Gutschke. All rights reserved.
Some Kind of Life
On a California highway perpendicular to our here and now, Philip K. Dick and Horselover Fat rocket towards a bookstore in sunny San Diego in search of Amazing Stories.
©2012 Kent Gutschke. All rights reserved.
Secret Origins
“Is big crime to make anything perfect on Bizarro World!”
—The Bizarro Code from Adventure Comics no. 285, 1961
As a kid in the 70s, I didn’t collect comic books—I amassed them. I first saw them on a spinner rack in a gas station during a family trip. I was four and the book was The Amazing Spider-Man, but before I could pronounce those big, bold letters in the title, my dad whisked me out the door. All next week, I pestered him until finally, he broke, taking me to Winn’s to buy a large ICEE and my first copy of Gerry Conway and Gil Kane’s amazing Spider-Man. It was then and there that I began amassing comic books for some impending Crisis that would shatter the multiverse.
It turned out the crisis happened when someone said comic books were worth something, and that something was money. There were these people called collectors and they had a good book called a price guide; and the collectors assigned grades – like you get in school – to your books. And they invoked three Greek goddesses: Polypropylene, Polyethylene, and Polyester. They spoke of backing boards, long boxes, and even of climate control to slow the newsprint from bronzing with age. And in hushed tones, they whispered of a condition called mint.
Now mint is a curious condition – a book with only the most imperceptible of defects if any at all. It’s likely no such books even exist, but that hasn’t stopped collectors from seeking and valuing such books. Who knows if outside both Time and Space some Platonic comic-book collection contains perfect issues of Journey Into Mystery, Adventure Comics, and What if … ? It’s against this perfection – real or imagined – that collectors determine the worth of a comic – a condition reminiscent of the Inhumans hopelessly trapped in a Negative Zone. And if you’re not alert, this condition has a curious way of clouding your judgment.
Clarity and my one-way ticket back to Bizarro World came with Art Spiegelman and Chip Kidd’s Plastic Man and Jack Cole: Forms Stretched to Their Limits. The book induces vertigo to any mind clouded with the collectors’ spell. Kidd celebrates all the qualities of old comics regarded as flaws by the collectors—pages creased, taped, burned to bronze with acid, impressed and bound with haphazard printing defects. Occasionally he blows up a single panel and the coarse fibers, the inks – some out of registration, and the dissonance of textures risk overwhelming the eyes until – WHAM! – Cole’s lush, dynamic line makes crazy sense and beauty of it all. Bizarro Superman was most wise when he banished perfection from Bizarro World.
Yeah, blame the Kidd for my nostalgia—books like Bat-Manga: The Secret History of Batman in Japan, Peanuts: The art of Charles M. Schulz, and Shazam! The Golden Age of the World’s Mightiest Mortal showed me how to revel in flaws rather than worry about them. There are times now when I see a slick, pristine book or a garishly clean digital comic and I run to my worn copy of Fantastic Four #59 and opening it, inhale the musty fumes of old newsprint burning with acid; and as the acrid taste wraps up my tongue, it fuels my four-colored, pre-adolescent screams!
©2012 Kent Gutschke. All rights reserved.
For Friedrich Nietzsche
It’s a personal belief of mine than Nietzsche is one of the few philosophers, perhaps the only philosopher, to understand and appreciate the nature of language. So here it is in an aphorism, a favorite genre of the philosopher.
The Metaphysicians ought to love language for her charm and her correctness, but most of all, for her unfaithfulness.
©2011 Kent Gutschke
Helvetica b. 1957
Her type never fails to impress—her long stems and bold curves cut an inky silhouette.
©2011 Kent Gutschke
Tales From the Rapid Eye (The Poet)
He teeters before adoring fans—swatch of skin lashed over bone; hollow cheeks support hollow eyes; hallowed lips fired with holy smokes and lubed with holy joe.
©2011 Kent Gutschke
If This Were an Actual Emergency …
My second attempt at Flash Fiction. This is based on an actual conversation I had with my friend, Bill, in 1999.
If This Were an Actual Emergency …
He looked at me earnestly through thick, black-rimmed spectacles, and straight-faced I explained that everyone should keep a holy book on the bed stand; and this should not be done as a cure for insomnia or for periodic edification, but for the day when THEY show up, reticently hovering above the unbridled panic of our city streets.
©2011 Kent Gutschke
Tales From the Rapid Eye (The Judgment)
Today Candace explained Flash Fiction to me. It’s a very short story and in its recent form revived by Steven Moss, editor of the New York Times, but authors such Chandler, Hemingway, and Lovecraft wrote them. Moss’ version has few rules, one being the an arbitrary length of 55 words — no more, no less. My first try has a few more than 55 words — oh well … The Judgment Will Be Televised?Apocrypha
Naked I watch white-robed Angels roll massive TVs in colossal, white rooms. No fire. No brimstone. No cords.
Then an angel clicks a switch; a sucking sound follows the click; there’s a hum from hidden folds of Time and Space and my sinful selves lie — splayed — shoulder to shoulder like holographic snakes.
©2011 Kent Gutschke
XY
These days you can’t watch television without seeing ads for the little blue pill, the little purple pill, and the little orange pill that allows you to choose the moment that’s right for you. The dirty secret is that every man at some point will have fallen and can’t get up; and it happens to both the young and the old. What women fail to grasp is men don’t understand why our plumbing works at some times and not at others. But know this: The male body did not evolve to slouch behind a desk or plop before a screen. No, males evolved to be in motion. The male craves the chase – craves the hunt. He craves to run and to zip spears at prey. It’s why the male loves sports, but can’t fancy flowers. And I know this because every time I leave the gym, my body is a stew of endorphin, adrenaline, and testosterone; and the three things I want most is to slay prey, to gorge, and to mate with as many women as there are willing women. Confidentially this feeling is good for me—too often I’m too analytical. It’s Nature reconnecting me to her intended purpose for me. But for you, a body in motion just may be the Crystal Draino® that keeps your plumbing working well into your future.
©2006 Kent Gutschke
N1H1 Ain’t Nothin’
A friend recently asked why I waste time playing video games; naturally I objected – video games improve our reflexes and our eye-hand coordination. He gave pause and I then added that the real reason is that games train us to survive the end of our social instructions and perhaps even the world. Video games have taught me which weapons are best against re-animated corpses; I’ve blazed through zombie-filled houses armed with only a handgun and shotgun with limited ammo; I’ve been infected; then healed; I’ve survived and lived to write about it. So when the zombie infestation comes – and it will come – and you’re at the mall with no gun, no ammo, and no hope; and when you’re screaming like a bunch of bitches, remember me; I’ll be out there—capping ass.
©2006 Kent Gutschke
Cædmon’s Hymn, A Translation
In 2002 I took a graduate course on Anglo-Saxon prose and poetry; one assignment required us to translate an Anglo-Saxon work into modern English, so I chose Cædmon’s Hymn, a short poem that scholars believe is earliest-surviving example of Old English poetry. While translating the poem, I chose words for their archaic meanings, such as ward from the Old English wearden, meaning guardian or watchman. The modern sense of the word denotes guardianship and meshes quite well with my choice of bairn, Northern English dialect for children. Anglo-Saxon was spoken before the Norman Conquest, and as such, resembles German more than our Modern English or even the Middle English of Chaucer; I, therefore, tried to preserve the Old English poet’s use of alliteration and avoided using English words with Latin or French origins. Traditionally, it is believed that Cædmon was an illiterate cowherd who was divinely inspired to sing a hymn praising God and his creation; it is in essence a creation hymn and shows the influence of Norse mythology with his use of Midgard. Finally, over twenty copies survive, each having some minor differences stemming from regional dialects. A Latin version of the verse also survives. For this translation, I chose to work from the Northumbrian versions.
Cædmon’s Hymn
Now shall we sing of heaven’s rich Ward;
Sing of his might and his will and his work;
Sing of the World Father who timeless
Begot the beginning and who wrought heaven,
A roof for bairn, and Midgard made he for
The Age of Men.
Praise our Father Almighty.
©2002 Kent Gutschke
Mom, the cultists are callin’. Can they come over and play?
Weeks ago I gave a donation to some cultists, who were passing out colorful leaflets by the roadside. Now don’t panic—I gave only some loose change from my ashtray, no large denominations. As I approached the traffic light, I saw one of the men gripping something colorful. And from the car, it looked like a flyer or small poster—in the world of printed media, I’m uncertain where colorful flyer ends a small, colorful poster begins. So I quickly turned my attention from the road to my ashtray, and if recollection serves me, my hand retrieved some thirty-seven cents. As my car rolled to a stop, my window rolled down and for a quick nod, a smile, and my tax-deductible donation of thirty-seven cents, I received the man’s genuine blessing and a four-color Apocalypse. After witnessing the man’s conviction while standing in the August heat, I felt ashamed of my paltry offering. On the the other hand, I am strapped for cash, and I’m certain God will forgive me this one transgression.
As a child the Book of Revelation was my favorite, and John’s surreal vision of our destruction still holds a special place in my heart. Around the age of seven I had nightmares of the Second Coming night after terrifying night and in these nightmares, I was alway left behind. So you can image how pleased I was when I saw that my meager offering bought me a painting of the Apocalypse. The painting is an insanely airbrushed Apocalypse, nothing at all like the one of my nightmares. Its subjects are too brightly lit , too complete and far too literal; it fails to tap the terror of my nightmares, but my Apocalypse revealed my peculiar fears. And this painting is not a painting of my Apocalypse—this painting has a confidence that’s most peculiar and most terrifying.
©2005 Kent Gutschke