BLOOD: A MOVIE

Director Marc Rosenbush is preparing to go into production on his movie version of Blood:  A Tale—the graphic novel I co-created with illustrator Kent Williams back in the late 80's—and he's just launched a website to promote the film.  If you don't know, Blood is an odd, eerie fever-dream of a story set in an odd, eerie fever-dream of a world.  As the title indicates, there are vampires in it, but, beyond the obvious fangs and blood, the story has very little in common with Bram Stoker and Stephenie Meyer.  In fact it's like nothing else I've ever written.  (When it first came out, my old friend, Vertigo head honcho Karen Berger, called it "an Ingmar Bergman comic book.")  When Marc R first expressed interest in adapting Blood for the screen, I was taken  by surprise:  it's the last story of mine I'd ever imagine being a movie; you might as well try to film my unconscious mind.  To his eternal credit, Marc has taken something I thought was unfilmable and turned it into a fascinating, well-crafted—and, yes, commercial—metaphysical horror script that stays true to the heart and soul of the source material.  Filming is slated to begin in the summer of 2011 and, if you sign up over at Marc's site, you'll be in on the creative process every step of the way.

Guess it's only a matter of time now till Marvel gets going on a big-budget Greenberg the Vampire movie.

Or maybe not.

CLIMBING JACOB'S LADDER

I recently got in a conversation with some folks here at Creation Point about the programs we all seem to have—some of us more than others—worming through our hearts and minds, telling us that we’re not good enough.  That we somehow don’t deserve the best that life has to offer.  That we’re small, insignificant, unworthy.  At the same time, my wife—who (among her many other talents) is an interfaith minister and a practitioner of Process Acupressure—told me about several clients and friends that were facing the same issues.  It was as if the universe was drawing a line under the subject, asking us both to examine our own self-defeating delusions.  (You can read Diane’s take on the subject right here.)

I’ve danced with those delusions—as many of us have—for a good part of my life.  It’s like there’s a constant tug of war going on between who I think I am and who I really am.  It’s not always overt, I’m often not even aware of it; but, sometimes, God draws that underline in a huge, and unforgettable,  way.  (Perhaps because I’m too dumb to get it when He’s being subtle.) 

The biggest underline I’ve ever encountered came in 1988, on my second trip to Meher Baba’s Tomb-Shrine (also known as the Samadhi) near Ahmednagar, India.  I’d been to Meherabad for the first time in the summer of 1987 and was planning a return trip the following July.  But in early March of 1988 something strange happened:  One morning I woke up—abruptly yanked into awareness—to hear a voice:  very clear, very powerful, as if someone was in the room talking to me.  Only the voice wasn’t coming from across the room, it was coming from inside me.  It was coming the center of my chest, from my heart.  I don’t recall the exact words, but the message—actually, it was more like an order—boiled down to this:  “Come to Meherabad.  Come now.”  Those words had such force, such impact, that I couldn’t ignore them.  Oh, I tried to.  There was no way I could just drop everything, get on a plane and go to India.  I had work, I had obligations.  Even if, by some miracle, I could go, the ashram where most visitors to the Samadhi stay during their pilgrimage was only open until March 15th.  (After that, the Maharashtra heat becomes unbearable.  The Meher Pilgrim Center doesn’t reopen till the end of June.)   If I was going to travel around the world, I’d need to stay for at least two weeks, not swoop in and out like some spiritual lunatic.   Nope, no matter what that voice was, no matter where it came from (a passing angel, my unconscious mind or Meher Baba Himself), I was ignoring this order.

But the thing is I couldn’t ignore it.   It was as if the order itself contained the ability to execute it.  As if each of those words, spoken in my heart, were energy-eggs that cracked open and provided the strength and will for me to (with seeming effortlessness, I don’t recall there being any blockades along the way) rearrange my life, race to the Indian Consulate for a tourist visa, buy a plane ticket and—within a few days—fasten my seat belt for a journey to Bombay (which, for the record, didn’t become Mumbai till 1995).

By the time I arrived in India, I was—as I’d been the first time around—a sleep-deprived wreck (I’m not one of those people who can sleep on airplanes.  I’m from the fitful dozing school).  I hustled from the international to the domestic airport, waited the requisite interminable hours, then took an Indian Airlines flight—aboard a small, propeller-driven plane—to Pune.  From there, I rickshawed to a taxi stand and began the long drive to Ahmednagar.  You can imagine the shape I was in when I got there:  it was as if I was a creature molded from cracked glass and every step brought me closer to totally shattering.  But, after arriving at my destination and settling into my room at the Pilgrim Center, I couldn’t go to sleep.  However exhausted I was, I had to make the trip up the hill to Meher Baba’s Tomb-Shrine.  I had to lay down my head at his feet and say, “Baba, I’m here.  I listened to the voice, I followed the order, now wrap your arms around me and flood me with your love.”  (One thing you have to grok in order for this story to work:  Despite the fact that He died in 1969, my experience with Avatar Meher Baba has been that He’s very much alive, and incredibly accessible.  Master and companion, guide and best friend.  And MB’s Tomb-Shrine is, for me, like a direct radio link to that Living Presence.  You don’t have to believe that—feel free to think I’m completely nuts (you won’t be the first)—I’m just asking you to understand it.)

So up the hill I staggered, into the Samadhi I went.  But there was no love-bomb waiting to engulf me, no warm arms waiting to envelop me.  The instant I rested my head against the cloth-covered marble, it was as if a Cosmic Hand sliced open my mind, reached in and untapped a psychic geyser that had been waiting years to explode:  all my self-loathing—every wretched program that told me I was small, insignificant, unworthy, a hopeless waste of space on the planet—erupted up and out, wave after wave of psychic sludge:  pitch black, oily and utterly repugnant.  I felt poisoned, toxic, as it flooded every cell of my body, every corner of my soul, washing away all other thoughts and feelings, every other aspect of Self, until all that remained was the Black Sludge of Unworthiness.  How bad was it?  I remember noticing a bug crawling across the Tomb floor and feeling that the only difference between us was that the insect had more of a right to be alive than I did.

Devastated, I staggered out of the Samadhi and down to my room. wondering why the hell I’d dropped everything and raced across half the world only to be spiritually ambushed by a God who suddenly seemed less-than benevolent. 

Once I was rested, free of jet lag and psychic aftershocks, I began to understand what had happened.  I’d been with Meher Baba long enough to know that one of His methods is to shine a light on the shadowed corners of the soul, corners we’re often not even aware of, peeling back the hardened layers of psychic excrement that cover up the Divinity we all are.  Magnifying those aspects and dragging them to the surface of our minds allows us to work with them more directly and, ultimately, dissolve them in the light of awareness.  By letting me see the Black Sludge in its full, flowering ugliness, Baba gave me the tools to deal with it in a conscious way.  Twenty-two years later, I can’t claim the Sludge is gone—I suspect that, being human, I’ll always carry echoes of it, sometimes faint, sometimes loud—but, since that day, it’s certainly diminished in power.   



But perhaps it hasn’t diminished:  perhaps it’s just transformed.

As the years have passed—and this is something that deserves a lengthy post of its own—I’ve come to believe (well, I think I’ve always believed it, I’ve just come to see it in a deeper way) that these seeming demons, these apparent nightmares born of our unconscious darkness, aren’t really there to prevent us from reaching our true height and power:  they’re here to help us reveal it.  In fact, I’m convinced these devils are actually angels-in-disguise, waiting for the moment when we recognize them so they can spread their wings wide and invite us to fly with them into the heart of a magical, and sacred, universe.   (I’ve also come to believe that it’s ultimately far easier to fly with angels than dance with demons, even illusory ones—that joy is a far more efficient, and delightful, path to awakening than suffering—but that, too, is another discussion for another time.)    

Our true height and power.  I had a memorable glimpse of just how high, just how powerful, we all are two years after my encounter with the Sludge.  It happened, again, in Meherabad—on a December night in 1990.  I had a dream—one of those dreams that seem more real than our waking life—in which I was at an event where one of the Meherabad residents, an extraordinary man called Mohammed the Mast (Mohammed, by the way, was the inspiration for Charlie Limbo in Seekers Into The Mystery), was sitting at a table signing...well, I’m not sure what he was signing:  it might have been books (which, given the dreamer in question, makes sense).  I approached the table, but, rather than sign my book, Mohammed instead scribbled on me, writing his way up from my hand to my upper arm.  When he did that I felt disrespected, powerless, small, ashamed—another echo, I see now, of the Black Sludge—and very angry.  But my anger was so bottled up, my rage so impotent, that I couldn’t express it.  The best I could do was grab Mohammed’s pen and throw it—without even looking—to the floor.  It was a pathetic throw, like something a weak, exhausted two year old would do.  (And that’s pretty much how I felt:  like a vulnerable, utterly overwhelmed child.)   But then...

Then I turned around—absolutely stunned to discover that my “pathetic” throw had sent the pen hurtling across the room, where it smashed into the wall, lodging there with such incredible force that it collapsed the entire thing, not just in the main room where we were, but in the adjoining room, as well.  And, in that moment of assumed weakness, revealed as inexplicable power...

I woke up—not just from sleep, but into myself.  To who and what I really am.  To my true height, my true power.  This wasn’t just an intellectual knowing, this was a visceral experience, an inner vision that touched a deeper reality.  I could see and feel that height, that power—I was that height and power—and it was far taller, far mightier, than anything I could have ever imagined:  like looking down at all Creation from the highest rung on Jacob’s Ladder.  I can’t say how long the experience lasted, maybe just a few seconds, maybe a few centuries, but looking at the universe, and at myself, from that extraordinary height became so dizzying, so overwhelming, that it actually frightened me. 

And the experience passed.

But the memory didn’t.  I’ve held tight to that vision, that gift of grace, and treasured it all these years, knowing that my job—no, not my job, my pleasure—is to grow into the height and power that I already am.  Looking back, I see that what I was shown was just what I could handle at the time.  It was only one small hint of my true height.  Jacob’s Ladder extends up into infinity (and beyond, as Buzz Lightyear would say)—and I can, I must, continue to grow with it.    



Understand, please, that this experience wasn’t unique to me.  It became very clear that this is the height we all truly are, the divinity that lives and breathes within every last one of us, if we could only see it.

And, yes, that includes you.

So when the Black Sludge comes calling, remember:  take a deep breath, grow tall.  And don’t be afraid to look down. 

© copyright 2010 J.M. DeMatteis        

THE EVERYTHING AND THE NOTHING

Watch this—and be humbled and amazed and inspired by the Infinite.  And ponder this:  What if all those galaxies out there are just reflections of the galaxies within us?  How limitless are we really?  How powerful? 

How utterly miraculous? 

 

OFF TO SEE THE WIZARD

If you're in the New York City area this Thursday, November 11th, you might want to drop by one of the very best children's book stores in the country, Books of Wonder, where I'll be appearing—along with an impressive group of fantasy authors—from 5 to 7 pm.  I'll be signing copies of Imaginalis and, I suspect, reading from the book, as well.

Books of Wonder, if you don't know, is also the company that publishes those miraculous facsimile editions of L. Frank Baum's Oz books.  They've got lots of other Oz-related goodies, as well.  (This time next month, I'll once again be hanging some of their limited edition, hand painted Oz ornaments on my Christmas tree.)  If you can't make it to the signing, then absolutely check out the B.O.W. site. 

See you in the Emerald City, I hope.

IMPOSSIBILITY REDUX

In a post back in early October, I mentioned Ellen J. Langer’s 1979 experiment in mind-body connection, in which she, in essence, mentally time-traveled a group of men in their seventies and eighties decades into the past, resulting in significant, positive changes in their physical health.  I was so intrigued by this story that I immediately ordered Langer’s book Counter Clockwise.  I’ve finally started reading it and it didn’t take long to come across a quote that went straight to the center of my soul:

The fact that something has not happened doesn’t mean it cannot happen; it only means the way to make it happen is as yet unknown.

As someone who believes that the (apparent) limits of the possible exist only to be exploded—as that quote over there on the left attests—I was delighted to come across such  a powerful reminder of a truth I already know, but still, for all my efforts, sometimes forget.

In my book Imaginalis, the main character, Mehera Crosby, is guided on her adventure by words that many would dismiss as childish imagination:  “Because it’s impossible, I’ll do it.  Because it’s unbelievable, I’ll believe.”  To me this isn’t an immature world view, this is the essence of our existence.  For all the strangeness and suffering life can offer, it’s been my experience that we truly inhabit a universe of magic and miracles—one universe in a simultaneity of universes that we step into and out of with more frequency than we realize—and the more we acknowledge that, the more we realize that the sky isn’t the limit, that the only real limits are in our own heads, the more that magic will come alive for us.  Respond to us.  Transform the world within and around us.  

Just because something hasn’t happened doesn’t mean it can’t.  If we keep our eyes wide, open to the endless impossibilities the universe has to offer, the miracles will come.

Feel free to remind me of that if I forget again.  And I hope, in some small way, I’ve reminded you.
 

©copyright 2010  J.M. DeMatteis

A HALLOWEEN SCARE

I’d been under-the-weather earlier in the week—so much so that I had to cancel a trip to the Ottawa International Writer’s Festival—and was just starting to feel better.  My wife and I were out taking an afternoon walk, enjoying the fall weather, when I felt the beginnings of an allergic reaction:  face itching, red bumps forming on my face.  Well, I’ve got a host of food and environmental sensitivities that often seem to kick in without warning, so this wasn’t all-that surprising.  What did surprise me was the speed with which the reaction spread across my entire body.  By the time I’d reached my front steps, I was itching violently, covered in hives, the universe was spinning way too quickly and my vision was blurring.  Shortly after I staggered inside, I passed out (apparently my blood pressure had taken a precipitous dive):  I remember looking at my wife just before I descended into the Twilight Zone and she appeared to be standing at the wrong end of a telescope.  With her usual skill and determination, Diane managed to bring me around and, before I knew it, a band of angels, in the form of EMTs, had arrived to rescue me from the demonic depths:  I soon found myself on a stretcher, hooked up to an IV, taking my first-ever ride in an ambulance.  I ended up in the hospital overnight, body pumped full of Benadryl and steroids, the whole thing feeling like a Halloween hallucination of the first order.

I’ve been home for a few days now, still not quite right (for someone like me, ultra-sensitive to medications, the cure can sometimes be as bad as the disease), but certainly feeling better.  The strangest part of it all is that I can’t, for the life of me, figure out what caused the reaction:  I hadn’t eaten anything I’m allergic to, so my best guess is that there was some mutated mold lurking in a pile of autumn leaves, waiting to spring on the first biologically-vulnerable writer to pass by.  Either that or it was a genuine Halloween ghoul, arrived early to the party, ready for mischief.

In any case, the doorbell’s ringing, and a far friendlier class of spirit is on my porch.  I’m happy they’re here.  That other ghoul can stay away forever:  

Begone!

Happy Halloween to one and all.

©copyright 2010  J.M. DeMatteis 

UNSOLVED MYSTERIES, SPIDER-MAN EDITION

I was going through some old files and came across my copy of an interview I did...well, I’m not sure when.  (At least five years ago, I’d guess.)  I’m also not sure who asked the questions.  And I’m almost certain that the interview never saw print.  The only thing I am sure about is that the interview related to my work on Spider-Man.  Rather than leave it gathering (cyber) dust on my computer, I thought I’d share it here.  And so—for your listening and dancing pleasure—here’s the Lost Spider-Man Interview...

Briefly, could you give me a rundown of your Spider-Man writing credits?

I started with Spider-Man way back in the early 80’s, doing a long run on Marvel Team-Up with two terrific artists:  Herb Trimpe and Kerry Gammill.  Not exactly a classic run on my part, but, hey, we’ve all got to start somewhere.

A few years later, I came back to Spider-Man for the six-part Kraven’s Last Hunt storyline.  I followed that up with the one-shot sequel, Soul Of The Hunter.  Then, in the early 90’s, I did a two-year run on Spectacular Spider-Man, followed by a lengthy run on Amazing Spider-Man, and then back for another couple of years on Spectacular.  Along the way, I did lots of mini-series, fill-ins and back-up stories.  Too many to mention here. 

What is it about the character that appealed to you as a writer? What made you stick around through various editors and titles?

I was always amazed at the way Spider-Man kept pulling me back.  I’d quit one book, thinking I never wanted to write another Spidey story again, then an offer would come along and I’d jump at it.  Why?  Because I missed Peter Parker.  He’s a wonderful character:  deep, interesting, funny, intelligent, decent, and wonderfully conflicted.  And that’s without the costume on!

Who was your favorite Spidey villain to write? Least favorite?

Finding new psychological wrinkles in the villains was one of my favorite things to do.  Kraven stands out, of course.  He was a character that was pretty much written off as a joke before Kraven’s Last Hunt—so it was terrific to develop him into a truly memorable bad guy...and then kill him off.  I also enjoyed probing into the psyches of the Vulture, Electro, Mysterio and, my absolute favorite, the Harry Osborn Green Goblin.  The relationship between Peter and Harry (both in and out of costume) fascinated me.  I think that the story in Spectacular Spider-Man #200,  in which Harry dies, is the best Spider-Man story I ever did.  We’d been building to that story for nearly two years...and I’m very proud of it.

What were your thoughts on Spider-Man’s supporting cast? Do you think it needs reinvigorating, fine as is? Which characters did you enjoy dealing with?

I think the character I enjoyed most was (believe it or not) Aunt May.  At the time I was writing Spider-Man, many writers and readers weren’t that interested in her.  She seemed to be a bland old worrywart; but from the first time I wrote her, I found May to be a woman of incredible intelligence, passion and, most of all, strength.  The story in Amazing Spider-Man #400, where Aunt May died in Peter’s arms (hey, I’m beginning to see a pattern here), is another of my all-time favorites.  But I wrote a number of Aunt May stories where I got to explore her from new and interesting angles.

Is there anything you would change in your previous Spidey work if given the chance?

Well, maybe I’d go back and rewrite a bunch of those Marvel Team-Up stories.  And I’d like to see the Clone Saga rewritten to reflect our original intentions.  But, no, I wouldn’t even do that.  For good or ill, all those stories were the very best I could do at the time.  As for the rest of it, there was an occasional turkey among the bunch, but, overall, I’m extremely proud of my work on the various Spider-Man titles.  I think it’s some of my very best.  

If you got another crack at writing the webslinger, what would you like to do with him?

I’ve written so many Spider-Man stories that I don’t know if there’s anything I could do with him!  I think I did everything I wanted to do.  Doesn’t mean I won’t wake up tomorrow morning with a fantastic idea... but right now, I certainly don’t have one.

What were some of your favorite story arcs that you worked on? Any particular artist that you were paired with that you felt a strong connection with?

As noted, Kraven’s Last Hunt, Spectacular Spider-Man #200 and Amazing Spider-Man #400 are real favorites.  It didn’t hurt that I was working with Mike Zeck, Mark Bagley and Sal Buscema, three of the top super-hero artists in the field.  I pretty much loved my entire two year run with Sal on Spectacular.  (Not long after that, the Spidey books started crossing over all the time...and I got awfully tired of writing chapter two of a four part story.)

Other stories that come to mind are the Lost Years mini-series I did with John Romita, Jr.  (I loved Ben Reilly and Kaine...they were great characters...and I’m still sorry they're gone.)  And one of the highlights of my entire career was a story called “The Kiss” that I wrote as a back-up in the first issue of the short-lived Webslingers book.  It was illustrated by one of the giants of our industry, John Romita, Sr., at the very top of his game.  Romita was the artist on so many of my all-time favorite Spider-Man stories...and working with him was not just a thrill but a genuine honor.

There you have it.  If the person who interviewed me is out there reading this, please post a comment and let me know when we did this...and what publication it was intended for.  I’d love to solve this mystery.