Beyond The Treatment Scars, Haunted By Genius And The Curse Of Bitterly Wondering Why It Is Not My Own

There is a reason why Envy is one of the Seven Deadly Sins, and it has nothing to do with a serial killer coming after you to exact vengeance or any other brilliant thriller by David Fincher. Is there any normative occurrence as corrosive to the soul as the act of feeling greater than or less than another person? When I compare myself to other people, when I mistake their path for my own, when I believe like a child that the grass is always and your ice cream is so much sweeter, it is nothing less than the devil taking shape beyond a metaphor.

When I refer to the devil, I am not thinking about Lucifer falling from the heavens with the other damned angels or any other Christian story, but rather the word is so powerful in the context of the destructive and negative impulses that lurk within my own soul. The devil in my own is my sense that I am not good enough and not worthy of love. It burns and rips and tears and scratches just beneath my consciousness, occasionally rising into reality as sarcasm and bitterness, fear and contempt, entitlement and grandiosity, lust and so many other forms of violence against myself and the world. Like alcohol to the alcoholic, the devil of comparison is cunning, baffling and powerful, and arises in the most unexpected fashions.

Seeing the absurd comic book cover above, you are probably shaking your head and thinking, "Oh no, here comes a terrible the elephant in the room analogy where we are asked to see the elephant towering within ourselves." 

Nope, that's not it at all. But I know exactly where you are coming from and why that thought would arise. I have been a comic book reader and fan, lover and mild fanatic for many years, and I believe no widely viewed and experienced art form evolved and grew more since the 1980s in the world. But that is a subject for another blog. I still read comic books in collected graphic novel form, but it is rarer and rarer that I find something I want to read. 

Having been spoiled by the wonders of Alan Moore and Frank Miller, Neil Gaiman and Warren Ellis, it seems that tons of books look okay, but not really worth buying and reading. The Walking Dead by Robert Kirkman is impressive and led to a great cable show, but, from my perspective, it does not compare to my favorite books. As a result, I often browse the extensive graphic novel section of my favorite second-hand book store Counterpoint that just happens to be down the street from my apartment, looking for something to read.

A month or so ago, I stumbled upon Elephantmen: Wounded Animals, a graphic novel that looked kind of silly to me upon first glance, although I was drawn in by the cover art of the Mexican artist José Ladrönn. It had a wonderful noir feel to it as if The Maltese Falcon and Blade Runner decided to have a child with Taxi Driver and Horton Hears A Who. Even though the volume was in perfect condition and only $8, less than half of the original price, I am a cheap bastard some of the time, somewhat impoverished most of the time, and always questioning all of the time. It just looked too silly like it wouldn't work, despite the great reviews on the back cover, and I couldn't bring myself to buy it.

About a week later, browsing again in Counterpoint, I stumbled upon the volume, and it looked back at me with those accusing pages that demanded to be read. Fine, I said to myself, eight bucks is nothing, and I can always give it away to a friend later on. Wow, was that strutting little boy in for a surprise!

Elephantmen is not only good, it is beautiful and strangely emotional and a stunning piece of work. Using an Amazon gift card, I was given for Christmas, I already have sent for several other volumes. It is incredible how Starkings is able to take anthropomorphic Elephants and Rhinos, Hippos and Crocodiles, Boars and Camales, and actually allow the reader to feel the nuances of what they are feeling and experiencing in a world that rejects them as genetic engineered horrors. Of course, the art is consistently powerful and is perfectly in tune with the writing, but the art would fall on its face without those nuances and the intricate but simple crafting of the story lines. 

Isn't it amazing how something so extreme and absurd can shed such a sweet and unwavering spotlight on prejudice and not judging a book by its cover (in more ways than one) and our fear of the other, of the unknown, of that which is not us? Cycling back to the original theme and being haunted by genius and the curse of wondering why it is not my own, the ugly moment occurred this evening as I was sitting on my favorite unspoken and reading Elephantmen: Wounded Animals again. Lord only know, I picked up that habit from my father as a kid, and I don't think it's going anywhere anytime soon.

As I was reading, I began to leaf through About the Creators section in the back that included the bios of Starkings and the pencillers and the colorists and the letterers and so forth. There are blurbs about and pictures of the 17 creators in total, and the section is done very well. Reading the blurbs as I sat on my bitter throne, I felt the lizard of envy rising up from my bowels as I began wondering why I have never had such success. Sure, I get the bit about the artists and visual guys, but how did Starkings become such a great writer and get the opportunity to write comic book scripts? Why wasn't I given that shot? Really, when you think about it, it's just not fair and the universe sucks and everyone hates me and I am a loser and destined to be a failure forever and ever and so it goes, on and on and on...

How good are you at beating yourself up? I am the virtual Picasso of destroying John Lavitt and reducing him to a withered husk of self-pitying shreds. Nobody says the kind of nasty shit to me that I say to myself all the time as the devil appears, and I feel less than the rest of the world. I quickly lose touch with my gratitude and my fortune, my wonder and my love as the dragon of envy roars its ugly head and burns me to a crisp with its fiery breath. It is not Puff the Magic Dragon and there is no frolicking in the autumn mist with little Jackie Paper.

There is very little that more corrosive to the human soul than using the success of other people and their accomplishments as a weapon against yourself. What I have learned in theory and often put to use in practice is that nobody' success ever diminishes me. If everyone in the world was successful and were able to turn their dreams into a reality, welcome to heaven. Why would I ever want to prevent heaven my popping up on our so often tawdry little planet? How great it would be if my friends and family experienced the happiness and wonders, the creative satisfaction and the love that they truly deserve! If I can take this idea and feeling, this spiritual principle, and turn it into a reality, as Louis Armstrong would say, what a wonderful world it would be.

Okay, yes, I know I will relapse regularly when it comes to my character defects as the seven deadly sins rise from within. Why do I allow the false behemoths of fear and the bloated leviathans of insecurity  to rule those moments? Yet, I have learned that I don't have to beat myself up for making such mistakes. I can be kind and gentle to John and try to learn the triggers and fault lines that lead to such negative eruptions. I can enjoy the genius of Richard Starkings and his co-creators without being envious or jealous, bitter or self-defeating. Slowly, I will improve and experience my authenticity as John and not as anyone else in the world. Again, Louis would chime in, what a wonderful experience that is and will continue to be if I avoid shooting myself in the foot and allow heaven to rise from within.

Day 18 Night — Clinical Trials First Step: A Very Cool Nurse And Element Girl

Okay, as with everything in this hyper-intensified process, I perambulated today between deep spirituality and freaked-out crisis like a pinball doing the dance of life and death. My first meeting at the medical office buildings across from Olympia Medical Center for the clinical trials took place, and it was an overall positive with hints of lurking negatives. What is essential is not to fall into the either/or perspective and to understand that I am not dancing between darkness and light, good and evil, or life and death, but lingering in a vast amorphous landscape of grey. The grey offers no easy choices beyond murky fears and no quick solutions, but at least it reflects a certain truth in terms of the nature of reality and human life. There are very few mythic battles and transcendent confrontations. There are mythic hearts and transcendent laughter, and they do battle with the grim truth of everyday reality like the rest of us. Mind you, I have not forgotten that there is beauty and wonder everywhere if you look with clear eyes and open hands.

The Dream of the Mythic Battle Against Monstrous Evil

When I went into the clinical trials, I met Chris Rice, the RN who is the clinical manager of the project. Later, I will go into more details about the clinical trials, but there will be plenty of time for that in the future. Besides being incredibly positive and user-friendly (sounds like a massage with a happy ending) on the phone, Chris presented the details of the trials with precision and understandable specifics. When I went into the office today and Chris took all my medical data and history, we got along incredibly well. Since we are both huge comic book fans, it was wonderful to hear about how he is sharing Neil Gaiman's brilliant Sandman with his 15-year old daughter.

Neil Gaiman's Sandman - Facade (Death of Element Girl)

I have no kids and I have tons of comic books and baseball cards, and I always thought I would pass them down. Maybe I'll have a child in the future - being a man, the ticking clock moves a bit slower - but if I don't, I can always share them with my nephews and my niece. When Chris described watching his daughter read some of my favorite stories from Sandman, I must admit I was deeply moved by vicariously experiencing something I once dreamed of doing myself. In particular, there is one issue called Facade about the despair of the super heroine Element Girl, an eternal metamorpho created by Ra, the ancient Egyptian God of the Sun. Element Girl can change into any element at will and she is incredibly powerful, but she longs for the release of death. Since she naturally changes into any element to adapt to any situation, she does not know how to kill herself and end her overwhelming sense of being an alienated freak. She is surprised when she is unexpectedly visited by Death, one of the Endless.

Death Visits With Element Girl In Her Moment Of Despair

Element Girl is told by Death that all she has to do is ask Ra to release her from life. But how, she asks, do I find him? She is told that Ra is a Sun God so all she has to do is look into the sun and ask nicely. She walks over to the window as the dawn approaches and the sun is rising, asking Ra to free her from the burden of her powers. In a stirring moment, Ra releases her from the eternal battle and she dissipates into dust with her ashy smile blowing away on the breath of the wind. It would be wonderful to watch my child experience such a beautiful story that meant so much to me. But I feel no regret right now; only happiness that I was able to empathize so deeply with a real-life experience and story told. There is more to tell about the doctor and the looming lesion in my kidney and a questionable high five, but that shall come later because there are more days and nights coming for me. I have no desire to have Ra free me from the blessing of this life, and I shall fight to hang on with your help.