Scratch and Dent Dreams

Everyone should hear this. Eric Darby is a slam poet and this is one of his performances at the 2005 semi finals. It is pure genius, and very true.



Cheers,
Price

Quirks

One of my wife's friends "tagged" her today and challenged her to think up 6 quirks and then post them on our family blog for all our friends and family to read. Sarah, my wife, challenged me to accomplish the same task and I took up the challenge gleefully. I have seen variations of this game played where a person must think up 100 different quirks and I began to wonder how many I could actually come up with on my own.

Here are the first 7 quirks that I could think of; I will try to post more in the coming days.

The challenge has been extended and graciously accepted. Though I must admit that limiting myself to just 6 quirks is going to be somewhat difficult. I may need more space, and I must admit that I am more than a little intrigued to see if I could in fact complete a list of 100 silly quirks. So, that said, let’s see how far we can actually go.

1. First and foremost, I was going to place this at the end of this discussion out of a sense of irony, but Sarah says that I need to place it at the beginning as a warning to anyone who may not have a lot of time to spend reading this post. I cannot say anything in a simple or direct manner. All issues must be dealt with in as much detail and depth as possible so that I can feel as if my ideas are fully understood and there can be no confusion as to my position on a given subject.

2. I do not like being touched by strangers or people that I do not know very well. This is a quirk that I have had to deal with for the majority of my life, and if I know you well then it is not a problem, but by and large I do not like it when strange people approach me and wrap their arm around my shoulders or provide the free-of-charge, unsolicited, and unwanted shoulder rub.

3. Continuing in this theme, more than anything else, I DO NOT like it when people touch my feet, or attempt to touch me with their feet. There are two people in this world that I can allow to touch my feet—my mother and Sarah. This is a difficult thing for me because more than anything else I love being barefooted or wearing flip-flops (Reefs are the greatest flip-flop ever). Summers are especially difficult for me because of this quirk.

4. I am very sensitive to crumbs. I cannot stand anything on my fingertips. All salty foods or crumbly foods must be eaten with a napkin close by so that I can immediately wipe my fingers off after each bite. If no napkins are accessible I will continually wipe my fingers together (a motion similar to the one made when asking a friend for cash in homemade sign language) until I feel I have adequately brushed the miniscule food particles from my fingers.

5. I have to eat pop corn with a pair of chopsticks because I cannot stand the feel of salt, butter, and corn crumbs on my fingers. If you have not tried this trick I recommend it, not only does it make the pop corn last longer, It is quite fun.

6. I have an unnatural affinity for pens. I am very picky about the types of pens that I use when writing; they must meet a very stringent set of criterion based on pen weight, smoothness of writing, quickness of drying, and minimum transfer (the act of writing, smearing ink on the side of your hand, and then inadvertently transferring that smear to another sheet of paper, effectively making your hand a living stamp). This is a serious concern because I am left-handed.

7. I cannot mix my foods. Every item on a plate of food must be eaten separately. While this rule is not entirely applied holistically (I can mix things like steak and potato’s) It absolutely applies to any fruit that might be served with a meal (applesauce must have its own bowl that way the juices from the fruit do not mix with the other foods thus contaminating the salty nature of meat by adding a fruity sweetness).

Confessions of a Self Proclaimed Internet Addict

October 24, 2007: 6:33 pm

Yesterday I signed up for a facebook account. I have always been interested in the narrative structures of online social networking cites such as myspace, blogger, and even facebook--although that latter always held me at bay because of its reference to the picture books carried by pimps so that they could tell which whores were theirs. Still, i fell victim to the system when Sarah decided that this was a great way to keep in contact with many of her friends. So here I am, sitting in front of my laptop, pressing buttons which sent tiny electronic signals to a mess of electronic hardware that can decode those minute pulses and translate them into the character that you will decode and interpret--at least that is what I would like to imagine happens.

I am a self proclaimed internet addict; Sarah would tell you that it is a true addiction for me because I spend more time here, in front of the computer screen, than I do with her and Aiden. I feel that this is a bit of a stretch, but she is right on one thing; I do spend a lot of time on the computer writing, reading, emailing, and in various other ways waisting time. I claim, in self defense, that I do this for work. She claims that it is simply a wast of time, and she is probably right.

Time to turn over a new leaf!

I say this every time I log on to this darn site; Its time for me to actually begin to post and to start writing--I teach it all day for crying out loud, you would think that I could find some time to do a bit of my own. Oh well, I am resolved. I believe that the reason I neglect this blog so much is because I spend the majority of my time monitoring the other six blogs that I use for the classes I teach and my families. It has occurred to me though, that since I am teaching at a small rural school, it would be a good idea to chronicle some of the experiences that I am having as an English teacher. I will, of course adjust the names and, as a writer, aggrandize some of the situations for effect, but hopefully it will work out in the end. I'm not sure how I want to compose these narratives, whether I will tell them as simple stories or journal entries. For the time being I think that I will try a combination of the two, anything to get the juices flowing and along the line I will try to post some of the personal projects that I am working on as well. Readership will be low, I'm quite sure of that, but in the end what's most important is that I am actually writing and not just sitting around doing nothing. So, without further ado, here is my first observation.

Public Humiliation

It always impresses me, the extent to which certain people will go to be accepted by others. Its Homecoming week at the Winston High and school spirit is everywhere. The student body council has contrived a long list of activities that encourage the classes to compete for points. What these points actually accomplish, I have no clue, but they are there none the less--i guess it is a bragging rights situation, if the juniors beat out the seniors then they can say they have more spirit than the rest. Actually, it has been an interesting experience. In many ways I have been teleported back to my high school days, sitting in the hallway watching as the various groups whooped and hollered about which class had more spirit, or which team was filled with the best athletes. Ah, to be able to return to a time in my life when my only care was how I would avoid being stuffed into a locker or thrown into the girls restroom by one of the larger, more thuggish students (usually a member of the football team). Wait, I hated high school! Why would I daydream about going back there? Oh yes, because it is homecoming week and once again, nearly ten years later, I am reliving some of my most horrific experiences. Why did I ever become a teacher?

So, what does all this have to do with public humiliation? Well, among the other activities: the Root Beer puking contest, the clown car stuff, the caramel apple puking contest, and the puke puking contest, all of which demonstrate exactly what Homecoming is about, the celebration of athleticism at its finest, there is an activity that boggles the mind--the senior sister. As it was explained to me by Cecily, one of my senior students, "The senior sister is an opportunity for the freshman girls to gain some greater acceptance among the upper-class men." To which my response was, "And how is this acceptance gained?" Apparently, and I was not aware of this, acceptance into the upper echelon of classes comes through the ritualistic act of humiliation at the hands of your "superiors." Well, if this is true in all situations, and has been since I was in school, then I actually was the most popular person in school. The logic is, I believe, somewhat akin to the fact that in the second grade you could tell if a girl liked you by how frequently she punched you in the eye, kicked you in your pre-pubescent groin, and kissed you on the playground.

For the freshman of Winston High, this act, unlike the one performed on the playgrounds across the world, is entirely self-inflicted. The freshmen girls knowingly sign-up to be publicly humiliated in front of the entire student body! Yes, it is true. Roughly a week before Homecoming begins, the fliers begin to pop up around campus: "Be part of a glorious tradition" one states "Have fun with your friends while making new friends and meeting the girls who will guide you through this first year" states a second. These harmless posters seem, at first, to be an open invitation to fellowship and seek support and guidance from the girls who have already been through their first year of High School. But then the truth begins to come out and despite what you would think, all logic is checked at the door. These kind alluring posters are simply bait; they are posted to trap the unlearned freshmen and lure them into the carnal security that they will be mentored and cared for. Whoever actually believes what is on those posters deserves what they get. The truth is that the senior girls use this little "activity" to demonstrate their superiority over the underclassmen, particularly the freshman girls.

The worst part is that the freshman girls know the truth and still they sign up by the dozens, over two dozen to be correct. What that means is that between twenty-four and thirty girls all decided that it was more important to be accepted by the senior girls than it was to hold on to the minuscule scraps of dignity with which they typically make it through the day. The entire activity begins at roughly 3 o'clock in the morning; the senior girls, who have not slept all night, pile into their various vehicles and begin to round-up their helpless victims like cattle. They intrude on their sleep by splashing ice water on them while in bed, chase them outside screaming like drill sergeants, and they force them into the rear seat of an already overloaded car where they are continually doused whenever they open their mouths to voice a discomfort. At this point, the girls are shuttled off to a changing area where their humiliation transformation begins. They are given outfits that would make the most unfashionably inclined scream with fright and run away; their makeup is applied by a blind folded paraplegic with no arms; and they are doused in the most rancid, foul smelling, sugary perfume obtainable. All in all, they look and smell as though they have spent way too much time in a bad 80's rock video.

Once these plebes are attired in their new attire, they are carted off to as many publicly humiliating activities as possible. Some are taken to Wal-Mart (the devils lair), and forced to perform various acts of humiliation such as leapfrog down the isles, or Marco Polo in the lingerie department. Usually their antics become so bothersome that the manager of said establishment (Mephistopheles himself) has to ask that the girls move on to their next activity, at which point they are taken out for a nice dinner at the local IHOP, Elmers, or Denney's--eating establishments that were initially conceived for just these times.

(to be continued ...)

Trees version 2

Climbing Trees

At the age of six my parents moved our family from the first home I remember to the only home that I choose to remember. Though I don’t recall much about the move, I do remember leaving a neighborhood full of young children, lots of places to run and play, and little to no traffic. My parents moved our family, consisting of myself and two siblings, from the edge of town to smack-dab-in-the-middle of the bustling, thriving metropolis of Twin Falls, Idaho. Our new neighborhood was affectionately referred to as “Sesame Street” due to the presence of eight faded green antique lampposts located on alternating sides of the street every 25-30 feet. Instead of the tall, wooden, electrical pole-like street lamps with light fixtures that look like the aliens from the original film version of War of the Words, our street lamps stood around 15 feet tall and were topped by a large white globe—just like the one on Sesame Street. For the families living in our neighborhood, the lamps were a symbol of pride.
To this day the old lamps still work. The people living on the street work hard to keep them in good repair. Several times the city has offered to replace the monumental antiques with a modern-day, maintenance free counterpart; every time the families pull together and reject the offer, preferring their unique landmarks to the modern day eyesores. For the longest time I wondered why everyone fought so hard to preserve the lamp posts. When two teenagers, racing down the street in their parent’s cars, collided with another car at the intersection in-front of my house, one of the cars spun out of control, rolled up on the neighbor’s lawn and struck one of the light posts almost knocking it completely over. For about three months the lamp sat at a forty-five degree angle, propped up by wooden braces and ropes tied to tree branches or anchored into the ground. The lamp didn’t work for several months after the accident, even after a new foundation was poured, the anchors set, and the lamp righted. One neighbor, a journeyman by trade, finally opened the service panels located at the top and bottom of the lamp and rewired several of the damaged pieces. Once again the lamp’s white globe glowed, a resurrected beacon of home; the rebirth was a triumph for everyone living on the block, all of whom stood on the corner that night waiting for darkness to fall and the automatic timers to kick in, sending power to the hidden bulb.
Though there are many more fond memories I could associate with the lamp posts they are not the strongest connection that I have to my childhood on Lincoln St. Instead, when I think about growing up, I’m immediately drawn to trees—two trees to be more specific.
To a child there is something magical about trees. When one is in them, mingling with the branches, sap, leaves, and bark, the world takes on a whole new perspective. On a windy day, when you are sitting on the top-most branch, the tree feels as though it is alive, swaying to a rhythm that only it can hear. I would like to consider myself somewhat of an expert in the field of tree climbing. Though I was never the biggest child in school—quite the opposite—there was never a tree that I couldn’t somehow figure out how to scale .
Throughout my life I have climbed many trees of various shapes, sizes, and types; each tree provided its own set of challenges. A pine tree, for starters, has branches so close together that one doesn’t climb the tree so much as one slithers towards the top. You can always tell when someone has climbed a pine; typically there is the sharp, heavy scent that always conjures up memories of Christmas time, campouts in the South Hills, and chopping wood. Along with the pine scent, which car fresheners have long tried to perfect but have never gotten quite right, there are the tell-tale sap stains—sticky Rorschach test tattoos turned a dark brown from mixing with sweat and dirt. No piece of skin was safe from pine sap; you could wear a full haz-mat suit while climbing a pine tree and still there would be sap stains covering your body like spots on a Dalmatian.
In contrast to the pine tree stands the willow tree with its long, papery limbs and draping tendrils. There was a Willow tree on the playground of Harrison Elementary, the school I attended from 1st grade through sixth. Its climbing limbs, those branches which were best suited for enabling one to move upwards in the tree, were impossibly high off the ground; it truly was an impossible tree to climb. Instead, as if recognizing that it would never be able to cradle children in its strong limbs, it would drape its slender vines towards the earth, asking for us to play within its living bower. There was a certain magic that accompanied the willow tree. Even in the slightest breeze, the willow looked alive, its vines swaying hypnotically in the wind. We would hide within its canopy, separated entirely form the outside world. The girls would pluck the vines from the tree and use the flexible cords to weave wreaths, baskets, bracelets, and leafy crowns. With these homemade props, the playground would transform from a simple asphalt covered lot filled with the sounds of tether ball and four square, into a magical faerie kingdom filled with queens, princesses, knights in shining armor, and daring feats. In the middle of this imaginary world sat the willow tree, a palace for the Queen, the home of a dangerous dragon, and occasionally a wedding chapel where willow rings were exchanged under the guidance of a ten-year-old priest. Possibly the best thing about the willow tree was the potential for vine swinging. Any good tree climber knows the importance of vine swinging, its ability to free one (for a brief moment) from the confines of gravity and allows him/her to float along with the other vines caught in a gentle breeze. Robert Frost understood this principle. In his poem “Birches” he says:
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
While the willow and the pine each presented their own unique climbing challenges, the tree that I most enjoyed climbing was the maple. The most prominent tree on Lincoln Street is the maple. With roughly fifty different Maple trees scattered around the two different blocks; most houses have at least one somewhere in their yard, some have two and three. In my mind, the maple is the perfect tree. It has wide, strong branches; rough, deeply grooved bark; and a canopy full of large, thick, five pointed leaves. Each of these characteristics made climbing the Maple more enjoyable. The large branches enabled one to climb with out fear of falling—every branch was sturdy. The bark provided nice, deep, rough grooves that ran vertically around the trunk, and horizontally across the branches. In the absence of an adequate sturdy limb, the grooves in the bark served as great handholds. I would wrap my arms around the tree as far as I could stretch them, dig my fingers into what ever grooves I could find purchase, and shimmy up the bare trunk like a caterpillar slowly inching its way along a branch. Though this method of climbing would work well for any tree, it seemed particularly well suited for the Maple—Pine trees were too sappy, Birch trees’ bark would peel too easily to get very high, Willow trees were too smooth to get good hand of foot hold. But with the Maple, none of these obstacles were an issue.
In all my years as a tree climber, there is one tree that stands out above all the rest. It is a giant Maple tree that sits to side of my parent’s driveway and towers over every other tree on the block. This was the first tree that I climbed when my family moved to Lincoln Street, and it was the last tree that I climbed when I finally moved off to college and out on my own fifteen years later. When I was six years old this tree looked enormous. Its first branch stood nearly six feet off the ground and in order to reach it I would have to take a running start, plant one foot as high up on the base of the tree as I could get it, and launch myself up towards the stump of a small cut-off limb that protruded about six inches from the trunk. From the perspective of an observer it would appear as if I was running up the tree like Bugs Bunny, Donald Duck, or any of the other cartoon characters showcased on Saturday morning cartoons. Once I caught hold of the stump, the rest of the climb was like moving up a ladder. I climbed that tree so many times that I can still picture every movement, feel every swing of my body, and hear each scrape my shoes and hands made as they sought the next limb or foot hold. There were thirteen different movements that would carry me from the base of the tree to the top. About ten feet up the trunk the tree splits in two; in order to climb the tree I would start on the trunk to the right and about ten feet from the top I would jump across to the left hand trunk and finish ascending. In the top of the tree—roughly thirty plus feet from the base—sat the prefect perch, a thick limb which extended, horizontally, three and a half feet from the trunk, and then angled sharply upwards. A second limb grew straight up behind the horizontal portion and provided a backrest that was more comfortable than most la-z-boy recliners. This was my throne.
It was here, among the shaking leaves and swaying branches, I spent almost every summer evening from the time I was twelve until I graduated from High School. When I would get in trouble I would race out of my parents house and dart up my Maple; my mother, usually in pursuit, would stand at the base of the tree and yell for all the world to hear, chastising me as an old de-clawed cat will sometimes berate a squirrel that has escaped its grasp and found solace in the arms of a tree. It has been several years since I last ascended the branches of my maple tree. It is interesting to see how the both of us have changed over time. I have begun my own family, planted my own sapling which I hope to nurture and raise up to be a strong, healthy, maple with roots planed deeply into the soil of our family. In the time that has passed my maple has grown old, the branches which once supported the dreams of a child as he grew into adulthood has all been cut off. Not long ago I returned home to visit my parents while on vacation from school. While my wife sat and scrap-booked images of the first few months of our son’s life, I returned to see what life was like living in my Maple. It is no longer the same tree. Nearly all the branches fewer than fifteen feet have been cut off; no stumps extend to give small purchase for a hand hold. Several years back—I was later informed—my maple contracted a minor infestation of Asian Long Horned Beetles, a serious problem for many North American shade trees. The lower branches were weakened by the infestation and had to be cut off after a strong wind ripped through the town and broke the branches where the infestations were worst. Standing at the base of my tree, I wondered whether I could have prevented the bug problem. Did my tree become ill because it missed my presence? Surely there were enough children in the neighborhood to keep its limbs in shape. It’s not possible that my tree has been left alone this whole time. In my heart I knew it wasn’t true, but in the back of my mind I wondered. I resolved to climb my tree again, one last time to show that I still cared and had not forgotten what it felt to be in its limbs.
In order to climb this time I had to return to the bear hug. Wrapping my arms around the tree, I truly am a tree hugger, I dug my finger as far as they would go into the familiar grooves of the bark and began my ascent. This time the bark would not hold. Whether because a 28 year old weighs much more than a 12 year old, or because of the trees aging condition and bug problem, the bark simply broke off in my hand each time I tried to put pressure on it. This, I resolved would be my Everest. If I could make it up to my perch again, one last time, I would be happy. Inside, I knew my tree felt the same. Again, I gripped my maple in a bear hug so tight I felt that every piece of my body was connecting to the tree. My arms were no longer independent entities, they were extensions of the tree, extra branches that would move upward as I needed somewhere to hold; my feet became stumps and my body, part of the trunk. I was no longer someone trying to climb a tree, I was returning home and my maple was greeting me, bending its bow to lift me from the ground that I might perch once more in its lofty embrace. “So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be” states Frost. I wonder whether he ever returned to the Birch tree that he remembers in his thoughts. The tree which he tamed and bent low under the weight of love.

A work in progress, still needs a lot of polishing and will change entierly between now and the time i present it as a conference!

Climbing Trees

At the age of six my parents moved our family from the first home I remember to the only home that I choose to remember. Though I don’t recall much about the move, I do remember leaving a neighborhood full of young children, lots of places to run and play, and little to no traffic. My parents moved our family, consisting of myself and two siblings, from the edge of town to smack-dab-in-the-middle of the bustling, thriving metropolis of Twin Falls, Idaho. Our new neighborhood was affectionately referred to as “Sesame Street” due to the presence of eight faded green antique lampposts located on alternating sides of the street every 25-30 feet. Instead of the tall, wooden, electrical pole-like street lamps with light fixtures that look like the aliens from the original film version of War of the Words, our street lamps stood around 15 feet tall and were topped by a large white globe—just like the one on Sesame Street. For the families living in our neighborhood, the lamps were a symbol of pride.

To this day the old lamps still work. The people living on the street work hard to keep them in good repair. Several times the city has offered to replace the monumental antiques with a modern-day, maintenance free counterpart; every time the families pull together and reject the offer, preferring their unique landmarks to the modern day eyesores. For the longest time I wondered why everyone fought so hard to preserve the lamp posts. When two teenagers, racing down the street in their suped-up rice rockets, collided with another car at the intersection in-front of my house, one of the cars spun out of control, rolled up on the neighbor’s lawn and struck one of the light posts almost knocking it completely over. For about three months the lamp sat at a forty-five degree angle, propped up by wooden braces and ropes tied to tree branches or anchored into the ground. The lamp didn’t work for several months after the accident, even after a new foundation was poured, the anchors set, and the lamp righted. One neighbor, a journeyman by trade, finally opened the service panels located at the top and bottom of the lamp and rewired several of the damaged pieces. Once again the lamp’s white globe glowed, a resurrected beacon of home; the rebirth was a triumph for the block, who all stood on the corner that night waiting for night to fall and the automatic timers to kick in, sending power to the hidden bulb.

On another occasion, me and a group of kids from the neighboring blocks all ran around with our “Wrist Rockets” trying to shoot anything that would stand still long enough for us to find a rock, load it up, pull back, and loose our tiny projectile of destruction. None of us could really hit anything smaller than a trashcan and most of those were lucky shots. After about an hour of shooting dirt clumps at trashcans we decided to move on to bigger better game. We set off to find a more challenging, rewarding, destructive target. Being the motley group of hoodlums we were, we turned our attention to the street lamps. First we shot at the modern street lamps found on the streets parallel to mine. Atop the actual light sat what, to our limited knowledge of street lamps, looked like a soda can. Often we had wondered how the soda had gotten up there; our theories ranged from an absent minded city worker forgetting about his lunch to a giant condor snatching the refreshing drink form the unsuspecting hands of a picnicker. Why a condor would be seen in suburban Twin Falls or snatching drinks from picnickers was beyond any of us, but we though it possible—stranger things have been known to happen. It wasn’t until much later, when I had my drivers license, that I realize the soda can was actually the light sensor used to indicate when the lamp should turn on and off, though I admit that I sometimes prefer the childhood assumptions as opposed to the truth.

Our fist few of shots at the light-post-soda-can were near misses followed closely by near broken windows from said shots bouncing off roofs and windshields. We quickly abandoned our “can” destined activity and turned our attention to the “Sesame Street Lamps.” On my first and only shot, I loosed the small rock at the metal post. The shot went rogue and instead shattered the globe and bulb inside. Never have I run so fast in all my life. The news spread quickly through the neighborhood, the unknown culprit cursed for defacing a neighborhood “shrine.” The act was, in many cases, worse than spray painting a church or cursing in front of your parents for the first time. My guilt was written plainly across my forehead, or so I thought. A pool went around the neighborhood to replace the broken pieces; in my guilt, I contributed the $120 that I had been able to earn through mowing lawns, raking leaves, shoveling snow, and picking weeds. The money was intended to be used for purchasing the newest Nintendo Video Game system, the coolest invention ever. Instead it was used to repair the broken pride that I had caused. Several years later, while on a break from college, my mom brought up that fateful memory. Another young delinquent had broken a bulb and globe as I had. The young boy was forced by his parents to apologize to the family whose property the lamp resided and to work off his crime by performing yard work and service work to try and pay of his debt. In my mind I pictured him in a hunter’s orange vest and khaki jumpsuit carrying a plastic bag while his warden father watched him through large aviator sunglasses obscured by the large brim of his mountee hat. My mom reminisced about the time when I broke the same lamp, but because I gave all my savings to replace what damage I had caused there was never an accounting. My assumed subtleness had been a neon sign proclaiming my guilt and repentance. Though there are many more fond memories I could associate with the lamp posts they are not the strongest associations that I have to my childhood on Lincoln St. Instead, when I think about growing up, I’m immediately drawn to trees—two trees to be more specific.

To a child there is something magical about trees. When one is in them, mingling with the branches, sap, leaves, and bark, the world takes on a whole new perspective. On a windy day, when you are sitting on the top-most branch, the tree feels as though it is alive, swaying to a rhythm that only it can hear. I would like to consider myself somewhat of an expert in the field of tree climbing. Though I was never the biggest child in school—quite the opposite—there was never a tree that I couldn’t somehow figure out how to scale[1].

Throughout my life I have climbed many trees of various shapes, sizes, and types; each tree provided its own set of challenges. A pine tree, for starters, has branches so close together that one doesn’t climb the tree so much as one slithers towards the top. You can always tell when someone has climbed a pine; typically there is the sharp, heavy scent that always conjures up memories of Christmas and camping out under the tree waiting for Santa to arrive. Along with the pine scent, which car fresheners have long tried to perfect but have never gotten quite right, there are the tell-tale sap stains—sticky Rorschach test looking tattoos turned a dark brown from mixing with sweat and dirt. No piece of skin was safe from pine sap; you could wear a full haz-mat suit and still there would be sap stains covering your body like spots on a Dalmatian.

In contrast to the pine tree stands the willow tree with its long limbs and hanging vines. Possibly the best part of climbing a willow tree was in the potential for vine swinging. One could move to a comfortable height, grab a fistful of vines and then swing in Tarzan-esq fashion from branch to branch around the tree. As a child we would do this with a trampoline underneath us. One person would climb roughly ten feet up the trunk of the tree and shimmy out on a limb that extended roughly 15 feet out from the main trunk, from the middle of this limb they would then grab a handful of vines and hurl themselves into the air. The hurling was often times accompanied by the primal yell of Tarzan—I always hear Carol Brunett when I think about that yell—and the popping of several vines as they pulled away from the various limbs. At the apex of the swing—which in all actuality resembled more of a fall—Tarzan Jr. would release the vines and plummet the remaining few feet to the awaiting tramp where he would perform such daring acrobatic feats as a front-flip, back-flop, or knee-drop.

---

[1]Perhaps this is the reason why I am now an avid rock climber, and have been for the last 10 years. I always assumed that it was a product of lacking the necessary hand-eye coordination and physical prowess to needed to meet the requirements of the Big Three sports—Football, Basket Ball, and Base Ball. In all honesty I did contemplate trying out for the Football team in order to avoid remaining a social outcast in the ranks of the High School caste system.

Chapter 2

Hi Y'all!
I know that it has been a substantial amount of time since i have written anything creative or other here. The reason being, that most of my energies are tied up in writing my thesis. So, I have decided that in order to get a better feel for what I have to say, i would post the chapters from my work-in-progress thesis here. I got the idea from a great author by the name of Brandon Sanderson. on his website (brandonsanderson.com) he has taken to posting the rough chapters of his next book Warbreaker. I immediately thought, well if it is good enough for a published author, it is good enough for me, a complete novice. So here are rough sketches of chapter two and three form my thesis.
Remember, this is a very rough draft and desperately in need of revision (which i am currently working on). Some of the ideas are still fuzzy, and the connections are in need of strengthening, but at least the thoughts are on paper.
Cheers,
Price

Chapter 2

Chapter 2 should show a: Brief history of comic book genre and the background of creators, their stories, and the influences behind the characters. Introduce discussion of the connections between comic books and folk traditions.

In order to begin a discussion on comic books as a genre, it is important to first begin with a definition of the term “comics”. The term “book” can be left off because it serves merely as the vessel which carries the substance. The most common definition used is “sequential art,” a term coined by Will Eisner, referring to the use of images to suggest movement in a story/action from one frame to the next. Scott McCloud, in his book Understanding Comics, defines the term thus, “juxtaposed pictorial and other images in deliberate sequence, intended to convey information and/or to produce an aesthetic response in the viewer” (9). Either of these two definitions will work for this discussion, though the more detailed definition will come into play later.

In discussing the origins of the comic book genre, one could trace the history all the way back to a pre-Columbian picture manuscript discovered by Cortez in the early sixteenth century. The Manuscript depicts, through images, the story of Eight-Deer Tiger Claw, a great political and military hero. Similarly, according to our definition, the French Bayeux Tapestry, which depicts the Battle of Hastings in 1066, is another example of pictures being used to tell or suggest a story and elicit a response. In more contemporary times, one could look at the work of wood cut artists such as Lynd Ward and Frans Masereel. Their works provide an interesting look at the complexities of using merely pictures to tell stories. The same could be said for Max Ernst’s collage novel A Week of Kindness. Though it might be a stretch to get a “serious” art critic to agree these books are examples of “comics” there is no denying that Ernst, Ward, and Masereel each intended for the images to be read (viewed) sequentially, not randomly. With these examples in mind, it is easy to see that the idea to use pictures to tell a story is not a new concept. Images have long been relied on as a means of telling stories and even recording historical events. Today, this form of story telling has become commonly referred to as comics. This term is generally used to refer to one of two formats—comic strips and comic books.

Comic strips first found their way into the American home during the newspaper war between Joseph Pulitzer and William Randolph Hurst as a means of attracting a larger audience for their papers. [small discussion on comic strips] Because of the growing popularity of many “daily” strips, some of the more influential publishers started to play with the idea of compiling some of the more popular “dailies” into a book format to be sold in their stands along with the other magazines, pulps, and newspapers. Since the majority of these comics were humorous in nature the name carried over, hence the name “comic book.” The pulps, inexpensive fiction magazines published throughout the 1920 to 1950s, became an initial storehouse for many of these early comics. It is commonly assumed that the pulps of the 1940s were limited to adventure fiction, a very popular genre, but the truth is that these magazines told a wide variety of stories, from detective/mystery to science fiction, old westerns to romance. The comics presented in these pulps needed to keep with the theme of the magazine, so strips such as The Shadow and Flash Gordon each found a home in their respective pulps, detective/mystery and science fiction.

Eventually the popularity of the comics outgrew the pulp magazine and they were given their own separate publication. In February 1935 National Periodical Publication published the first comic book with original characters and stories, New Fun Comics. These original books were published on tabloid size pages (10inX15in), and contained a variety of stories from humorous to dramatic. National followed this publication up in 1937 with Detective Stories—which would eventually house the Batman franchise. Both New Fun Comics and Detective Stories were highly influenced by the pulps of the time and even have several of the pulp writers shadow writing for their comics.

The history of comics is broken up into five different “ages”. Speaking of these divisions, Peter Coogan, in his book The Secret Origins of the Superhero: The Origins and Evolution of the Superhero genre in America, states:

Ever since the revival of the Flash in 1956, comic book fans have use the concept of “ages” to distinguish periods of comic book history that share a nexus of concerns, storytelling techniques, marketing strategies, styles of art and writing, and approaches to genre conventions. A general consensus regarding the names and starting and ending points of the ages has emerged in the fan community, but any specific starting or ending point for a given age is argumentative and somewhat arbitrary.

(436)

Though they are somewhat arbitrary as Coogan suggests, these “ages” provide a convenient frame of reference when discussing the various shifts in the comic book industry. Fans have labeled these “ages”: platinum, gold, silver, bronze, and modern. Though it is difficult to draw a finite line between when one “age” begins and another ends, there are several major shifts and events in the telling of production of comic books that serve as flag posts for these transitions.

The platinum age of comics, oddly enough, is not defined by its beginning but by its end. Comics which were published prior to 1938 are classified as platinum age comics. They were the forerunners mentioned earlier; the eight page tabloid spread reprints of various comics seen in pulps and newspapers throughout the 20s and early 30s. These books, unlike their progeny did not have a consistent story line, characters, or theme; they were collections of whatever was popular at the time and ranged from humorous to dramatic. These early collections would house the strips of such iconic characters as Mickey Mouse and Popeye, and paved the way for the introduction of comics as they are recognized today.

The end of the platinum era came with perhaps the most significant event in the history of the comic book; in 1938 National Periodical Publications released Action Comics #1, which introduced Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster’s Superman, the first comic book superhero (Daniels 35), to the world. The impact that Superman had on the world of comics cannot be overstated. Within two years of his introduction, most of the other publishing houses were also producing large numbers of superhero stories. National’s release of Actions Comics #1 ushered in the beginning of the Golden Era of comic books, a period that lasted from 1938 until the mid 1950s; it signaled a surge in the popularity of comics, established and defined the archetypal superhero; it also brought the introduction of many of today’s continuing heroes such as Captain America, The Green Lantern, Batman, The Flash, and Wonder Woman.

Because of the large number of Superman spin-offs, National Periodical Publications began to file copyright infringement lawsuits against the other publishing houses in order to eliminate competition and create a better market for their own cash cow: Superman. One of the most heated lawsuits filed was between National and their rival Fawcett Publications.

In 1939, Fawcett purchased the rights to C.C. Beck and Bill Parkers character Captain Marvel, a superhero who, like Superman, was super strong, super fast, invincible, wore a spandex costume and cape, and was a reporter for his alter ego. According to National, this was a direct copy of their Superman character despite the fact that Marvel’s powers came from magic, not genetics, and his alter geo was a child, not an adult. In the end, after a six year time span, the judge sided with National and Fawcett ended up canceling all of its superhero stories and selling their publication rights to other houses (Jones 165-66). Captain Marvel wasn’t seen again until the 70s when DC Comics revived him in his own series called Shazam. Ironically, the first issue was published with a picture of Captain Marvel being introduced by none other than Superman.

The height of the Golden age came in the early to mid 40s as the United States began to observe the Nazi’s progression across much of Western Europe. The comics became a political venue where many of the artists and writers, many of whom happened to be Jewish, could illustrate their contempt for Hitler’s treatment of Jews. At this time comics were an inexpensive form of entertainment and many of their stories dealt with good triumphing over evil. The cover art for many of the comic books at this time depict various heroes in the throws of a battle with the Axis, punching out Hitler, or battling mobs of bucktoothed Japanese.

Comic books maintained their popularity until the early to mid 50s when several changes and other publications began to impact their success. The biggest event to impact the comic industry at this time was the publication of Dr. Fredrick Wertham’s book The Seduction of the Innocent, in which Dr. Wertham suggests that many of the industries leading heroes were a major contributing factor to the delinquency of the youth. Wertham’s main claims stated that many of these costumed heroes suggested an alternative lifestyle, promoted senseless violence, and encouraged sexuality through the use of titillating images (i.e. scantily clad women and tight clothing which leave little to the imagination). Wertham’s book led to a series of court hearings held by the Senate Subcommittee on Juvenile Delinquency in which the publishers as well as the men and women who wrote and illustrated comic books were questioned about their creations and their underlying themes.

The end result of this inquiry was the adoption of a “Comic Code” that the remaining publishers each agreed to uphold.

Under this code, any comic book published had to meet a set of standards to ensure its reader friendly nature, a process very similar to the rating system applied to movies today. The code covered all aspects of the comic book from the cover, “No comic magazine shall use the word "horror" or "terror" in its title”, (Daniels ?) to the advertising, “The sale of picture postcards, "pin-ups," "art studies," or any other reproduction of nude or semi-nude figures is prohibited”; (Daniels ?) and most importantly costume and content regulations were explicitly laid out: “All characters shall be depicted in dress reasonably acceptable to society. Females shall be drawn realistically without exaggeration of any physical qualities” and “Crimes shall never be presented in such a way as to create sympathy for the criminal, to promote distrust of the forces of law and justice, or to inspire others with a desire to imitate criminals” (Daniels ?). The adoption of the Comic Code signaled the end of the Golden Age of comics and the transition into the Silver Age.

Like the Golden Age, and each subsequent age, the actual beginning of the Sliver Age is arbitrarily argued about. Most scholars and fans agree that the Sliver Age was ushered in with the introduction of the modern version of The Flash in DC Comics Showcase #4 published in 1956. The Silver Age runs from roughly the late 50s/ early 60s through the early 70s. It was during this time that Marvel Comics, an off-shoot of EC Comics, was founded and writers such as Stan Lee (whose real name is Stanly Martin Lieber) and Jack Kirby (Jacob Kurtzberg) began to introduce characters with human flaws and relatable trials; gone were the perfect problems resolved by a speedy trip around the world to capture a crime lord. The story arcs of the Silver Age revolved around more realistic problems mingled with the fantastic. Characters like Spider-Man, a teenager named Peter Parker struggling to be accepted by his peers while dealing with personal guilt over the death of his Uncle, brought a new life to the comic book genre; it was at this time that Marvel introduced some of their most popular titles such as The Fantastic Four, The Incredible Hulk, and The Avengers: Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. On the DC end, characters like The Flash, The Green Lantern, and The Justice League of America were given a rebirth with revamped back stories which highlighted their more humanistic qualities and appealed to a more broad audience.

In the mid to late 60s the Silver Age saw its peak; Batman the TV series was in full production and acquiring a large fan base; the shows popularity brought a new group of readers and critics to the field of comics. Their attention was both beneficial and detrimental. For many, the Batman TV series so spoofed the actual comic book genre that people saw it as hurting the quality of the writing and the art. Instead of being seen as a viable form of literature, comics became seen as humorous stories with shallow plots and sub-par writing. On the other hand, the increased readership allowed for more money to be pumped into the creative think-tanks at both DC and Marvel and into improving the comic craft.

At this time comic books began to address more serious social issues such as drug addiction and the darker side of humanity. In 1971 Stan Lee was approached by the United States Department of Health, Education, and Welfare to write a three-issue story arc where Spider-Man, Marvel’s most popular title, has to deal with the issues of drug addiction. Lee jumped at the chance to tackle such a controversial topic and began working on what would eventually be Amazing Spider-Man #96-98. After submitting the script for the issues, the Comic Code Authority refused to place their stamp of approval because of the drug references; under the direction of Martin Goodman—the editor in chief at Marvel—Lee published the issues without the CCA’s approval; prompting a reexamination of the original CC and a subsequent revision which allowed references to drugs so long as they stories only showed the negative side and in no way condoned the use of any illegal drug. Taking Marvel’s groundbreaking approach to writing comics, and in an attempt to ride the wave of success that it produced, DC also began to write stories that dealt with more contemporary issues.

In 1973 one of the most shocking and debated stories in comic history was published, Amazing Spider-Man #121, “The Night Gwen Stacy Died”, hit the stands. Throughout the 60s writers at Marvel had been playing with the “superheroes in the real world” idea, placing their characters in actual locations such as Westchester County, New York and Hell’s Kitchen instead of fictional locations such as Gotham or Metropolis. Marvel characters were given “real world” problems like relationships and families to deal with on top of maintaining their identities (both public and secret), and battling villains set on destruction, and world domination. Amazing Spider-Man #121 took this plot development to a new level by killing one of the primary characters and subsequently showing the darker side of one of their most popular titles. The death of Gwen Stacy shocked readers and ushered in an era of grittier, darker comics as well as the Bronze Age.

Along with the darker story arcs being written in the beginning of the Bronze Age, the minority issue became much more prevalent. Prior to the 1970s the majority of the heroes depicted in comic books were Caucasian, and the few exceptions such as the Black Panther and Falcon were notable. Following the social revolution of the 50s and 60s, many comic book publishers tried to create more variety in their character pool by introducing several character of varying ethnicity. Some of the more popular characters such as Aurora Monroe (aka Storm) and Luke Cage were so successful their characters were given leading roles in various titles; Luke Cage became the first African American superhero with his own title. Among the other characters of minority were the Native American Thunderbird and Warpath, as well as the Asian Shang-Chi and Xi’an Coy Mahn (aka Karma). Though these latter characters never got as strong a foothold as Story and Cage, their presence is worth noting.

The end of the Bronze Age and beginning of the Modern Age is up for debate. Many scholars and fans refer to DC’s completion of Crisis on Infinite Earths, a major cross-over even where nearly every title in the DC universe was influences by something going on in another title, as one milestone. The release of Alan Moore’s Watchmen, an progressive attempt at making comics a more serious form of literature than the juvenile tripe often served. At the same time DC released Frank Millers Batman: The Dark Knight Returns, a retelling of the Batman origins story with a grimmer, grittier noir spin that later becomes Millers trademark style. Each of these stories, published between the years of 1985 and 1986, helped push DC, which had been suffering from a limited readership, back into competition with the Marvel powerhouse.

The Bronze Age gave way to the Modern Age in the mid 80s with the rise of underground comics and a resurgence of interest in crowd favorites such as Superman and the X-Men. The 80s also saw the introduction of graphic novels as a more serious form of comics and literature. Inspired by the work of Moor’s Watchmen, many underground comic artist began to experiment with the graphic novel as a venue for publication. Instead of simply turning to the spandex avengers, artist/authors like Art Spieglman began to use the comic form as a legitimate storytelling medium. Spieglman’s biographical book Maus, published in 1987, tells the story of his father’s experiences as a Holocaust survivor and is seen as one of the seminal Holocaust books because of its graphic treatment of Nazi Germany during the 40s.

Along with a rise in the graphic novel, Hollywood jumped on the comic bandwagon with its release of several hero-based films: the Superman series starring Christopher Reeves, Tim Burton’s Batman Movies starring Michael Keaton, though this trend faded some until the beginning of the 21^st century when the first X-Men movie began a renaissance of sorts in the comic movie industry. In the decades following the induction of the Modern Age, comics have undergone several controversial changes from the death of Superman in 1992 to the unmaking of Spiderman in 2006. With the advances in technology an printing and the advent of the internet it is difficult to predict where the future of comics will go. It is easy to see that it will continue to grow in popularity.

[This will introduce the connections between comics and folklore. I’m assuming that it should be fairly short, just enough to wet the whistle and leave the reader interested in what else I have to say in the subsequent chapters. This is really rough still!!!]

Despite all these changes, one thing has maintained it level of importance in the field of comics—the personal connection. One of the goals of the main comics publishing houses is to create a shared understanding in their stories. To accomplish this feat many of the stories and characters are drawn from a common story pool shared by many cultures and employ a series of storytelling techniques that have been employed since before the introduction of printed text; the stories are highly interactive and, through various crossovers, rely on a shared understanding similar to the shared understanding relied on in the folklore of many cultures and shared across cultural lines.

Chapter 3

Here is chapter 3. Again, remember that it is still very rough. A lot of the thoughts need tempering and a lot need to be given a more juice. But, at least it is something. I apologize for the sterile nature of the language, but hey its academic; if you want action go read a Clive Cussler novel :)!

Chapter 3

Abstract: Structural look at the similar characteristics found in comic books and folktales, begin to define and apply Foley’s method of analysis, Immanent Art. [15 pages]

Now that we have established a little bit of background for the history of the comic book and the men who influenced, informed, and otherwise initiated the birth of the genre, it is relevant to begin discussing the structure of the comic book and how it relates to the structure/ rules used in telling traditional folktales. In this chapter I will present the basic structure of both the comic book and the traditional folk narrative. Though the similarities between these two seemingly disparate genres will hopefully become suggested at, the true discussion of similarities will be presented in subsequent chapters. For now, it is enough to recognize that these two story forms are not quite as different as one might initially imagine.

In his book Understanding Comics Scott McCloud begins to outline the various methods that can be used when looking to define, interpret, and interact with comics on a more educated level. The comic book is much more than just pictures on the page, or word bubbles next to the image of an overly muscular individual in spandex. As suggested earlier, comics are a form of narrative which, like more traditional forms, utilizes a complex series of icons to create a sense of movement within the story. McCloud, when referring to this system of icons, uses a term coined by Will Eisner—sequential art.

Sequential art is “an art and literary form that deals with the arrangement of pictures or images and words to narrate a story or dramatize an idea” (Eisner, Sequential 5). This definition, taken from Will Eisner’s book Comics and Sequential Art, provides a touch stone for breaking up the rest of the structure of a comic book. When one begins to discuss the structure of a comic book, it is obvious where to begin; Eisner’s definition and book, along with McCloud’s, each begin by focusing on the art/image rich content of comics. In the past, many people have tried to look at art and text as two separate entities intended to be interpreted separately. According to McCloud, this separation is unnatural; in the case of comics, images and words should be viewed as interrelated. Instead, because pictures represent “received information” and require less “formal education to get the point” or decode, and words represent “perceived information” requiring more “specialized knowledge to decode” (Understanding 5), these two iconic forms are often times forced into opposite corners of the same triangle—this is the first mistake. Why would one separate the image and the text in one context but not in another? Take concrete poetry for example. If we look at E.E. Cummings poem “Leaf Falls” or George Herbert’s “Easter Wings” we see that the physical presentation of the text, the image, movement, and abstractions that they present are just as important to understanding the overall meaning of the poem as the words used to create the work. Each of these poems has a specifically detailed shape so it can effectively convey a specific meaning. Similarly, the images in comic books serve a greater function than just presenting something to look at or perhaps aid the progression of the story.

According to McCloud, the images used in comics serve the function of an icon. Now the term icon is very general, and the job of narrowing it down to a more specific definition is one that delves much deeper into the realms of abstraction than is needed at this point. For the time being, I will borrow McCloud’s definition which suggests that an icon is “any image used to represent a person, place, thing, or idea” (Understanding 27). Typically we see two common types of icons, the icons of science and language (alphabets, numbers, musical notes, mathematical symbols, etc.) and icons that resemble their subject (pictures drawn realistically or in abstraction). Icons can be anything from the letter “A” to the smiley face sticker on the bumper of your neighbor’s car. In comic books, icons are everything from the voice bubble used to convey the notion of dialogue when one character speaks to another; the props, costumes, and scenery that are depicted (sometimes to photorealistic extremes), used, interacted with, and worn in the stories; to the characters themselves.

This said, one might imagine that the only structure that exists in a comic book is the icon, and this is true to an extent. Once we recognize that we are not just looking at a bunch of pictures interspersed with words, but instead are examining an icon rich text that not only deserves closer attention, but asks for it explicitly, we can begin to see the variations of icons as independent structures. By understanding the structure of the icon and each of its individual functions, one will begin to see how comics can transcend the standard conventions of image and text to create a unified narrative that, like the concrete poems mentioned above, relies on both forms of icon to establish meaning.

The pictorial icons, as suggested by McCloud, are much more variable than their more concrete, non-pictorial others. If I were to place the following non-pictorial icon on a sheet of paper and ask a random sampling of people what the symbol represented or meant, the likelihood that most of the people queried would respond with some variation of peace or freedom is unquestionable because of its universally implied meaning. McCloud suggest that non-pictorial icons have meanings that are “fixed and absolute. Their appearance does not affect their meaning because they represent invisible ideas” (Understanding 28). If, on the other hand, I performed a similar survey using a drawing of a male face, the responses would be much more varied because the picture would not hold the same iconic meaning as does—pictorial icons have meanings which are “fluid and variable” depending on the conditions under which they are presented. Thus, when we look at a comic book we see certain non-pictorial icons such as the “S” emblazoned across the chest of Siegel and Schuster’s Superman, or the circle x (Ä) combination of Lee and Kirby’s X-Men, and immediately recognize specific themes: vengeance, justice, vigilante, heroes, and the “other” being perhaps the most immediate. In the same light the characters themselves represent a variety of themes dependent on condition, situation, and writer’s whim; their role is much more fluid depending on how they are being used in a particular scene or story arc.

Pictorial images are the most common form of icon used in comic books; they function as a guide, and direct the reader through the action of the story. They are easily recognized and represent the flash and bravado of most comic stories. Non-pictorial icons fill a much different role and can be broken up into two categories, symbol[1] and text. Text icons represent the second structural element in comic books. As mentioned earlier, many critics seek to separate the image and the text so that they can be interpreted and discussed using the terms, rules, formulae, and strictures that apply to each group independent from the other.

“Dialogue executed in a certain manner tells the reader how the author wishes it to sound. In the process it evokes a specific emotion and modifies the image” (Eisner, Sequential 12). In comic books, text can be presented in a number of ways and in a number of different functions. Through the use of thought and speech bubbles, the image and text take on an “interdependent relationship” (McCloud 153) where one component serves to complete the other by adding something that the first could not provide in a isolation. At other times, textual icons play an “additive” (Understanding 154) role and seek to enhance the image by elaborating on the image or situation. Textual icons can also play an independent, or “word specific” (Understanding 153), role where it can stand alone as a complete text, but is only slightly enhanced by the images itself. McCloud outlines several other functions—picture-specific, duo-specific, parallel, and montage—and show how each provides certain qualities and functions in unique ways. Most importantly, through these various functions and manifestations one can see that the role of text in a comic book is more than just narration or scripting. Words begin to suggest emotion, movement/action, characterization, mood, etc. In order to truly understand the image, one must examine the text as well.

To return to Will Eisner, a man who is seen as the original comic theorist, innovator, and critic, when discussing the role of text in comics he stated: “Writing for comics can be defined as the conception of an idea, the arrangement of image elements and the construction of the sequence of the narration and the composing of dialogue. It is at once part and the whole of the medium” (Sequential 122). In the eyes of Eisner, text, in many ways, took the dominant role in comic books. In a conventional novel, the abundance of text restricts the imagination of the reader by spoon feeding in specific information to create a specific image in his/her minds eye. The authors of conventional novels use text as their paintbrush and the blank page as their pallet. In the case of a major novel the author has to use words to describe setting, character appearance, emotion, and any physical prop used or of visual importance. In comics, the opposite is the case. Instead of relying on textual icons to relate each of these afore mentioned items, they are graphically represented through pictorial means. The use of pictures frees the mind of the reader and allows them to read the dialogue and make extra-textual connections that otherwise may be impeded by an overload of sensory textual-details. Eisner suggest that “In comics the imagining is done for the reader” (Sequential 122). Though this is true to an extent, in many ways the imagining that is done is the purely superficial imagining that is the burden of many traditional novels. Instead of having to keep a constant picture of the scenery or wardrobe in mind, the reader can begin to imagine other aspects of the characters lives and provide background context that may not be explicitly mentioned but alluded to. These added dimensions are created between the panels.

The panels in a comic represent the third structural element. If images and text combined make the story, the panels serve to provide tension and order. Panels are the individual scenes which make up one moment of “time” in a comic. Though their roll is significant, there is no clear cut rule governing how panels are to be used. One panel can be the size of a postage stamp or it could take up an entire two page spread. While individual/isolated panels are the most common, long panels and full page/bleeds[2] are becoming more and more common as American comics are influenced by the comics of other regions, particularly the orient. Perhaps the primary function of the panel is to serve as a metaphorical clock depicting images in some sequence. Beneath this idea, McCloud outlines six major functions of the panel in comic books: depicting moment-to-moment, action-to-action, subject-to-subject, scene-to-scene, aspect-to-aspect, and non-sequitur (Understanding 74). Each of these functions contributes something different to the comic as a whole and is often in correlation or contrast to the others. For example, in DC’s Superman for all Seasons story, written by Jeph Loeb and illustrated by Tim Sale, page nine shows a three panel moment-to-moment transition as the “camera” slowly zooms in on the iconic Superman “S”; this transition is intended to provide a slower pace to the story and suggests that either the information or the icon(s) are especially significant and should be attended to. Action-to-action transitions, on the other hand, suggest a much quicker pace and accomplish in a much smaller space what would take a moment-to-moment transition much longer to represent. Again, turning to Superman for an example, on page 25 we see an action-to-action transition as the barber attempts to give young Clark Kent a haircut, and instead breaks his scissors on Clark’s super strong hair.

One could continue to point out each of the other functions as they are exhibited in the text, but this would be an unnecessary activity. Instead, it is sufficient to recognize that with each move up the function ladder the idea of time becomes much more abstract. While moment-to-moments actions depict a brief amount of time in a drawn-out manner, action-to-action panels accomplish a similar function in a much smaller amount of space. Similarly, subject-to-subject, scene-to-scene, aspect-to-aspect, and non-sequitur each tackle time in an increasingly rapid manner. As we move from a detailed, time-conscious position of moment-to-moment panels, to the non-sequitur panels, there is an accompanying transition from concrete representations of time to more abstract representations. For readers, this transition signals a more complex reading of both the images and the text. Though much of the imagining is pre-fabricated in comics, as mentioned earlier, there is still a large amount of imagining that goes on. The majority of this takes place between the panels—or in the gutter. While panels do depict the idea of time as it moves from one point to the next, they do not depict continuous movement like a film or television show does.

Action in a comic book is choppy at best, though the images usually have a logical transition; every action is not depicted in minute detail. Instead we see jumps in action as in fig.2. Sale does not draw every minute change in the scissors as they contract in an attempt to sever the tips of Clark’s hair. In the first panel he shows the scissors open and ready to cut; in the second he shows the closed scissors by the strength of Clark’s hair. Do we need every small shit in the blades as they close? No. Why? Because a) the action is too quick to justify dedicating more than two panels to it, and b) because everyone who reads the panel has had a haircut as some point and is able to mentally fill in the missing action of closing the scissors. This is what is called reading between the panels, or as McCloud refers to it “closure” (Understanding ___). By willfully filling in the blanks, or creating closure, the audience agrees to take part in the creation of meaning and the formation of a text; without this agreement, comics would be little more than fragmented images accompanied by sometimes complimentary captions. The gutters and the panels force the audience to interact with the text in very dynamic ways. Instead of being fed the necessary information needed to create an image in one’s mind, the audience is provided with a suggested structure and then given the reigns to guide the remainder of the story as they fill in the gutters with their personal perceptions and thoughts. The audience makes up the fourth major structure found in comic books. While each of the other structures deal with some form of icon, pictorial, textual, and panel (the physical box surrounding images), the final form deals with text in a more conventional format—the letter.

Letters pages were initially introduced into comics during the Golden Age as a means of meeting the postal regulations regarding magazines (Pustz 166). These pages started out as a place where short stories about the characters in the comic would be placed. These stories would be entirely textual, and would stand alone as an independent story, separate from the comic story also being told[3]. Eventually, the editors of the major publishing houses, EC and National, decided to save the money spent on paying someone to write a short story, and instead began to run the letters being sent in by the fans. In the early years very few comic actually had their own letters page; by the early 60s however, letter pages (or letterscols, an abbreviation of letters columns) became a staple of comics across the genre (Pustz 169). The primary function of the letterscol is to “encourage interaction between fans, content, and creators”; they were also “crucial in creating brand loyalty [and a] sense of community” (Pustz 167-168). Through this interaction the reader is given more of a buy in. They are given an opportunity to not only praise their favorite creator, but to suggest future movements in the story, ask questions about past stories and how they may or may not relate to the current one, and otherwise demonstrate an interest in the creation process.

Structurally, the letterscol signify a change in formality. They are typically located at the end of the comic and function as a bridge between the current story and the one to precede it. While the letterscols provide a place for fans to express their thoughts to a broader audience, they also serve as a place where creators are able to communicate with their audience on a more personal level. In the beginning, many of the letters that were published by DC, EC, and the other publishing houses were ghostwritten by the same men who were writing and illustrating the comics. This was done in an attempt to establish a specific feel, tone, and dynamic to the letters page. Many of the initial letters were loaded responses designed to suggest a specific method of reading, interpreting, and interacting with the comic story. In the 30s and 40s, when comics were beginning to grow in popularity, and then again with their rebirth in the 70s, the letterscol provided an alternate forum where fans could interact, communicate, and grow (Pustz 166).

Icons, text, panels, and letters pages/letterscols are only four broad categories of a text rich in structure, technique, and symbolism. Each division could be broken down into multiple other divisions; icons can be discussed in terms of pictorial or non-pictorial, active or inactive, primary or dependent, etc. Text can be discussed as dialogue, narration, effect, sensory/imagery, etc. Panels can be looked at in terms of how they are organized on the page, how they interact with each other, whether they are framed or bleeds, etc. Letterscols can be addressed in terms of who is commenting, what comments are being made, how those comments are responded to, what similarities exist from comment to comment and comic to comic. Most of all, one should look at each of these elements in relation to how they each function independently from one another and in harmony with each other. By taking a functional approach, one will begin to see how each of these structures works to create specific meanings within the comic—notice it is a question of how, not what meaning is achieved.

The question of how is one that is commonly dealt with in Deconstructive criticism. A text is approached by using a variation of the “how do the words and ideas presented in the story, essay, novel, or poem work together to create some kind of meaning” question. This is not an easy question to answer, but it is a question that John Miles Foley has attempted to clarify through his method of interpreting folk narratives called Immanent Art. Immanent Art “seeks to understand the idiomatic implications of multi-form ‘words.’ It concentrates on the recurrent phrases and scenes and story-patterns not as ends in themselves but as indexes of more-than-literal meaning, as special signs that point towards encoded traditional meanings” (Foley, How 109). Immanent art is a method of examining parts of a story as a whole; it looks at words groups such as the “much-suffering divine Odysseus” or “swift-footed Achilles” from Homers Odyssey and Iliad and examines how these repeated constructions function as a single idea intended to portray a specific mood, thought, or larger context. They centralize the characters by describing him/her using idiomatic language to access their “traditional” character.

But how does this all apply to comics? The Iliad and the Odyssey are epic poems; their original transmission was through word of mouth. Structurally, what similarities are there between these folktales and comic books? Comic books are pictorial stories; they are transmitted through print. They must be read in order to be understood, not listened to. In order to answer this question it is important to begin by defining the characteristics and structures of a common folktale as well as the techniques used in Immanent Art to examine these same folktales.

Folktales are one of the many kind of stories commonly grouped under the title of folklore. Folklore, as defined by Barre Toelken in The Dynamics of Folklore, is the study of the “dynamic interaction among human beings in vernacular performance contexts rather than through the more rigid channels and fossilized structures of technical instruction or bureaucratized education, or […] formally taught classical education” (32). In other words, folklore is the study of how information or traditions are passed down from one person or generation to the next in an informal setting. This information can be a mechanical skill such as wood carving, a bedtime story, life lessons, holiday traditions, special recipes for how to cure a cold, or a hundred other things such as specialized vocabularies used in certain situation and not in others. The key ingredient that links each of these items together is the method by which they are shared—word of mouth. Folklore is variable and consistent, variable in that its manifestations can be seen in anything from a patchwork quilt to an epic poem, and consistent in that the creation of said artifact springs from a tradition that has carried over from one generation to the next consistently over time (Toelken 34). If we combine these two ideas we can begin to see a rough definition of folklore as the informal transmission of information that has been circulating long enough to become consistent in content and variable in performance, or how it is shared. Immanent Art seeks to understand how these consistencies and variables create meaning.

Yet there still remains the problem with orality. True folktales/lore is oral by nature; Comic books are written, not oral. How does one reconcile the difference? This is where Immanent Art comes into play. One problem with studying folklore is that in its true essence it can only be studied in the present. How then are texts like the Iliad, the Odyssey, or Beowulf to be treated? At one point it is assumed that each of these texts existed purely in oral form. They were told at festivals and in public settings as a means of reminding people about their religion, their history, even their government. Today these tales exist purely in written form; they are no longer accessible in a purely oral form. Do these still fall into the realm of folklore, or have they transcended the gap and become standard texts? Foley would argue that these stories are powerful examples of folk traditions, that they still belong in the field of folk studies, and that through their examination one could understand the significant structures of folk narratives in a more complete and rich manner. To accomplish this, Foley took the methods of study outlined by Milman Perry and Albert Lord known as Oral-Formulaic Theory, and adjusted the processes of analysis a little and in turn developed Immanent Art.

While Oral-Formulaic Theory (OFT) seeks to “elucidate the structure of oral poetry [through] identify[ing] and describe[ing] the inventory of flexible construction material available to the poet, [… and] how larger patterns vary within limits from one performance to another” (Foley, How 109), Imminent Art (IA) looks for the how, how “idiomatic” expressions create specific meanings known and accepted by the audience. IA looks at the continually recurring scenes, “word[4]” groups, and patterns as “indexes of more-than-literal meaning, as special signs that point towards encoded traditional meanings” (Foley, How 109). IA seeks to view the text as a whole; it is especially useful when looking at written texts because it focuses on the repetitive structures of the text, seeing the recurring images and ideas as keystones for unlocking the significance of the text. IA sees texts as living bodies, not dead manuscripts. Originally developed to examine oral poetry that has been transcribed, it is my contention that IA can effectively be applied to other texts as well. Its application examines oral poetry as a “species of Language” (Foley, How 113), unspoken, but still able to demonstrate the malleability and active nature of its living cousin. IA’s overall goal is to restore to the language power of the idiomatic expression. Instead of focusing purely on the structures and formulae/ patterns, IA views these as vehicles which assist in transporting meaning.

When applying Immanent Art to a text, there are three main components that are used to examine the text: the register, the performance arena, and communicative economy. Each of these components serves a specific function on unraveling the communal meanings in the text.

Register looks at the “special language” used by both the storyteller to create their story and the audience/reader to both hear and read the tale. Foley explains this concept by suggesting an experiment where you try to explain a major event in history to three different people: your best friend, your parents, and the dean of your college. Though you may pay close attention to the tale and how you hare it, if you were to videotape each individual telling and then play them back you would notice that as hard as you tried to keep them all the same there would still be huge differences in each presentation. The reason for these differences is that each setting calls for a different level of formality. You will use a different register (vocabulary, posture, tone, etc) when talking to your friend than you will when talking to your dean. Similarly each storytellers will use different registers (performance techniques, vocabulary, highlighted details, etc) when performing for different groups (How 115). This shift in register is an important characteristic to recognize because it provides the initial connection between the story and its oral tradition. By recognizing the use of register in comics it will be much easier to demonstrate how these printed stories pull similar oral traditions.

After register comes the performance arena. The performance arena is not a physical space where performer and audience gather to interact. Instead, Foley describes it as “virtual space and time in which the poet and audience—more accurately, poets and audiences—transact their traditional business” (How 116). Since IA focuses on folklore reproduced as a physical text, the performance arena is the conditions under which the reader code switches (changes his/her mindset) in order interact with the text. In some cases these switches require that the reader agree to certain rules of “composition and reception” (116) which allow for the requisite interaction between reader and teller. Code switching can be a byproduct of social situation or a shift in the virtual venue. Despite the shift, Foley contests that each form of lore, be it poetic, narrative, musical, or artisan, has its own unique performance arena, and defines its own structures and rules to govern the way in which each performance is received. Conversely, all experiences take place in the same performance arena (116-117). In other words, though each text requires that the audience/reader agree to certain conditions in order to interact with the story, the experiences taken from each interaction all belong in one performance arena separate from the ones established by the text. This allows the reader to interact with a text on its terms while comparing the experiences gained with those gained from interacting with other, different texts/lore.

The final concept applied in Immanent Art is the communicative economy. Essentially, communicative economy is the byproduct of having learned the rules of each performance arena. Once one has learned the rules of interacting with a particular form of lore, that person is able to effectively communicate with that text/story. Think of it like two foreigners meeting, initially they will have a difficult time communicating because each person is trying to discover a common language. Once that language has been discovered the communication process becomes more smooth and functional. Still, perfect communication is not achieved; both parties, though able to communicate, are not in complete understanding. Why, because they have both been forced to cast aside their native language for a simpler universal form of communication. Because of this they rely on heavily coded, vivid, multi-layered “words.” These “words” are what allow the communication process to move along economically and effectively; in a few idiomatic words they are able to communicate whole “words.”

Immanent Art opens the door into becoming a “true” member of the audience. It seeks to understand the specialized language of the author/storyteller and promotes audience engagement. Because it focuses on structure and how meaning is created as a opposed to what the meaning is, Immanent Art provides a unique approach to understanding the use of traditional storytelling techniques. It seeks to create a better understanding of how “words” function as signifiers of more complex ideas understood by the originally intended audience. In order to understand these “words” one must agree to a certain register (method/level of communication) performance arena (place where interaction takes place), and level of communicative economy (speed by which communication takes place). As each of these concepts are agreed upon communication and understanding become more interactive and the storyteller and audience are able to enter into a more symbiotic relationship where both parties are engages in the process of creating understanding. Comic books require a similar level of interaction in order to effectively communicate.

Through the use of certain icons (universal “words”), unique scripting, creative paneling, and engaging the reader/audience in the letterscols, they request that the reader adopt a specific register, agree to a specific performance arena, and meet a certain level on communicative economy. In the next chapter we will begin the process of applying Immanent Art to three different retellings of the Superman Origins story: the original story told by Jerry Siegel and Joe Schuster in Action Comics #1 published in 1939, a modern day period retelling done by Jeph Loeb and Tim Sale Superman for all Seasons, and a modern interpretation told by Grant Morison and Jim Lee Superman Birthright. We will also begin to address the possible folkloric traditions which the creators are relying on to develop their stories, characters, and structures.

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[1] The term symbol is a very loaded and complicated term. It is difficult to define, even harder to categorize, and generally complicates the discussion because of its immense variability. For this discussion it simply refers to icons such as the logos worn by various superheroes to identify their various team or personal association. Typically they are single letter icons such as the “A” used by the Avengers, the “S” worn by Superman, or the double “D’s” worn by Daredevil. As suggested earlier, these icons present ideas even when separated from the other icons that they are connected with.

[2] Bleeds are panels which, instead of being boxed in by a thin border of white, run off the page into the unknown. They are not restricted to the standard conventions of the page and provide a much different feel to the text as a whole.

[3] See Superman #1 originally published in July 1939, and republished by DC in The Superman Chronicles Volume One.

[4] It is important to understand that the term “word” does not refer to just a grouping of letters to create a single lexical entry. “Words” refer to any combination of words, phrases, ideas, or utterances which compose a complete thought or idea. This idea will be discussed in greater length in the next chapter. For now it is enough to understand that “words”, in this context, are not limited to the generally accepted and used definition.