on behalf of me

"The professed motive of my solitude is to speak to loads of people." -- Edward Hoagland

I'm here because I'm trying to commit to the idea that writing is incremental. Like a pile of bricks that need some muscle and some patience and some spirit to cement together. Someone has to take the time to put one brick on top of the other. Rushing it ruins it. Your mind runs too fast with words you forget the moment you mumble them in your in head. The bricklaying is the way to pace it. Got that idea from Stephen King. Or maybe John Carpenter. I forget. (Writers of scary novels with suspense-thriller plots are disciplined. In that they are scary.) Me? I enjoy too much the fleeting sound of words I find myself mumbling. I pen them on paper and they look different, taste weird, did I really say those things and why.

Place one brick on top of the other, spoon soggy cement over one line of aligned bricks. Structures, plots, they don't work for me. So I worry about them later. The house, the story, will look whatever it will look when it takes form. I can tear it down later and start again later. I just don't want that oppressive idea of needing a plot before you can write a story. I usually have that vaguene idea of what I want tucked in my mind somewhere. Faith is what I have. Faith in a moody recluse in me who writes feverishly about things and images he loves. Nevermind the plot. I will provide the plot, after the moody one is exhausted with laying the bricks.

(But that is not entirely true. He, the moody one, doesn't align bricks like an engineer with a plan and a schedule. He's more like a potter running after a dream in his mind.)

Which brings me to the point. I am not the one really writing. I am just the cleaning lady. I pick up and clean up and dust off and chisel the rough edges. I am again, this morning, as I have years ago, giving up on the idea that I am a singular person, whole and unified, aware and conscious of all that goes down in my head. (I keep coming back to that mentally healthy whole peson idea just to feign 20th century lunacy.) Well, this is the last time. The "I" is a council.

This morning, the one committing to the idea of bricklaying as writing, is just the spokesperson. The others are vastly more poetic, but they are just oh so shy.

from the darkness, part one

I am trying to get out of bed but I shudder and then freeze, ramrod straight from head to toe; back pains still me, flat on the cushion. Like a cardboard that won't get up, I just can't get up. Dad will holler for me from downstairs anytime now. Even with this week-long eclipse, I can tell, without seeing in the dark, that it's 5:30 am. Cold air and the scent of Mom's pancakes and no glow of sunlight humming from behind the curtains. I miss the sun.

"Clark, the cows won't feed themselves! Let's go!"

"Almost dressed! Coming, Dad!" How to get out of bed. I try to lift one leg up, to swing down and arc me up. Pain jolts me and I give up with the leg raise. I'm still staring at the ceiling. Well, that went well. Haven't felt this sore from farm chores since, since, I've never been this sore. Got an idea. I give it one big twist and fall off the bed.

"Uhmmm...," I moan from the bedroom floor. I can move my legs now. Takes pain to overcome pain. Less back pains now.

"Clark!? Everything all right?"

That's Mom, probably taking off her apron to run upstairs to check on me. I can speed through fields to catch bullets in flight. I can take a head-on collision with a ten-wheeler truck. I do farm chores fit for six men. But I can't get up from the floor. I'm in my shorts. I feel cold. Mommy...

Footfalls on wood. Dad swings my bedroom door open. He must have ran upstairs after my thud off the bed.

"You ok, son?"

"Just withdrawal symptoms. I miss the sun." I'm on all fours now. Have to get dressed, drive to the Luthor mansion greenhouse, and speed back here to do the chores. Crawl, Clark, crawl to the closet.

"I got an idea, son."

"No, Dad, don't help me with my clothes." I'm almost there. Red shirt, blue jacket, plain old jeans. I reach up the drawer, still on the floor, and turn on the lampshade.

"Wouldn't think of it. You've got too much Kent pride in you."

"What's your idea?" Got my shirt on. I lean on a chair for support and stand up, slowly, calf and upper leg muscles on fire. Now where are my jeans?

"I can do a portion, just a portion, not even half, of your chores. How's that?"

I'm pulling my jeans up, bending over a little, grunting a lot. There. Zipped up and buttoned. I'm sweating. Panting.

"No," I whisper, out of breath, and look at Dad through wet bangs. "Too much Kent pride."

We smile the same smile. Dad is sitting on my bed, a tumble of pillows and blankets behind him. He's going to forgive me for the mess my room is in. Just until this eclipse blows over. I wonder what I'd do without my Dad.

"Doesn't Lex suspect that you're in his greenhouse to suck up all that artificial sunlight, that you're not excited about exotic species of roses?"

I stand, feet apart, and twist at my hips, to the left, and then right. Just a little pain. Not too much.

"Well, Dad, I think his exact words were: 'Either you're getting allergic to the Kent farm or you're starting to want a bald older brother.'"

Dad laughs out hard, amused by this. I think I am, too.

"Well, he's a Luthor," Dad says in a sigh. "Got to give him that. Charming and manipulative."

"Don't worry, Dad," I walk towards the door. "I got unrestricted access to the Luthor greenhouse."

"Speaking of friends, you didn't tell me you were friends with another millionaire."

So he came. I was wondering when he'd be back from Asia, back from his training.

"Sorry, Dad. I didn't want you to worry that another rich boy with issues would try to manipulate me--"

Dad holds up a hand. "He's downstairs. He knows about your--"

"--powers, yes, he saw me in Metropolis snag a man in front of a speeding bus--" Now I hold up a hand to interrupt Dad.

"It happened in front of a retirement home. The near-senile old people on the porch saw me, so did the twenty-something attendants. He worked it out to have the attendants paid off and transferred--"

"--You certainly have a way with rich kids--"

"--You can trust him, Dad--"

"--Like you can trust a Luthor! He knows your secret--"

"--He's got secrets, too!"

"--Name one odd thing about him and his thousand dollar suit?"

"--He's got expensive toys in a cave filled with bats!"

Silence. Dad's brows knit and unknit and then he bursts out laughing again, and then stops, turns around. Mom and Bruce are at my bedroom door. My back pains have returned and I lean on the wall.

Mom turns to Bruce. "Bats?"

"Yes, Mrs. Kent." He eyes me and continues. "A zoological wonder I am fond of."

Nice suit. Black sheen. Lex Luthor's suit doesn’t sheen that black. How does he do it?

"Toys?" Now it's Dad asking, his face serious, like he doesn't want his son associating with a fetishist.

"Modified cars, a super computer or two...hobbies."

Bruce sounds like a kid reassuring my parents we did nothing wrong, just safe wholesome fun, all summer long, in our secret tree house. Can't help but smile.

"No offense, Mr. Wayne--"

"--Please, call me Bruce." He wears this eligible bachelor persona with ease. Must be a rich kid thing.

"Ah, all right. Bruce. But your secret, no disrespect meant, is not exactly at par with my son's."

"It is," I butt in, "when you know the purpose of those toys and the--"

"--It's all right, Clark." Bruce looks at me, his eyes tell me it's not my secret to give away. He's right. I have no right.

Bruce's face leans forward slightly, then his voice turns low, raspy, like a complete other person appeared in the room wearing Bruce's suit. His eyes turn into slits and eyes my Dad without facing him. Scary.

"You're probably right, Mr. Kent. And I thank you for welcoming me into your home, but I'm not hundreds of miles from Gotham at the crack of dawn for a social call."

If I still had my x-ray vision, I'd scan his body and find nothing threatening. Normal bone structure. No weapons, just a cellular phone, and an odd belt with compartments. No powers and he scares me. Luthor doesn't scare me. This one does.

"That trailer parked outside," Mom says. "You plan to stay in Smallville for a while."

Bruce loosens up a bit. Mom is perceptive, and protective, and he likes that. He throws me that you-lucky-kid look. His parents died when he was eight.

"Are you," Dad hesitates, "asking my son for a favor, since you've done him one?" Dad pronounced 'asking' as though it was a euphemism for blackmail.

"Uhm, actually," the raspy intimidating tone is gone, "I'm doing your son another favor." Now he sounds like a well-mannered kid afraid of overstaying his welcome. Charming bachelor to brooding killer to awkward rich kid in the span of seconds. Wonder what else he can do.

Dad turns to face me. "Oh no you don't. You're not accepting another gift. I know that trailer is more practical compared to Lex's Ford F150, but you can't--"

"--Jonathan!" Mom shoots Dad that look, that he needs to can that rich man's vices slash poor man's virtues speech.

"The trailer is just a cover."

We all look at Bruce. He steps back, his face recedes from the light but it is as though we could still see his eyes, even though he's blending with the shadows.

"Let him finish, Dad."

"Clark emailed me three days ago about the eclipse. First, his powers faded and he was glad to be normal. At first. But he noticed he couldn't play hero without getting himself hurt and his parents worried. And he lagged behind his farm chores."

Bruce is just about the only guy I know who's glad that darkness has taken double shifts and extended its coverage worldwide.

"What took you so long?" I look at Bruce, I can find his eyes in the darkness.

"I can't speed across continents like some people can."

"Mr. Wayne," Mom says, "oh, I'm sorry, Bruce. You were speaking of the trailer as a cover."

"Artificial sunlight generator inside. I pretend to take a road trip to Kansas to visit a friend. Then, business calls, and I am fetched by a helicopter who flew all the way from Metropolis, and which then flies me back to Gotham. In haste, I leave the trailer behind, in the safe custody of the Kents. That's the press release."

"No idea why this eclipse is taking so long?" I ask.

"Not yet."

"And I thought you were a detective."

"I'll get a few leads in the next five seconds."

A honk from outside the house. In a moment, Lex is knocking on the screen door downstairs, yelling Mr. Kent, Mrs. Kent, Clark, the family roster. He's done it so many times it's like a ritual now.

We all head downstairs. Mom and Dad first. I put my jacket on and I lean on the handrails, taking the stairs one slow step at a time. Bruce doesn't move to lend me a hand. Midway down the stairs now--oops! Bruce is suddenly behind me, grabbing my jacket's collar, steadying me. He moves like a cat. I didn't even hear his foot falls.

"Ah, I see you've made a new friend," Lex says from behind the living room couch, but he's not looking at me, he's looking at someone behind me. I have a distinct feeling I'm in the middle of a crossfire.

...TO BE CONTINUED...

awww

I've had that moment, when you spin around like a kid and then later stop because you're dizzy. Giggling stupid happy. The ground rising in uneven, tilting lines. Your whole eyesweep a funny blur and your balance shot. Can't even stand up without raising a hand to feel for something to lean on. I slump back on the floor and wait for the world to normalize. It does. And then the giggling stupid happy high is gone.

You can stand up, walk straight, function.

So sad.