Showing posts with label Monkey. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Monkey. Show all posts

Tuesday 2 February 2021

VISION







"The historian must understand that visionaries are neither impostors nor lunatics. It is one thing to say that the figure Joan recognized as St Catherine was not really St Catherine, but the dramatization by Joan's imagination of that pressure upon her of the driving force that is behind evolution which I have just called the evolutionary appetite. It is quite another to class her visions with the vision of two moons seen by a drunken person, or with Brocken spectres, echoes and the like.


Saint Catherine's instructions were far too cogent for that; and the simplest French peasant who believes in apparitions of celestial personages to favored mortals is nearer to the scientific truth about Joan than the Rationalist and Materialist historians and essayists who feel obliged to set down a girl who saw saints and heard them talking to her as either crazy or mendacious. If Joan was mad, all Christendom was mad too; for people who believe devoutly in the existence of celestial personages are every whit as mad in that sense as the people who think they see them. 

Luther, when he threw his inkhorn at the devil, was no more mad than any other Augustinian monk: he had a more vivid imagination, and had perhaps eaten and slept less: that was all.



THE MERE ICONOGRAPHY DOES NOT MATTER

All the popular religions in the world are made apprehensible by an array of legendary personages, with an Almighty Father, and sometimes a mother and divine child, as the central figures. 

These are presented to the mind's eye in childhood; and the result is a hallucination which persists strongly throughout life when it has been well impressed. 

Thus all the thinking of the hallucinated adult about the fountain of inspiration which is continually flowing in the universe, or about the promptings of virtue and the revulsions of shame: in short, about aspiration and conscience, both of which forces are matters of fact more obvious than electro-magnetism, is thinking in terms of the celestial vision. 

And when in the case of exceptionally imaginative persons, especially those practising certain appropriate austerities, the hallucination extends from the mind's eye to the body's, the visionary sees Krishna or the Buddha or the Blessed Virgin or St Catherine as the case may be.



THE MODERN EDUCATION WHICH JOAN ESCAPED

It is important to everyone nowadays to understand this, because modern science is making short work of the hallucinations without regard to the vital importance of the things they symbolize. 

If Joan were reborn today she would be sent, first to a convent school in which she would be mildly taught to connect inspiration and conscience with St Catherine and St Michael exactly as she was in the fifteenth century, and then finished up with a very energetic training in the gospel of Saints Louis Pasteur and Paul Bert, who would tell her (possibly in visions but more probably in pamphlets) not to be a superstitious little fool, and to empty out St Catherine and the rest of the Catholic hagiology as an obsolete iconography of exploded myths. 

It would be rubbed into her that Galileo was a martyr, and his persecutors incorrigible ignoramuses, and that St Teresa's hormones had gone astray and left her incurably hyperpituitary or hyperadrenal or hysteroid or epileptoid or anything but asteroid. 

She would have been convinced by precept and experiment that baptism and receiving the body of her Lord were contemptible superstitions, and that vaccination and vivisection were enlightened practices. 

Behind her new Saints Louis and Paul there would be not only Science purifying Religion and being purified by it, but hypochondria, melancholia, cowardice, stupidity, cruelty, muckraking curiosity, knowledge without wisdom, and everything that the eternal soul in Nature loathes, instead of the virtues of which St Catherine was the figure head. 

As to the new rites, which would be the saner Joan? the one who carried little children to be baptized of water and the spirit, or the one who sent the police to force their parents to have the most villainous racial poison we know thrust into their veins? the one who told them the story of the angel and Mary, or the one who questioned them as to their experiences of the Edipus complex? the one to whom the consecrated wafer was the very body of the virtue that was her salvation, or the one who looked forward to a precise and convenient regulation of her health and her desires by a nicely calculated diet of thyroid extract, adrenalin, thymin, pituitrin, and insulin, with pick-me-ups of hormone stimulants, the blood being first carefully fortified with antibodies against all possible infections by inoculations of infected bacteria and serum from infected animals, and against old age by surgical extirpation of the reproductive ducts or weekly doses of monkey gland?

Monday 18 January 2021

Disguise Kit



"Fifties Superman found himself domesticated at the heart of a strange nuclear family of friends, foes, and relatives. Weisinger had taken his lessons from Captain Marvel and his Family. 


Many of his favorite writers, like Otto Binder and Edmond Hamilton, had contributed to the Captain Marvel mythos and were able to adapt that style to suit a new kind of dream world that was more pointed, angular, and paranoid. This was the nuclear family glowing in the dark. 


No longer the last survivor of a lost alien civilization, Superman was joined by an entire photo album’s worth of new supercompanions. He’d already gained his own superdog, named Krypto, and now discovered that he had a pretty blond cousin named Kara Zor-El, who’d also managed to survive the destruction of Krypton, along with a supermonkey, Beppo. There were stories of Superman as a boy (Superboy) and as a comically superpowered infant (Superbaby). 


Lois Lane was popular enough to graduate to her own monthly comic book. 


So too did Superman’s Pal, Jimmy Olsen.


  The young Olsen had no sooner installed himself within the pages of his own title than he began to experience a series of fantastic physical contortions typical of the Silver Age. A sampling of stories from Olsen’s solo title showed the results as he metamorphosed into a porcupine boy, a giant turtle, a wolfman, Elastic Lad, and ahuman skyscraper, with no pause for reflection. These transformations never produced any lasting ill effects or neuroses.


  So great was the intrusion of the fantastic into the everyday that even Superboy’s small-town sweetheart, red-haired Lana Lang, the hometown girl deluxe, began her own dual career as Insect Lass, using an “alien ring” to reorganize the slim-legged, petite figure of a Kansas homecoming queen into the bulbous abdomen and crawling feelers of a giant wasp or monster moth, with a shapely human torso and head that made it ten times more disturbing. 


Like Jimmy, Lana experienced no body horror or psychological trauma when she inflated her trim teenage stomach into a monstrous spider belly, clacked her chitinous forelegs together, and played out superhard silk from spinnerets where her normal midwestern buttocks should be. 


Had Franz Kafka’s mild-mannered accountant Gregor Samsa been born to the sunshine of the emergent DC universe, he might have pressed his incredible new cockroach powers into action in the fight against crime and injustice. 


Before too long, he would have been invited to join the Justice League. 


Kafka never once paused to consider that his outcasts could be heroic like the X-Men, freakishly glamorous like Jimmy Olsen, or as gorgeous as trendsetting Pulitzer Prize winner Lois Lane.



  When not under alien influence, Jimmy Olsen could barely stand to be himself for more than five pages and maintained a much-resorted-to “disguise kit” in times of emergency. Prefiguring David Bowie or Madonna, his life became a shifting parade of costume changes and reinventions of identity. And long before those two performers were challenging the boundaries of masculine and feminine, Olsen was deconstructing the macho stereotype in a sequence of soft-core gender-blending adventures for children that beggar belief when read today.


  The three unforgettable transvestite Olsen tales, including “Miss Jimmy Olsen,” can be summed up by the following heart-fluttering caption that opens the lead story in Jimmy Olsen no. 95:


  IF YOU EVER WONDERED TO WHAT EXTREME LENGTHS JIMMY OLSEN WOULD GO TO GET A NEWSPAPER SCOOP, WAIT TILL YOU SEE JIMMY IN OPERATION AS A MEMBER OF THE FAIR SEX! YES, READERS. SUPERMAN’S YOUNG PAL UNDERGOES A DRASTIC CHANGE OF IDENTITY AND PUTS HIS HIGH-HEELED FEET INTO A HUGE MESS OF TROUBLE WHEN HE BECOMES THE SWEETHEART OF GANGLAND.


  These words accompany a picture of Jimmy mincing past a mailbox in a green dress while a group of admiring men whoop and check out his ass.


  “HA! HA! THOSE WOLVES WOULD DROP DEAD IF THEY KNEW THAT UNDER THIS FEMALE DISGUISE BEATS THE VERY MASCULINE HEART OF PLANET REPORTER JIMMY OLSEN!” read the smirking, transvestite Olsen’s thought balloon.


  The salacious, winking quality of the phrasing suggested an immaculate deconstruction of the masculine adventure genre into the arena of showbiz, shifting identities, and anything-goes sexuality.


  Jimmy became a mobster’s moll, even joining a chorus line and proving that he could high-kick with the best of the showgirls. Bestiality reared its shaggy head when Jimmy was forced to substitute the lips of a slobbering chimp named Dora for his own during a tense romantic moment in a dimly lit apartment. Believing the mouth of the ape in question to be the fragrant glossy red lips of Jimmy Olsen, racketeer Big Monte McGraw melted into the simian’s lewd embrace while Jimmy made a hasty getaway. The level of derangement was high. These were stories that could never happen in the real world, even if there was a Superman. This was now a world all its own, living inside our own, growing, getting smarter and more elaborate.


  Artist Curt Swan drew the cub reporter as outrageously attractive in his makeup and a red wig. In heels and stockings, Olsen looked like he’d wandered in off a Pussycat Dolls video shoot. And there were a few gloriously disorienting panels where, sans wig, he was seen talking to Superman while still casually dressed in a pink dressing gown, fluffy slippers, and movie star makeup.


  And yet, if it was okay for Olsen, wasn’t it okay? I grew up with this idea of the disguise kit and the performance, the idea of both body and identity as canvas. When I adopted as a role model the shape-shifting, bisexual assassin Jerry Cornelius from Michael Moorcock’s novels, I was following in the footsteps of Jimmy Olsen. Olsen played in bands, and so did I. Olsen was freewheeling and nonjudgmental, even in the fifties, and so was I. If it was cool with Superman’s pal, it was A-OK with me. 


Clearly these stories were written by perverts with an intent to pervert the young. They were entirely successful.


  The transvestite Olsen stories seem deeply rooted in the underground world of mimeographed porn mags and the bondage comics of Eric Stanton, whose studio also employed a certain Joe Shuster, Superman creator. The language used recalls stories like Panty Raid (discussed at length by Robert J. Stoller, M.D., in his 1985 book Observing the Erotic Imagination) and other 1950s transgender tales in which hunky young jocks got more than they bargained for when a trip to the sorority house turned into a forced initiation into the pleasures of female underwear and makeup. 


The difference being that Olsen was fully in control of his transformations and could hardly wait more than a couple of pages to get them under way.”

Friday 15 January 2021

The Manumission of Flt. Lt. Bobo




"The bright western sun disappeared as the sky quickly darkened, and a low rumbling sound was heard in the humid air. There was a swift rushing of many feathered wings, yet not of bird. A great chattering and laughing filled the atmosphere and when the hot sun came out again, the light showed the Wicked Witch of the West that she was surrounded by a large crowd of wild monkeys, each with a pair of immense and powerful wings on his shoulders."

―The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (1900) 



RIKER: 
Your file says that you're an...
 
DATA: 
Machine, Correct, sir. 
Does that trouble you?
 
RIKER: 
To be honest, yes, a little.
 
DATA: 
Understood, sir. 
Prejudice is very human.
 
RIKER: 
Now that does trouble me. 
Do you consider yourself superior to us?
 
DATA: 
I am superior, sir, in many ways, 
but I would gladly give it up to be human.
 
RIKER: 
Nice to meet you - Pinocchio. 

[ BLANK, PUZZLED LOOK ]



"I am not your puppet anymore." 

- Lt. Commander Data channels his Inner Rage, after recieving a bit of initial prompting, courtesy of his elder brother Lore, the galaxy's first and only Malignant Nacissitic synthetic person.











[Enterprise-E crew lounge]

(Picard is handing out glasses of Chateau Picard)


RIKER:
 The first time I saw Data, 
he was leaning against a tree in the holodeck 
...trying to whistle. 
...Funniest thing I ever saw. 
 
...No matter what he did he couldn't get the tune right.
 
 
What was that song? 
I can't remember the song.

Sunday 27 December 2020

Five Ghostbusters






The One in The Middle — The Heart — is the one MOST vulnerable susceptible to corruption :

The One MOST Likely to Get Possessed.

Because (s)he has such relative Innocence, and Purity of Spirit.











“For me, having gone through the Abyss of Daath in the Thelema structure of initiation — having undergone that in a really experiential and exhausting way, I found myself in the Qabbalistic sphere of Binah, and the entire world suddenly looked very different and made sense in different configurations which re-energized the work I’d been doing.  







So, I decided to accept that the Aeon of Ma’at was coming down fast and I tried to align all my thinking with that, which provided me with a new bunch of metaphors and ways of framing the world. 




Imagine all this Division and Deconstruction was just a corridor we’re passing through. 


All the Fractioning and Separation —that’s typical of Horus. 


We can see The Hand of Horus in the Modern-Day tearing down of Monuments and Statues. 


He’s kicking The Fuck out of formerly stable Systems all around The World. 


That’s exactly what you would expect of This Spirit that Crowley said manifested first in 1913. 


But for me, I think he made his presence felt quite clearly on 9/11.


You can easily organize the evidence to suggest that there is an Aeon of Horus occurring now. 


Where Systems are being taken down, where everything’s being Questioned and Audited, and The Past is subject to major revision. 


So, there’s also some fun to be had in thinking 

Ok, if this is actually playing out in some symbolic fashion, then 


What might The Aeon of Ma’at look like, artistically?’



And to me it looks like the rise of marginalized voices, it looks like more women coming into the discourse. 


It looks like Trans people coming into the discourse. 


It looks like all the opportunities for groups who were disempowered by the Patriarchy, who couldn’t speak before to have their say.


Ma’at – what would her signature disease be? 


Well it might be a distributed network, a viral malady that could attack all of Humanity


What would happen if She emptied The Houses of The Old Gods as a 

Show of Possibility


You remember at the height of the first lockdown, all the churches were EMPTY, all the sports stadiums were EMPTY, all the mosques were EMPTY, all the temples were EMPTY. 


So, The Dad God had nowhere to go.


In Britain, I know, and I’m sure in America, there was a strange uprising of praise for care workers. 


People would go out every Thursday here and bang on pots and pans and basically thank the nurturing spirt, this caring spirit, for its very existence. 


It was a very religious, ritualistic thing that we were all doing. 


That’s Ma’at right there. 


Then there’s mother nature with hurricanes tearing down borders, storms ravaging everyone’s homes. 


It all suddenly makes sense in a new context if you use the filter of Ma’at to look at The World. 


For me, I’ve found some creative applications for it, like in

Brave New World and the Wonder Woman comic that I’ve done.”












VIGO appears

EGON
Uh-oh.

RAY
Hold it right there, deadhead! 

You want a baby, go ahead and knock up some willing hellhound. 

Otherwise I'm giving you to the count of three to get back in that painting where you belong. 

One...

PETER
Two.

RAY
Three!

PETER and EGON fire
You got him! You got him!
VIGO deflects the beams to the Ghostbusters. They fall down. He snarls.

WINSTON
That was really stupid.

EGON
Ray? Can you move?

RAY
No. Are you okay?

EGON
No. Venkman? How are you?

PETER
I'm fine.
VIGO finds OSCAR

DANA
No... no! Oscar- please, do something!

PETER
Not so fast, Vigo! 
Hey, Vigo! Yeah, you! 
 
The Bimbo with The Baby. 
Anyone ever tell you the big shoulder look is out? 
 
You know, I have met some dumb blondes in my life, but you take the taco, pal. 
 
Only a Carpathian would come back to Life now and choose New York
Tasty pick, bonehead
 
If you had brain-one in that huge melon on top of your neck, you would be living the sweet life out in southern California's beautiful San Fernando Valley!

VIGO shoots paralyzing rays at the Ghostbusters

Oh darn. Oh, darn it!

VIGO
Now We Become One!
 
Music: Auld Lang Syne.

RAY
Where's that singing coming from?

WINSTON
The People Outside.
 
VIGO is in pain

Outside museum
LOUIS runs up.

LOUIS
Sorry folks! Excuse me! Ghostbusters! Wow!
gets his proton pack ready
I'm here with you guys.

Restoration room

EGON
He's weakening! The singing is neutralizing the slime!

RAY
I can move!

DANA
Oscar!
VIGO is blown back into the painting- PETER catches OSCAR
Oh...

EGON
He's back in The Painting!

PETER
All right, go find a shady spot. 
 
Viggy, Viggy, Viggy. 
 
You have been a bad monkey!

RAY goes up to painting

EGON
Uh, Ray? We'd like to shoot the monster. Could you move, please?

PETER
Ray?

WINSTON
Ray?!

PETER, EGON, WINSTON
Ray?!!!
VIGO enters RAY

VIGO
No! I, Ray, am Vigo, and Rule The Earth! 
Begone, you pitiful half-men!

EGON
Now!
 
He and PETER fire- WINSTON shoots his slime.

Outside
LOUIS fires.

Restoration room
RAY jumps away, leaving the floating head of VIGO. He goes back into the painting.

VIGO
No!...
explosion, bright light

Outside
The slime mold breaks up. Cheering.

MAN
That was great! 
I loved it!

LOUIS
I did it!... I did it! 
I'm a Ghostbuster!

Thursday 10 December 2020

Metron




Metron was Kirby’s avatar of ruthless, questing intellect, whose Mobius Chair twisted through time and space to make him the god of couch potatoes, surfing channels, gathering information, without ever leaving the comfort of his armchair. Metron’s magic furniture seems less a wonder of supertechnology than a fact of daily life. As Kirby tried to tell us in his book of the same name, We are The New Gods, just as We are The Old Ones, too.







SKIP:  
That's what The Kid was •designed• for.

LORNE: (chuckles) 
To sleep with mother love?

ANGEL: 
To Create a Vessel.

SKIP: 
Look out. 
The Monkey's thinking again.

ANGEL: 
Being inside A Human makes it VULNERABLE, doesn't it?

That's why it had to stay hidden. 

Why it needed to create something STRONGER to pour itself INTO.

GUNN : 
Wait. So the big nasty inside of Cordy is going to give birth... to itself?

SKIP : 
Circle of Life. It's a Beautiful Thing.











 


“So I began to think more and more about The Individual, and I looked into what that actually meant




And what it was, was a structure that was pretty much created… The Ego structure was created out of what Julian Jaynes calls The Bicameral Mind becoming One Mind.

And apparently – according to him – he says that back in the old days of the Greeks, and the earliest writing of the world, people didn’t have self-consciousness in the way that we have. 
 

They didn’t have Egos. They didn’t understand themselves as “I” in the same way that we do. Because the corpus callosum – that connects the two hemispheres of the brain – wasn’t connected.



So if you heard A Voice, That Voice was God. 

And Homer, and all those guys, you’ve got plenty of examples of people hearing The Voice of God, and acting on that. 

Alexander constantly acted on The Voice of God.

Julian Jaynes suggests that it wasn’t The Voice of God – it was The Voice of The Left Hemisphere of The Brain communicating with The Right Hemisphere of The Brain, interpreted AS a God.



So okay : now we’ve got the two things joined together. We’ve got This Beautiful Bridge in The Middle that links The Two.  
 
But we have The Ego Structure – which was created when those things linked.


Suddenly we’re like: “Oh fuck. I am I. I am the I Am. This is my.. my god is this. I am separate; I am one.”

We made This Idea that we’re somehow separated from Nature.

No we’re not. Bullshit!




 

Wednesday 2 December 2020

People Will Say : 'Monkeys Can Do Paintings.' Well, They Can’t Really.



Welcome to The Planet of The Apes


"You don't invent Technology and then decide what to do with it - 
You come up with An Artistic Problem, 
and then  
You have to invent the technology in order to accomplish it.

So, it is the opposite to what everyone thinks it is, and any Artist will tell you that.

And Art  
- on ALL levels - 
is just Technology.






Which why - 
People will say 'Monkeys can do paintings' 

Well, they can't, really.





They can do scribbling, they can do, like my 2 year old does 
- but if you Want to Say 
' I want to convey an emotion, to another Human Being',
 that's something only Human  Beings can do.


Animals can do it by roaring in your face or biting your hand off (that usually has an effect). 

But to do it in A Painting; to do it in A Play, or A Story, in Poetry - or anything that's in The Arts - you have to be a Human Being.




The Patron creates The Propaganda - and what I wanted to do was go back to some of the Older Propaganda, which was consistant through ALL of The Societies, Mythology -

Which is to say, 
"What Do They ALL Believe..?"

Because all of this propaganda was created INDEPENDENTLY.

And what are these things which they ALL believe,  which is, Relationships with your Father, Relationships with your Society, Relationships with Your History, Relationships with The Gods - all of this stuff, it's old, but there were psychological motiffs that were created, through storytelling, primarily ORAL storytelling, that explained WHAT they believed in and WHO they believed in.

So what I wanted to do was go back and find the psychological motiffs that underlie that - those grow out of Popularism.

And to say that - not all - but a majority of people, BOYS, have a certain psychological relationship with Their Father -

And that's been going on through History, and trying to explain that to say : 

"We Know Your DARKEST SECRET. And Therefore, You're Part of US.

Because We All Know The SAME THINGS  - 

We Know What You're Thinking About Your Mother; 
We Know What You Think About Your Bother; 
We Know What You Think  About Your Father REALLY -"

“IT IS NOT TOO FAR-FETCHED TO PREDICT THAT SOME DAY OUR VERY OWN PLANET MAY BE PEOPLED ENTIRELY BY SUPERMEN!” — Joe Shuster assured us back in 1938, but comic-book reality predicts developments in our own in many other ways.

  What we construct in our imaginations, we have a knack of building or discovering. We may not have flying men or invulnerable women racing among us, but we now have access to supertechnologies that once existed only in comic-book stories.

  “Mother Boxes,” empathic personal computers like the ones in Jack Kirby’s Fourth World story cycle, are already here in embryonic form. Is the soothing contact offered by the Mother Box so different from the instant connection that a cell phone provides? Twenty-four-hour access to friends, family, and the buzz of constant social exchange can make us feel cocooned and safe in a reportedly hostile world. 

In many cases, Mother herself can be summoned on the Box.

  Metron was Kirby’s avatar of ruthless, questing intellect, whose Mobius Chair twisted through time and space to make him the god of couch potatoes, surfing channels, gathering information, without ever leaving the comfort of his armchair. Metron’s magic furniture seems less a wonder of supertechnology than a fact of daily life. As Kirby tried to tell us in his book of the same name, we are the new gods, just as we are the old ones, too.

  There is already technology that allows people to drive remote-controlled cars with their minds. What’s to stop someone becoming Auto-Man, the Human Car? Secretly, he sits in his room, munching Maltesers at his computer screen, while he listlessly pilots his incredible RV supercar around town to save lives and fight the crime that ordinary police cars just aren’t fast enough to handle.

  In so many ways, we’re already superhuman. Being extraordinary is so much a part of our heritage as human beings that we often overlook what we’ve done and how very unique it all is. We have made machines to extend our physical reach and the reach of our senses, allowing us to peer into the depths of space and outer time. Our cameras and receivers allow us to see across the entire electromagnetic spectrum. We can slow down, freeze, and accelerate time on our screens. We can study and manipulate microscopic worlds, print our names on single atoms, analyze soil on Mars, and observe the rings of Saturn at close range. Our voices and our photographic records of everything we’ve seen are carried at the speed of light on an expanding bubble of radio, into the infinite. Television broadcasts of the first moon landing are still traveling, growing fainter as the waves spread out. If you had a powerful enough receiver and a TV on a planet forty light-years from here, you could watch Neil Armstrong take his first step on mankind’s behalf and hear our silly, hopeful summer 1969 songs.

  Our space machines are the remote physical tendrils of our species launched across gulfs of nothing to land on other worlds or to travel, gathering data until the signal fades, or until there’s no one left to listen. These ultimate extensions of human senses thread our awareness into the absolute freezing dark 10.518 billion miles from where you’re sitting. As I write, that’s how far Voyager 1, humanity’s farthest-reaching finger, has extended. Launched in 1977, it remains connected to its home world by radio and by the silver thread of its passage through time from launchpad to interstellar void. Individual humans are not super, but the organism of which we are all tiny cellular parts is most certainly that. The life-form that’s so big we forget it’s there, that turns minerals on its planet into tools to touch the infinite black gap between stars or probe the obliterating pressures at the bottom of the oceans. We are already part of a superbeing, a monster, a god, a living process that is so all encompassing that it is to an individual life what water is to fish. We are cells in the body of a singular three-billion-year-old life-form whose roots are in the Precambrian oceans and whose genetic wiring extends through the living structures of everything on the planet, connecting everything that has ever lived in one immense nervous system.

  The superheroes may have their greatest value in a future where real superhuman beings are searching for role models. When the superhumans of tomorrow step dripping from their tanks, they could do much worse than to look to Superman for guidance. Superhero comics may yet find a purpose all along as the social realist fiction of tomorrow.

  Superhero science has taught me this: Entire universes fit comfortably inside our skulls. Not just one or two but endless universes can be packed into that dark, wet, and bony hollow without breaking it open from the inside. The space in our heads will stretch to accommodate them all. The real doorway to the fifth dimension was always right here. Inside. That infinite interior space contains all the divine, the alien, and the unworldly we’ll ever need.

  To find out what higher dimensions might look like, all we have to do is study the relationship between our 3-D world and the 2-D comics. A 4-D creature could look “down” on us through our walls, our clothes, even our skeletons. Our world would be a Cubist X-ray, and perhaps even our thoughts might be laid bare to their gaze.

  As comics readers gazing down from a higher dimension perpendicular to the page surface, we can actually peer inside characters’ thoughts with balloons or captions that provide running commentary. We can also control time in a comics universe. We can stop on page 12 and look back to page 5 to check a story point we missed. The characters themselves continue to act out their own dramas in the same linear sequence, oblivious to our shifting perspective. 

They can go back in time only with the help of supermachines, like the Flash’s cosmic treadmill, but we can look at 1938 Superman next to 1999 Superman without colliding the two stories anywhere but in our heads.