Why do I wear my cape and costume? If I could reveal my old identity, I might tell you the story. I say old identity and not secret identity or alter ego, because I'm rid of it. That name only hurt me. I respect its family, so I do keep it secret, and my origin untold. But why does it matter? When you see anyone in any position; a priest, a chef, a psychiatrist, you don’t care why they are what they are, you don’t need to fill in the blanks. So why should I write a biography? I wouldn't ask you for yours. Even when we do share our stories, no one holds them as dearly as we want. People respect our lives intellectually, like clever rhymes or a docile pet, but they won't respect us with their hearts. Tell them what makes a madman mad and they speak like they already knew, like it was obvious. Yet they act curious when it suits them, or, more commonly, when they have nothing else to say. And when anyone sees me in the street dressed like Flash Gordon, of course they want a picture, but then the questions are asked. I want to tell them all about it. It would be therapeutic. Even if they only have a passing interest, it feels good to talk about me. It feels good to ask myself, too. And I can at least answer myself. Here, I only offer the anecdotal.
When I was young, I got some upsetting advice. An authority pulled me aside from my day and suggested we take a walk. I like walking, it’s a good way to seduce my attention, so I followed. At first it was a standard catch-me-up. They asked about my interests, daily routines, any fledgling hobbies, and then, insidiously, my ambitions. What did I want out of life? How was I going to get it? Life wouldn't just surrender to me, you know! I had to buckle down and put in the work, and from where they were sitting, I was careless about the future. The present, too. I was coasting, they said. Now, let me tell you, that's not advice at all. It’s a hollow observation, and this person had nothing to offer me. No craft to hone, no game to play, no skill, no school of thought, nothing to teach me at all. All they had was discomfort with my passive lifestyle. Why wasn’t I achieving? Maybe they found it offensive, maybe they feared for me. I don’t know. But I remember that walk.
Fast forward to 2020: Pandemic! A sick new world! Older than that authority was all that time ago, I had lived, and now I had time on my hands. It was finally ok to coast. What to do with my mind and body? You hear of prisoners transforming their lives inside with scripture or philosophy and re-emerging as community heroes, and you can’t help but envy their resolve. I thought I could try it. Without context of my situation pre-covid, it's hard to explain why this was necessary (maybe it wasn't), but I found it so romantic. To become a new man, like Malcolm X or Robert Downey Jr.! Of course I hadn’t a clue what to work towards. I spent some time exercising, I meditated, I played chess. I did everything I could picture someone doing in the pivotal second act of their story, and I only felt more like the same person. Nothing changed until I went down a rabbit-hole online and learned about the strange phenomenon of Real Life Superheroes.
A Real Life Superhero (RLSH) is what it sounds like: People really go out in public wearing tights and ski masks trying to fight crime. Some are vigilantes, but most are just freaks looking for trouble to call the cops on. Occasionally they save a little bird or give an old lady directions, but they're hardly valued members of society, or they’d be renowned for their efforts, I figured. I dismissed it as a novelty, but something about them lurked in my mind for weeks. These were not mere performers, they were really stepping into a cartoon and bringing the rest of us with them. This was life imitating art, for real, and it exhilarated me. I had to do it.
But who would I be? Even within the framework of the RLSH, I still didn't know what I was trying to do. I could imagine my supersuit, that was easy, and indeed I had the best and most understanding costumer design it. Talk about putting the cart before the horse! Now I had the look without the balls to take to the streets. And I had no name, no gimmick. What would set me apart from other heroes? This is an empty dream before it’s even started, I thought.
I hung the suit up and buried the idea. Winter became spring, and I went for my first real walk since the coronavirus shut down the world. It was comical, really, because I wasn’t the only person dipping their toes in public. We all looked astonished to see each other, like we’d forgotten how sidewalks worked. We realized we’d taken the city for granted, or at least I did. How overjoyed I was to be a pedestrian, and, as it warmed up, to watch the sea of faces grow! In those times of lockdowns we hadn’t many places to go, we were just going. I was exploring the city all afternoon, every day. I paid attention to the pigeons. Where were they ever going? I don’t think pigeons migrate. They’re in town all year! They loiter and scavenge the streets, but with a subtle grace I can’t attribute to anyone else. They are feral, separate from nature and the cities they occupy. Pigeons feed off the rat race, dance with it, and never take part.
As beautiful as all this was, I still had the problem of my future. Was I ever going to help society? Maybe I’d go back to school. No. I had no desire. All I had was that cape hanging in the back of my closet. Such lofty plans! What was I thinking? I must really be insane, I said. Suddenly I was so bogged down by my unworn costume that I didn’t want to go on walks anymore. I locked myself down. No more inspired resolutions, no super-me. I was spent.
Still, when the world reopened, I wanted to be a regular person again. But once you’ve had a taste of doing nothing, it’s hard to let it go. I used to consider myself an all-or-nothing guy, looking at the stars, anything beneath them insufficient. Now it's nothing-or-nothing, ambition the eighth deadly sin. They were right, I realized, I am coasting through life! But why say it so disparagingly? We don’t condemn monastics for renouncing our busy lifestyle, but laymen must climb ladders and make waves? Bah!
I returned to the pigeons, and after a while, my thoughts returned to the real life superheroes. They weren’t living real life. In reality, there is nothing to it. Life is nothing, beautiful and clear. It's a nothing that doesn’t need to be filled. I finally put on the cape. I had purpose, or, more accurately, a non-purpose. I felt like a hero. My loved ones rejected my ideas, so I let them all go. It's just me now, but that's ok. I happily spend my time in the busy streets, with nothing to do, and no time to do anything else. I don’t disappear into the crowd, I am its accessory. People see me and think I’m fantastic or ridiculous or crazy. I see them, too, but I keep walking. I like walking.