Why I Love Wonder Woman

My fourth birthday party was dedicated to Wonder Woman. I had the WW logo on my glasses, my cake, my party favours, my balloons, and I even tried to dress up like Princess Diana of Paradise Island by wearing a blue leotard and taping tin foil to my wrists.

I had a pink plastic jump rope lasso of truth and a backstory. Since I had just moved from an island off the shores of Korea my backstory was rooted in truth. I was a half-Amazonian princess raised on a magical island who left her magical island to be raised in the world of men.

As I think of my backstory, or what comic book fans might call my "origin" myth, I'm reluctant to give too many details. Why? Well that little backstory I concocted in my mind that day and told to all the party guests and my insistence that they not call me by real name because I was now "Wonder Girl" - well that story has stayed with me all my life. It's partially what inspired the series of books I want to write.

The funny thing is, it wasn't the TV show that starred Linda Carter who gave me my love for Wonder Woman. It was the comics. They belonged to an older girl who lived near my grandparents, but by the end of the summer I had the action in the panels nearly memorised and when my birthday rolled around all I wanted to be just like her. Even if just for a day.

Wonder Woman comics weren't popular when I started buying my own comic books seven years later. Still, Wonder Woman remained my favourite even when pitted up against other female superheroes with incredible powers like Stan Lee's "Jean Grey". I was in awe of Jean, but I never wanted to be her.

I'm still a serious comic book fan. I am a frequent visitor to comic book related message boards and I wouldn't pass up a chance to go to ComicCon. I wouldn't go out of my way either though. I'm more addicted nowadays to Alan Moore's work than Stan Lee's continuing legacy.

But then there's Wonder Woman. There's that memory I have of me at that birthday party when somehow the world was a perfect place and I was going to grow up to be a hero and have an invisible plane and the possibility that one day I might save the world.

That's why I went and bought The Wonder Woman Chronicles from Henk's Comics when I was in Amsterdam. They didn't have it in the shop, so I ordered it and paid to have it sent to me. I have a soft spot for their shop. I bought my Tardis key chain there, my The Walking Dead t-shirt, and lots of comics. Though to actually ship me my WW was more than they charged me. Will definitely have to go back and buy more comics from them.

Now let me explain why coming home to my WW Chronicles was the cherry on a near perfect day.

I took the 10h17 train from Gare de Lyon with the intention of possibly going to Fontainebleau to have a coffee, browse some shops, and write near the reflecting pool behind the chateau for awhile.

They rearranged the bus system. The trip that should be 15 minutes max ended up taking one hour and twenty-two minutes.

I had a terribly strong espresso than had to take a pee in a loo that someone had obviously just taken a massive poo in while holding my breath.

Every shop I wanted to pop into was closed.

Walked all the way to the chateau, spotted the swans, ducks, and carp and ended up walking all the way back to a bakery to buy a sandwich that a swan brazenly ripped out of my hands minus a bit of mayonnaise and ham.

Found a beautiful spot on the chateau grounds behind a pedestal (sans statue) to hide behind, had a puff, wrote a bit, and watched waterbugs. Waterbugs are beautiful to watch. They make ripples that are completely different than fish or rain droplets or anything else I've ever seen.

On the way back towards the chateau rescued a duck from a mean little Chinese boy. I'm not sure what scared him more, my accent in Mandarin or that I told him he was doing a naughty thing. Whatever it was, another Chinese couple also scurried off.

The duck I rescued escorted me down the road a bit, met an old French lady, escorted her a little bit, and then another old lady came and fed it some bread. It also got a sandwich out of me. I had a nice little talk with the old lady for awhile and then we both agreed it was very hot, and after wishing each other a good day we went our separate ways but not before she assured me that someone else would come and feed the adorably tame duck we were both smitten with.

I bought ingredients to make delicious pizzas (artichokes, sun-dried tomatoes, mozzarella, Parmesan, arugula, and Parma ham). While waiting for the bus (which I missed) back to the train station I helped a lady find a perfume for her daughter and then waited for the next bus. Again the rearrangement of the buses screwed me, so I hopped into a taxi and watched the beautifully lit forest of Fontainebleau from behind a lightly tinted window while people complained about Sarkozy on the radio.

Train station. Paris.

Back home the package was waiting for me. Old school Wonder Woman was all about empowerment. The first female superhero was as strong as Hercules. As wise as Athena. More beautiful than Aphrodite. She also wore a skirt back then in 1941 when she made her first appearance in ALL-STAR COMICS #8.

William Moulton Marston's imagination (influenced heavily by his wife) created a heroine for little girls to look up to and I did. I'm hoping that reading the old comics will inspire me to be a hero like they did all those years ago.

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À Rebours, J-K Huysmans

Every once in awhile you open a book and it speaks to you in a way that seems to make you think it's come along for some express purpose. Such is the case when I began reading J-K Huysmans' "À Rebours", which translates to "Against Nature" or "Against the Grain".

My father used to say that he believed if people shut their mouths and opened a book, the world would be a much better place. He was constantly seeing parts of the world most people would chose to ignore. The bombings in Beirut; the fall of some dictator only to replaced by another; how much money there was to be made just across this border or that. He often came home visibly exhausted to shut himself away in his library.

"...whither he could fly for refuge from the incessant deluge of human folly."

For my father when he had little need for anything else besides a library, though he was a man of many passions. He judged people by their libraries. He considered a vast library full of unimportant books to be vulgar, but my own little bookshelf at age seven earned a short nod of approval. I suppose if I could ask him now my father would say something along the lines of a man only need own one book, as long as it's a great one.

In the past few days I have often thought about what my Papa might say now if he saw my library. I think he would understand the joy I feel in seeing all my books in one place and be happy I've decided to be serious about my life as a writer.

As for me, I wasn't sure until I read this passage:

"...He searched the outer suburbs of the capital and presently discovered a cottage for sale, above Fontenay-aux-Roses, in a remote spot, far from all neighbours, near the Fort. His dream was fulfilled; in this district, still unspoilt by intruders from Paris, he was secure against all harassment...

As he thought over the new existence he meant to make for himself, he experienced a lively sense of relief, seeing himself just far enough withdrawn for the flood of Paris activity not to touch his retreat, yet near enough for the proximity of the metropolis to add a spice to his solitariness. Indeed, in view of the well-known fact that for a man to find himself in a situation where it is impossible for him to visit a particular spot is of itself quite enough to fill him with an instant wish to go there, he was really guarding himself, by thus not entirely barring the road, from any craving to renew intercourse with the world or any regret for having abandoned it..."

In modern days it's impossible to maybe feel the same level of isolation that Huysmans felt at the idea of retreating into the suburbs of Paris. These days more people live outside of Paris (Paris and its region is referred to as Ile de France than in Paris itself. And Paris isn't that far away from the suburbs anymore thanks to the Metro or the local trains. From the place in the country the train is a short walk or bus ride away and forty minutes later I can set my foot on the voies of Gare de Lyon. I don't think it'd be easier if we had a car because well, traffic can be quite horrible.

Within minutes of reaching Gare de Lyon yesterday I realised that Paris doesn't miss me when I'm away. She has kept going as pleased with herself as ever and perhaps a bit smug that I am forced to return at the end of the weekend. I know she had a hand in the forty minutes of queue I endured to simply buy a ticket to take the Metro and the torrential downpour I was subjected to whilst in suede shoes. And all because there are loose ends to be tied and things I left undone.

I must see so and so. I must get stuff to make kimchee. I want to have a really good cup of chocolat chaud. I want to stop by my favourite vintage store. I need a lamp for the country house and maybe a few things to hang up photos...so as much as a squawk about the madness of it all - I know already I'll have to stay in Paris all week. Then go to London. When will I get back to the country again?

But Huysmans would understand all too well my current predictament, "...purchases of all kinds still kept him perambulating the Paris streets, tramping the town from end to end..."

And there you have it.  The saddest reason of all to abandon my idyllic, fairytale came true, beautiful little cottage in the forest. SHOPPING. (and work, but I can't even get into what the hell is going on with work at the moment).

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