Below is the first two chapters of the audiobook version of my new novel, Batman: Aegri Somnia, which available to download for free here. Full audiobook coming soon.
Above photo by Vikram Nair on Unsplash. Music by Cryo Chamber.
Music by Cryo Chamber
Here's a glimpse at my daily word count whilst writing Batman: Aegri Somnia, targeting 1,000 words a day. Before I started editing, the word count was ~50,000, and ended up around 30,000.
You can read Aegri Somnia here.
✍🦇📚
Here is an essay I wrote as part of a course I’m doing, the Professional Diploma in Foundations of Sustainable Development at UCD.
It expands upon the premise of my book, You and the Global Goals, which suggests actions individuals could take for each indicator in the SDSN’s SDG Index.
This paper explores the feasibility and merit of measuring progress toward the Sustainable Development Goals at the individual level in a quantitative way, according to the suggested actions in You and the Global Goals.
It also considers a methodology a to create a composite index of these indicators, to offer individuals an overall score of their own progress toward achievement of the Global Goals, drawing upon the methodology of the original SDG Index. For the 0-100 index score, 100 would indicate full achievement of the Goals at the individual level. It also allows such progress to be expressed in a visual manner for individuals, via the colour-coded Dashboards used by the SDG Index.
One more passage of 'Return of the Wolf' 🐺✍:
The Basque had contacts for bomb making in both Libya and Irishmen. Long-retired veterans of the Provisional IRA. The IRA and Libya contacts had gone hand-in-glove, relics of importation under the Qaddafi regime from the ‘70s to the ‘90s. Hostilities in Eire had ceased under the Good Friday Agreement in ‘98. Small arms from myriad sources filled the vacuum after the renewed instability in Libya left by Qaddafi’s ousting and death in 2011. The Irish contacts, now in nominal peacetime, retained their knowledge of weaponry and training. The Basque was content to receive supplies from Libyans but did not trust them to take their accompanying knowledge. Enough Libyan-sourced explosive devices had killed or maimed mercenaries for The Basque to seek the wisdom of the Irish. The Libyans were his go-to for bountiful supply. Their prices were well below what The Basque considered international market rates for black market. But always in tandem with Irish counterparts. The Irish were well-versed in how and whereby the Libyans were likely to shortchange or substitute pale or deadly comparisons. It was of scarce consequence for The Basque to buy more than necessary and allow for some items to fall short on quality. He was able to later part with such items upon consultation with the Irish.
Such rendezvous called for in-person meetings in the remote parts of a Saharan training camp. The Basque would never know the coordinates, flown by helicopter from the Med coast. Within the camp, a considerable cache of weapons took on the charade of a black-market cash and carry. The Basque disdained the experience. He didn’t trust the Berber merchants, or the safety of the helicopter used to transport him to the arms cache, or the wares. His Irish partners sorted the wheat from the chaff. He could recognise a complacency within himself, which kept him from taking the uncertain steps to source new suppliers.
The Levant may have borne fruit, due to the consistent state of warfare in the region. The simple, human necessity of procrastination was The Basque’s prime preclusion.
Transport from the Libyan coast was not what The Basque would have described as easy or painless. Once he, the customer, had made his order in the training camp-cum-arms cache, he would return to the coast, the capital Tripoli. The seller would transport the arms he’d selected would from the desert camp to the Tripoli port. The Basque would commission a freighter departing for the near most European Union point-of-entry. This was the island of Malta, midway between the African coast and Sicily.
The attrition rate of Maltese customs intercepting his bounty could, by dint of bad luck, be at times considerable. Again, a by-product of the Libyans’ discount rates, which allowed for such disappointments. For the high likelihood of customs interception, this route hindered transporting any items of high value. Such instances called for, alternate, more circuitous means. Most often, this meant freight over sea from Tripoli, west along the North African coast to a Moroccan port, next to the Spanish enclave of Melilla.
The first time he’d transported an item here, he’d holed up in a hotel in Melilla, uncertain what step next to take. He was aware of his short-sightedness, and arguable poor judgement. The Basque had backed himself into resolving his quandary by decamping so close to Spanish soil.
He had not been bound by a deadline, thus used the time in hand to enjoy Melilla. The city bore an exception to the EU’s broader Schengen Area agreement, allowing for free movement among the area’s 26 members. Thus, border authorities required checks between the enclave and Peninsular Spain.
The ace in the hole for The Basque - he hoped - were the arrangements for visa exemption for Moroccan nationals resident in the nearby city.
At a juncture, The Basque felt he had little recourse but to try. He’d cornered himself with a myopic and hasty decision to decamp from Tripoli, close to Spanish territory.
The Basque cursed himself for taking such a path. He’d overestimated the importance of the items on hand. A surface-to-air Stinger missile, utilising infrared technology to home in on its target. This model was Turkish manufactured. The launcher resembled a car axle, so potential existed to camouflage as such. The cargo box containing a dozen missiles was the main quandary.
At an impasse, The Basque conceded, for the sake of the job at hand, he needed up to three missiles, the latter only as backups.
***
It surprised The Basque how temperate the Libyan heat could be, both by the coast, as well as its Saharan interior. His expectation of the Sahara was to be piercing. The occasions he’d visited the North African country on arms ventures had fallen each instance in January. He’d encountered temperatures in the mid-teens.
It lent the sense of the land to a stagnation of continual surprise to him. As if the fourth-biggest landmass in Africa could somehow feel insular and claustrophobic. Transport within the country was an ongoing hindrance, which lent to this sentiment felt by The Basque. Public transport for locals meant public taxis, no railways. Both the airports and ports were under-serviced before the civil war had decimated them. Travel by commissioned taxi was characteristic of most African road transit. It was always imperilled by breakdowns far-flung from roadside help, towing or a workshop.
The Basque’s contacts in Libya had preceded the Arab Spring, the downfall of Gaddafi, and the ensuing chaos. The multi-belligerent impasse the country now found itself drew The Basque to the bleeding edge of his tolerance for risk. Access to arms had been less prolific before the Arab Spring. The ease of doing black market business in Gaddafi’s stable Libya had made for straightforward business relative to now.
Though a merchant of sorts in death, The Basque’s appetite for war zones was not more reckless than the average civilian. The flood of arms, both small, large, and between, were at hand in Syria, due to many proxy incursions of greater powers arming either side. But he had little insurance against becoming caught in the crossfire of either side's attacks. There was also little in the way of organised commerce, the belligerents wishing to harness any available arms.
The opposing truth clear in Libya was almost humorous to The Basque. Many belligerents armed themselves to take power as the nominal national government. The Basque’s eyes, the Berber merchant ethos appeared to prevail over such high-minded ideals of national unity or political power. The opportunity for commerce, at the expense of being better armed, seemed the stronger motivation. The Basque didn't know whether this was vestigial of calmer times, or an innate urgency rooted in their trading antecedents.
Another hazard, which had metastasized in the wake of the Arab Spring, was the Islamic State’s activity filling the vacuum in Libya. The Basque had utilised the Libyan training camps before the end of Gaddafi's regime. He'd once harboured fears of a missile strike by the US military upon an arms cache or training camp, of targeted terrorists.
The Basque seldom knew who else populated the ranks of training camps and arms bazaars. The environment was far from cordial or friendly. Most trainees were from North African. The Basque unaware of what anyone's motivations were, nor of which specific nationalities. Given the region, many were Islamic, or different degrees of piousness. The Basque never made the leap faith was the driver for their training.
The danger of finding himself caught among wanted companions for an American strike lingered as strong as ever. The Basque could no longer count on keeping far from the fray of the civil war battles along the coast. Instead, he had to harbour in more secluded patches of the interior. The nature of the Islamic State was such that raids upon smaller communities speckled throughout the region could occur at whim. It was beyond The Basque’s comprehension to what degree or not any given community could be a target of the Islamist militants. Was it whether a community was adherent to the Salafist ideology of the militants?
The Islamic State occupied a curious hamlet in The Basque’s mind, as did any militant movement, driven by whichever ideology. A simpler mind may couple all as terrorists. Omitting the distinct hues of each ideology latent underneath, driving forward such violence.
The Basque saw little parallel between other non-state militants, of whichever stripe. It was of negligent bearing to him as fellow shoppers populating a supermarket. Little linked the individual parties but for the natural human exercise of buying goods for eating, drinking, and cleaning. Shoppers bought different items, with little uniformity. There was much idiosyncrasy between each customer in the aisles and checkouts. One could buy halal ingredients, whilst he may buy chorizo pork sausage. Yet The Basque gave little heed to fellow shoppers. A curious glance at items on the conveyor belt at the register before him. A quick profiling of what the smattering of items before him suggested about the psyche and lifestyle of the shopper in front of him. But such reveries were fleeting, a means of amusement. Once the shopper before him paid and left, he never again would consider them. Such thinking was consistent with his attitude toward fellow militants.
With good fortune, he’d managed to elude any known encounters with the Islamic State in Libya. His facility with Arabic inhibited his outright conspicuousness in the region. His physical dress and appearance when in the region did not scream an observant Muslim - more moderate or secular. The Arabic dialects across North Africa allowed for gaps in his Arabic. This offered him the insurance of claiming roots elsewhere without arousing curiosity. The Egyptians seemed most able to detect he was not a native Arabic speaker, and more likely to have trained in Egypt, which was the truth.
The greatest ciphers in Mideast training camps were the so-called Wagner Group. They'd appeared to operate in the region since Russia intervened in the Syrian Civil War. Wagner was a private military company. But other sources claimed this to be a cover for a paramilitary arm, or military intelligence. This allowed for claims of deniability behind the facade of a PMC. The Basque found these Russians to be the most inscrutable of all.
The greatest drawback, greater than the threat of harm, was the interminable waiting. Nothing appeared to happen in a hurry, whether freighters leaving port, or decisions made for a trade. The days seemed to him to exist in a vacuum along the overcast windy coast. Odd encounters with harassing local merchants pockmarked throughout the day. It instilled in him an almost surreal existentialism.
Little to do but think. Scarce access to internet connections, in the wake of the war, infrastructure decimated.
Another passage from ‘Return of the Wolf’:
Olga thought of the child she had miscarried, to her longest lover, a patriot of the Provisional Irish Republican Army, a native of Belfast.
It was this lover who had sewed her own ties with Libya. Were it not for his connection to North Africa, she thought it doubtful it was an initiative she could undergo herself. This was true of much of her vocational journey.
Her parents and inner circle of loved ones were not steeped in the Basque nationalism of ETA. When she traced her steps, Séamus was her catalyst, or James, which he insisted she call him. He was of the firm belief the wider world outside the Emerald Isle needn’t anymore Séamus’ to perpetuate Irish jokes.
The Basque suspected he never had the nerve to tease outright. A healthy part of his insistence was due to an affection for the Dubliner James Joyce. The Basque was fluent enough in English to read and attempt to appreciate Séamus’ prose and poetry, and to know he was no Joyce. Séamus’ writing followed a stream of consciousness, yet to an external reader it was difficult to derive meaning from. The Basque didn't even know what the fuss was about with Joyce anyhow. She had vague recollection of flicking through Ulysses, but found it too abstruse and esoteric for the mood she picked it up in.
Séamus was a peculiar mixture of esoteric, yet also of the earth, grounded and simple. Though The Basque now, with decades of posterity, thought better of it, she knew this had been one of the strongest strains of attraction to him for her.
Foremost, she found his fervour sexy. She had grown up in Euskadi, steeped in both men and women like this. But in her teens, she found such ardour embarrassing. It was distant from her preoccupation at the time of young men with motorbikes, and the sense of mischief which came with it. She sensed this gravitation toward men with mobility represented an opportunity to spirit her from Euskadi.
The irony now, in middle age, was after a life teeming with lost comrades, lovers and a miscarried child late in term. Now, Euskadi attracted her with a vigour her teenage self couldn’t have anticipated.
Of even sadder irony was to risk a homecoming would in great likelihood result in court arrest and indefinite imprisonment. Even throughout the Continent, she lived in the angst of a Europol-issued warrant for her arrest. One never knew whether an encounter with an immigration official, risked arrest, or was a figment of her justified paranoia.
Of greatest value as a resource to The Basque was the whereabouts of targets. The fonts of such value were those able to get such information.
Her first port of call was a former contact in Bilbao, occupied by the Baader-Meinhof Gang, the West German far-left militants active in the 1970s. The Basque was too young to have been a contemporary of the Baader-Meinhof, also known as the Red Army Faction.
The Basque had only known her contact, Stefan, in the context of proffering information relating to locations of targets. How Stefan obtained this information was beyond The Basque. On a handful of occasions, she had tried her hand at developing this intelligence herself, with laughable results. To her mind, it didn’t seem such a challenging task, but somehow it proved to be.
More than a target’s physical coordinates on any given occasion, Stefan had the knack of identifying where a mark would be in a space accessible to her. Stefan could preempt where someone would be in a way optimising The Basque’s aim.
She had a couple different intelligence sources. Each carried differing qualities of risk, with varying degrees of trust.
The Basque city of Bilbao was overcast. On the heels of a summery day, a fine veil of shower refreshed the city, a welcome pall counterweighting the previous day’s expansive sun.
Little kept the two from meeting in a vibrant cafe in the city centre. They could talk above hushed tones, eschewing unnecessary feigning of cloak-and-dagger.
It was clear at least two or three, targets would centre around Paris. Another two in London. Her preferences were targets in teeming Continental metropolises. It afforded more anonymity, the ability to disappear among a crowd, than might be clear.
It wasn’t as though she’d coordinate to carry out a job in Trafalgar Square or the Champs-Élysées. Big cities offered many opportunities to hedge risk. yet Sleepier locations attracted interlopers passing through, attracting unwanted attention.
She apprehended some of her targets from the Mideast would pose a hindrance. It was her overwhelming preference to keep fingers crossed for their visitation to Europe. There, she felt secure in her knowledge of the landscape. In contrast, she knew her intelligence would be a liability to the local denizens in the Mideast.
The same went for a Russian mark. It didn’t seem beyond the pale to take the opportunity of their holidaying within the EU. The environment of Russia, or any of the former Soviet states, was an inscrutable cipher to her, which she wasn’t willing to ally with.
What if circumstances forced her, she anticipated? What if targets were keeping to the home base outside Europe? Could she venture out? It was her vast preference not to, but she’d have to see how events developed.
Stefan confirmed her doubts around corralling certain targets to a preferable Continental location.
Below is a passage of ‘Return of the Wolf’, following on from yesterday. Enjoy:
“I have an odd request. It is...a sentimental request.” The Basque had not intended to outlay his inner motivations. For there was no sense Glenn would display any outward affectation of his inner thoughts.
“Could you restore a FN Model 1910? I have had greater difficulty sourcing one than I had expected. I thought your contact would be much better than mine. It is not like this model is in demand.”
Glenn nodded, without betraying any emotion. “Easy. I can. How soon do you need it?”
“Only as soon as you can get it. How long would you estimate?”
“A couple of weeks, depending on delivery times. I could find a seller within a couple of days. If you were willing to collect from a seller, you could have it within a week.”
“Yes, great.”
“Why a Model 1910?’ enquired Glenn.
Glenn had caught the Basque off-guard. It wasn’t an intrusive inquiry, but given Glenn’s ordinary disposition, it was of curiosity to The Basque. The Basque was uncertain how best to respond.
“Why don’t you steal the original?”
Glenn had been able to read him, perplexing The Basque.
“Serial number #19074”, continued Glenn. The Basque did not know the serial number by heart, but this sounded correct.
“I am not a thief,” exchanged The Basque, not qualifying himself for honour, but rather it wasn't his skillset to be a cat burglar.
“What is the security system like at the Vienna Museum of Military History?”
“I would not know,” parried The Basque, smiling at Glenn’s show of unanticipated curiosity.
“Why stop at the model, why not the actual pistol?”
“My sentiment does not extend to risk imprisonment to capture the original pistol. A similar model will please.”
“OK,” conceded Glenn, who seemed disappointed.
The Basque later reflected what in Glenn’s mindset aroused curiosity of the World War I catalyst. He pondered whether it related to the effect World War I had on this region, and how devastated Belgium was by it. Fortified Liège had been the opening battle of Germany’s invasion of Belgium, the city issued the Liège Medal for its defence. Once Liège fell, the so-called Rape of Belgium ensued, leading to further invasion and occupation.
The war activated the Flemish Movement, fostering greater consciousness of Flemish identity. Trench warfare ravaged the fields of Flanders, land giving way to no-man’s land, with mass loss of life.
In a twist of irony, the occupying Germans stoked the movement of greater sentiment toward Flemish, a Germanic language. A variety of Dutch, Flemish is a West Germanic language. The occupying Germans undertook policies to dissolve French-speaking Wallonia and Flemish-speaking Flanders. The Germans exploited discrimination toward Flemish speakers before the war.
The motivations lay in the pan-German ideology, wishing to unify all German-speakers. This included residents of a unified Germany, Austria, and parts of Switzerland. But it also extended to those speaking Germanic languages, including Scandinavian countries.
It occurred to The Basque the frequency of which he encountered fellow separatists, like he, in his work. Either loud and proud, or closeted; militant or otherwise.
As they bade farewell from Glenn’s front door, an amiable smile from Glenn, The Basque was in a contemplative headspace. Of compulsion, he found himself wandering over to the adjacent shopping centre, a street away. He roamed the shopping centre, as many do, bereft of aim, but for the fulfilment of an unidentified emptiness. In vain hope juice bars or a Sunglass Hut will occupy the void. The Basque was not immune from such vague pangs of alienation or searching.
Within the shopping centre, he found a cheery and welcoming chain of Belgian cafe-restaurants. The Basque ordered a cappuccino. He valued any coffeehouse employing automatic coffee machines, producing cafe-quality coffees. He had no umbrage with baristas, but the lack of fuss - an acknowledgement that a machine could do an on-par job for the task - warmed him.
His current mood befitted the overcast pall of Belgium. In such surroundings, he welcomed it. Overcast spells, calling for accompanying temperaments, were an occasional fixture of Euskadi. This was on account of the Basque Mountains meeting the Bay of Biscay, leading out to the greater Atlantic.
The Basque didn't know what had stung him about Glenn’s uncharacteristic questioning. Was it the sense of Flemish secessionist sentiment? But for what reason did this have to irk him, or throw him off balance?
Over the cappuccino, he lost himself in thought, not ill-tempered or depressive, but pensive. The Basque cast his mind to all the clients for which he’d worked of a separatist nature. Most of his work was in the name of identity, on religious, ethnic, or regional grounds. In the employ of armed rebel groups, international or state based. Resistance to a governing power.
He gave great thought to his native movement, and roots with ETA, or Euskadi Ta Askatasuna, Basque for 'Basque Homeland and Liberty'. The assertion the unique Basque people and culture deserved political nationhood drove ETA. Separate from its existing French and Spanish territories.
Since June 2, 2017, I hatched the idea for this project, known to me as ‘Return of the Wolf’, ‘Return of the Basque’, or even its French language title, ‘Le retour du loup.’
I’ve been caught between deciding whether the project ought to be a novel, screenplay or to adapt a script from the novel. One way or another, I’m sharing some of my workings.
Here’s a link to my story map for ‘Return of the Wolf’, and below is a passage from the would-be novel. More to come in the days ahead:
The gunsmith had been pre-eminent in Belgium’s firearms manufacturing community. A rising star of FN Herstal, Belgium’s national factory, in the French-speaking Walloon. Herstal is the industrial centre of Wallonia, part of greater Liège, on the river Meuse.
Herstal still laid claim as the largest small arms exporter of the Continent. Its holding company owned the iconic American firearms companies, Winchester rifles and Browning.
Browning founder John Browning designed Herstal's FN Model 1910. This model sparked the First World War, a conflagration laying antecedents for its sequel.
The handsome pistol is a semi-automatic, a mechanism John Browning pioneered. Semi-automatics contrasted with automatic firearms. The latter requiring the continued depression of the trigger. Selective fire weapons are capable of interchanging, using a selector switch. This allows modes of automatic, semi-automatic, and burst mode, firing a predetermined number of rounds.
The catalysing cartridge propelling the Great War was a .380 ACP. assassinating Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife, Sophie. presumptive heirs to the throne of the Austro-Hungarian Empire in Sarajevo.
ACP denoted the acronym Automatic Colt Pistol, for cartridge designs by John Browning. John Browning derived the .380 design from his 0.38-inch calibre cartridge. He omitted the flanged rim from the bottom of the pistol cartridge for the .380 of similar dimensions.
Pistol serial number #19074, now housed in Vienna’s Museum of Military History, was the offending weapon. Its magazine capacity holds six .380 cartridges, yet it took only two to assassinate the Austrian royal couple.
Disassembled, the Model 1910 consisted of five major parts. The magazine. The slide, the uppermost part recoiling back-and-forth as the pistol fires. The spring, kicking back the thrust of the recoil upon propulsion, and the barrel, its bore designed for 0.38- or 0.32-inch calibre cartridges, and the frame.
Disassembled, the Model 1910 constituted a couple dozen smaller parts. The extractor and its pin, removing fired cartridge casings, making way for fresh ammunition. The firing pin and its spring, providing the impact. The grip plates, screws, and decorative escutcheon of the Fabrique National logo. The various safety mechanisms, preventing accidental discharge. The trigger and accompanying sear, holding back the firing pin until a suitable amount of force exercises upon the trigger. Plus, a couple extra pins and springs.
Another cartridge for the FN Model 1910 bookended the two World Wars in the European theatre. Adolf Hitler died from a 0.32-inch calibre ACP from his police pistol designed by German gunsmith Carl Walther.
The Basque only knew the gunsmith as Glenn. Glenn had versed himself in both the artisanal tradition, as well as industrial-scale mass manufacture. It was only for a shift from the cacophony and relative mundanity of the factory floor which had led the gunsmith to become freelance. More underground, then of the shopfront variety.
Proficient in the trade of machinists, as much as the use of manual hand tools, expert in the discipline of ballistics and chemistry. Glenn hadn’t served in the Belgian military. He was in service to half the nations of the world’s militaries in his tenure at FN, he'd steeped himself in military standards. His paternal grandfather was a painter. Glenn channelled his artistic sensibilities into gun innovations of a more improvised nature. Some for his own amusement and curiosity; others fit-for-purpose upon private commission.
Such was the nature of The Basque’s request upon Glenn. The two remained acquainted over an eight-year period. One knew as little about the other, suffice for what each shared in brief windows of exchange. Glenn would receive phone calls asking for an appointment and a suggested time at Glenn’s workshop.
Glenn operated from the basement of his home, a two-storey dwelling, of which he occupied the top apartment. A couple in their seventies occupied the bottom apartment. Their relationship was cordial, and both allowed privacy for the other. The couple were not aggrieved for Glenn to make use of the basement. The sole proviso precluded metalwork was after suppertime at 7pm, and during the couple's joint afternoon nap, between 4 and 5pm. In exchange, the couple asked Glenn to store their unused bicycles, and some Vlaams Belang flags and paraphernalia. It may have seemed incongruous for a Flemish couple living in Wallonia to be proponents of Flemish nationalism and secession. But many veterans of Fabrique National opted for walking or cycling proximity to one’s workplace. Glenn’s neighbours had little excuse, long since retired, yet tied to their home. Glenn’s sympathies were similar, identifying as a Flemish nationalist. This shared, unspoken bond allowed for minding each other’s business without antipathy.
Insulated from the nearby motorway, the Rue Jean Volders, on the outskirts of Herstal, was next to a large shopping centre. It maintained a quietness. Identical two-storey attached dwellings line the street. Brick-facades, pitched, tiled, roofs. Closed roller shutters characterised most homes, with little distinction or outward decoration. but for an occasional box of red-pink flowers and city cars parked in driveways or on the street. Behind each domicile, any manner of private moment may be occurring. Banal, domestic, or untoward, each furnished a veneer of privacy and discretion among neighbours.
The Basque had little reason to either hold an affection or distaste for the gunsmith, Glenn. By appearances he seemed a man of moderate temperament. His quietude lent a mild unease to The Basque’s sensibilities. The Basque’s inference was this mildness of manner was more reflective of Flemish sensibilities of modesty. The Basque found this admirable when craftsmanship or talent hid beneath the facade.
The Basque had seen in international news reports Belgium had experienced a seeming spate of paedophilia. He wondered what in the chemistry of privacy, modesty and a reserved temperament lent itself to sowing the seeds of such malign phenomena.
At the least, thought The Basque to himself, if Glenn the gunsmith had anything in his closet, it would be in this basement. Better to be running an underground armoury than other unsavoury alternatives.
In contrast to the gunsmith's talents, The Basque didn't consider himself technical. More romantic of heart, swayed by his passions, but introverted, kept far below the surface of his visage.
The Basque spoke English, as a bridge to Glenn. He knew from prior visits Glenn elected not to speak French, though fluent per his former employment at the Fabrique Nationale.
The Basque conceded he had of late not had use for small arms, thus had not needed Glenn’s services. It was an irrelevant point to either party to note The Basque’s absence. The Basque castigated himself for the show of familiarity such that he’d need to explain himself.
Last week, I released Batman: Aegri Somnia, a fan fiction novel.
Today, I’m sharing the screenplay adaptation, ‘Chiroptera.’
The idea with writing Aegri Somnia was always to adapt to script, to then produce. Chiroptera is my own IP. The plot, as it stands in this first draft, maintains the original story of Aegri Somnia. I've replaced afresh the characters, and anything covered by DC/Warner’s copyright.
I intend this post as the first of many peeks behind the curtain, to offer a glimpse into the process.
This draft doesn’t offer much in the way of characterisation of the protagonist. Consistent with a screenplay, dialogue and action drive the adaptation. By contrast, Aegri Somnia is very cerebral. It’s likely later drafts will flesh out the protagonist’s characterisation.
To enumerate some of the differences between Bruce and Chiroptera’s original protagonist:
It’s unlikely in the final draft, the character will be American. Over the past week, I’ve been building up a characterisation around a British character, but more on this later. I wouldn’t rule out a secondary protagonist also - a female investigative reporter character.
Not a superhero/superhuman with superpowers
Not a billionaire playboy
origin: parents weren’t murdered
primary setting is NYC, in contrast to Gotham City
no advanced technology at personal disposal
still a philanthropist i.e. benefactor of NGO
No physical prowess
Motivation isn’t justice/crime
No Batsuit
No Gordon or Alfred
No rogue’s gallery
investigation/deduction remains
Not a martial artist
No secret identity
Doesn’t oversee a fictional company i.e. Wayne Enterprises
Not a vigilante
Not obsessional
No Batcave
No Bat-signal
Why I elected to author a novel first to then adapt? I was already in the habit of writing prose, with my last two projects being books - one a fictional novel, the other non-fiction. I also sensed, as the project progressed, I’d alter the fan fiction novel enough for the IP to be original, creating enough daylight from Bruce Wayne.
Learning the author of ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’, E.L. James, had first written it as Twilight fan fiction, then adapted it to be original, inspired me. I’ve also since learned one of my current favourite writer-directors, Ruben Östlund, writes his screenplays as novels first.
The next steps - after further development, as this is only a provisional first draft - will be pre-production. I’ve very content to take this slow though. I’ll be happy to mount this production at all. If it’s good, it’d be nice, but my main aspiration is to complete it. I’m happy to even extend production and post-production over several years if it means not overwhelming myself. I want to allow some breathing room to gather funds to supplement various stages of the process. I’m OK for it to languish in limbo for six months whilst putting together the budget to improve the sound mix, as an example.
You can download the first draft of Chiroptera here.
The contention underlying the opening chapter of Alain de Botton's The Consolations of Unpopularity is that the status quo can be something quite separate from "correct". An opinion of itself is validated by critical inquiry and debate, characterised as Socratic method. Via this method of resolving two disparate opinions, a dialectic is formed which in time will offer insights into the weaker foundations of one of the previously held assumptions in contrast to the other. The chapter posits that a mix of logic and questions hold the power to catalyse change in individuals and society.
Much like falsifiability, the virtue which characterises the scientific method, all assumptions of logic are open to having their foundations tested. Famous examples, such a Galileo, symbolise the ability for a perspective to be proved correct via the Socratic method.
However, in employing the biography of Socrates to illustrate the worth of his eponymous method, the injustice that led to the ancient Greek philosopher's death demonstrates the tragedy of the status quo consensus. This point is reinforced by the opportunity Socrates faced to salvage himself from a death sentence, instead committing himself to the truth.
Popularity is something quite apart from being "correct" or virtuous. Sometimes deep down we know this, however we psychologically take greater comfort from safety in numbers than exposing a known truth. The results of Socrates' trial demonstrate that on many occasions, what is correct or virtuous may not necessarily be vindicated.
The prolific employment of Socrates' death as the subject matter in notable art pieces throughout the centuries demonstrates the transience of what is "correct" and virtuous over time. That which is considered moral is malleable. Slavery was considered morally acceptable enough to be commonplace in the societies of Ancient Greece and America prior to the Emancipation Proclamation, as it still is many regions of the world today, though values change as their logic is challenged.
That which is the status quo should continually be questioned. De Bono even highlights how on some matters, questioning of that assumption is taboo, whether it be a social system, cultural value, or method of conducting a daily task.
Perhaps Socrates believed history would prove him correct, as could also be said of Jesus, and many others throughout time whose ideas have proved too advanced for the societies in which they lived. Like Menos and his generals however, even today, the elite require a mindfulness and ability to question their logic. We live in a time of greater technological advancement and economic wealth than at any time in history, yet require a wisdom alongside that technology, and a respect for both the environment which supports that economic growth as well as the social equality of that wealth. As Socrates' jury demonstrated, sometimes we arrive at the contention of an assumption with our own prejudices, though we hold them so deeply out of comfort or fear of alienation to recognise a truth of logic.
Even passively, in identification to the narrative arc of fictional characters, are we able to identify with the perspectives of another. Whether via literature, television, film or theatre can we play the silent participant to a dialectic being performed before us.
The quote I found to be the most illuminating and thought-provoking was de Bono's remark about searching for a glass of Nesquik at the Met, particularly served in a glass, in contrast to a carton or bottle. Though still unsure of its relevance, I like to imagine de Bono was demonstrating the cultural disparity between a mass-produced, chocolate-flavoured milk beverage in the midst of high art. Perhaps he was drawing an allegory between Socrates' consumption of hemlock and the Nesquik. Perhaps the beverage is meant to symbolise the mainstream status quo of US corporate culture and the controversial practices of its ubiquitous Swiss multinational manufacturer.
I find this personally very resonant, as Nesquik stands out as representative of my very first encounter with visiting the USA, on my first trip abroad as a 15-year-old. The first thing I ate or drank in that country, a purchase from a 7-Eleven convenience store in Anaheim, the beverage has continued to symbolise to me all the unspoken and normalised corruption, as well as a mindfulness that characterises American society. An intangible sense of the nutritional, environmental and ethical questionability of the product in comparison to Australian flavoured milk offers insight.
However, I'm still unsure as to why de Bono sought the Nesquik specifically in a glass. Perhaps he was just challenging the status quo.
Produced by Dominic Billings and shot by John Sacco for ADEC with the support of the Victorian Government’s Department of Health and Human Services as a resource for Mandarin and Vietnamese-speaking people with a disability to access the NDIS and appeal reviewable decisions.
Iain “Huey” Hewitson tells-all about his tawdry kitchen-cum-boudoir escapades with my co-host Vincent from 2007’s SYN radio program Soup du Jour.
Ooh la la!
“You are aiming for 🌞” was the piece of advice Dominic Billings really took to heart, from one of his early NEIS training sessions at Box Hill Institute.
He was participating in the NEIS program to best plan his new film production business. While considering this particular piece of advice, Dom thought “if I could work and travel, that would make for some happy fulfilled days!”
Dominic has a background in media, writing and film production. With management training and mentoring provided by NEIS, Dom developed the entrepreneurial skills he needed and one of his first commissions after completing the program was a $30,000 video production project.
Read full article at NEIS Now
Big thanks to presenters Tom and Dana, producer Maria and Arts Talks Manager Jayden of SYN Nation's Art Smitten for talking Death of an Axolotl, produced in association with Channel 31 Melbourne and the Community Broadcasting Foundation
I'm in the mood to spruik this, a 2013 production of Soup du Jour Productions aka Vince Moloney and I:
▽, a 4-part narrative TV series about women's empowerment inspired by the book Half the Sky by Pulitzer Prize-winners Nick Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn of The New York Times. For a while I was almost ashamed of it, but it's more relevant than ever - I daresay we were a fraction ahead of the curve with the topics therein reaching fever pitch in past couple years.
I'd totally marginalised it til now, split across 12 low-quality vids hidden from view, despite receiving a $5000 grant by the CBF and C31 to reach communities of interest. I thought it was heavy-handed at the time, and too didactic (just look the word up, ya mug!).
Anyhow, have re-edited in to its original 4 episodes in higher definition. I'm actually really fuckin' proud of it.
Enormous credit to Evan Munro-Smith (first project shot on his beloved RED Scarlet, I believe). Everyone who works with Ev knows that whatever any of us respectively bring to the table, the ship sinks or swims according to his involvement, to which we all know - whether we express it or not - his value is ineffable/inEvvable.
Also, enormous accolade ought be extended to Rebecca Bastiaensz, who held the story upon her shoulders. Such a pro and hopefully destined and deserving of grand things!
Franco Cozzo from SYN's Postcodes
Created by Tahlia Azaria, Nat 'Dragon' Harris and Andrew 'Rowdy' Russell
My heart goes out to Barron Trump today. Little does the poor guy know that at the age of eleven, his old man sold out his future for the narrow interests of pandering to the working-class voters of Pennsylvania, Michigan and Ohio, energising his base in Kentucky and West Virginia proactively with the 2018 mid-terms and 2020 re-election bid in mind.
If Barron's dad knew as much about business as he claims, he'd at a basic level know that a strong primary industry and manufacturing sector is a hallmark of a second-rate economy. He'd know that only 20,000 coal-mining jobs exist among the 150 million Americans in the labour force. Alarm bells would ring when your Secretary of State, the former CEO of the 2nd-largest historical carbon dioxide emitting company, furiously campaigns in the days leading up to your decision to stay in the Paris Agreement. The accord as it stands already is so short of ambition as reflected by current commitments that it would still lead to catastrophic climate change, far exceeding the aim of a 2-degree Celsius increase of global average temperature as measured against the start of industrialisation circa 1850, scientifically giving us a two-thirds chance of avoiding dangerous, human-caused climate change.
But Donald doesn't deserve all the blame. David and Charles Koch are the real culprits driving the libertarian brand of US politics, overseers of a vast political machine seeking to whittle away government oversight and taxation to the benefit of an oil and gas dynasty presided over by two men living past the average life expectancy of their country of birth.
The Koch's have a shill in Scott Pruitt, the EPA chief and former Oklahoma attorney general, a state that's benefited greatly from the shale boom of the past decade, buttressed by all the litigation Pruitt could help it with. Both Pruitt and the President's chief strategist Steven K. Bannon - pandering to the white, working-class voters that elected them on a key campaign promise - prevailed over the exhortations of a former Goldman Sachs president-turned-economics adviser, an ex-ExxonMobil chief and the president's own First Daughter, mother of Donald's grandchildren Arabella, Theodore and Joseph, along with his grandchildren to Donald Jr., Kai, Chloe, Donald III, Tristan and Spencer.
The US Senate never ratified the Kyoto Protocol, so it's short accession to the Paris Agreement need not surprise us greatly as a departure from history, though it certainly may feel so.
It's incumbent upon all of us to take individual responsibility. We all allow our conscience reprieve when our fuel tank gauge nears empty and we pull in to the local branch of Shell, BP, ExxonMobil, Chevron or Total. Many of us allow inertia to prevail in continuing to run our home electricity and gas heating off the fossilised sediment of prehistoric lifeforms when a renewable energy provider is but a phone call away (From them, I mean! I know you receive them unsolicited all the time.) An atmospheric interplay of the sun's rays and one carbon atom symbiotically CO-existing with 2 carbon atoms will set our children and children's children on a pathway to a world that paints the world in conflagration.
In the 4 years requisite for the US to legally exit the Paris Agreement, a presidential election will occur exactly the following day, after which a new administration could ratify once again, at the expense of 4 years of business-as-usual emissions, incurring greater expense to decarbonise the US economy by mid-century.
It won't matter. America's abdicated global leadership on Thursday 1 June 2017, ironically to China, the very power Trump intended to curb. I suggest a divestment of American goods and services with exception of the ICT vanguard including Apple, Google, Microsoft and Facebook. Not as a rebuke to ordinary Americans who want a healthy planet and socially inclusive economy that distributes fairly the wealth of ultra-high net worth individuals such as the Kochs and their cronies. These wealthy elites wrote the US tax code because plutocracy charades as democracy in America, the Republican Party an asset of Koch Industries, the second-largest private company from sea to shining sea. This is about money, and you have the potential to wield your unit of fiat currency, whether US dollar, pound sterling, euro, yen or yuan, even in infinitesimal quantities against the scale of the $100 million mobilised by the Koch's in the 2016 campaign.
Wield your individual ability to act and do your 7.5-billionth worth of responsibility. Take the UN Climate Neutral Now pledge. Calculate your climate footprint, reduce what you can and buy carbon credits to offset whatever emissions you cannot.
Educate yourself about the deep decarbonisation pathways toward a decarbonised economy in our respective countries by 2050, built on 3 pillars:
I'm saddened, because I really enjoy being in America, New York City particularly being an enormous inspiration, but I see no morality in being complicit in their economy's depredations any longer, even as a visitor. As it stands though, I can see I, like many others, fell for Columbia's wiles and seduction in the form of a lifestyle that was neither sustainable for its citizens and global citizenry, nor reflective of my morality. Stoking wars and regime changes in violation of the UN Charter's respect for other members states' sovereignty, an ODA budget of 0.18% of GNI in contrast to a pledged 0.7% from the world's largest economy, a disregard for the virtues of both the Convention on Biological Diversity, as well as the UNFCCC, of which the Paris Agreement is an extension of.
The world must look anywhere but the United States now, save for an alliance between progressive and dynamic American cities, states and businesses, in an effort formally being led by former NYC mayor and UN climate envoy Michael Bloomberg, who ironically considered a run in the 2016 election. The world will pivot to the EU and China for leadership, as evidenced by the One Belt, One Road initiative officially presented by Xi Jinping last month. Yet as individuals we must search our own respective actions, being ever-mindful to prioritise the wealth of biodiversity and gains made on ending extreme poverty to ensure the health of our planet and our children's prosperous future.
How many of us can sit back and say with confidence that we’re living our life to the absolute fullest?
Not merely existing, but really living.
Childhood friends and co-founders of Soup du Jour Productions, Dominic Billings, 31, and Vincent Moloney, 32, ask this relatively daunting question in the most humorous manner with their first feature-length film ‘200 Grams’.
Read the full article at Il Globo
