NY Comic-Con 2012
“I have been here”.
By Jamil of Jamil's Comics
That's the thought I had when I entered the NY Comic-Con this year. Of course, I had not. I went to the Canadian Comic-Con about eight years ago, spent about half an hour there, even met Brian Michael Bendis. But this was something else. Other than the San Diego Comic-Con, no other can even come close. Yet, I was completely in my element. Near religious obsession since Class Two was good prep.
This was a gathering of stars, and of loyal fans, and of cosplay lovers. They had huge panels from the big companies including the publishing houses, video games, toy manufacturers, TV shows and even movies. I was awestruck with all the stars. And the experience was enhanced as I was with my childhood buddy Shumit, who bore with me until around evening when he literally dragged me away from the Con.
The fun started when we got off the bus and tried to find the convention center. My astute friend said naturally, “Just follow those geeks”. I looked over, and saw there was a line of mostly grown up men and women, wearing fun get-ups. Some dressed as zombies (Walking Dead was a prominent feature at the Con), some as superheroes and some looking excited even without any get-up. A couple of policemen were helping us guests get to the center. Probably out of concern we might create a jam. Anyways, we got in, and were immediately feeling lost. The centre was huge! They gave us this big book telling us where what was; and we promptly felt more lost than ever. I peeked at the board which said Artists Alley and ran that way. And there was a good gathering of artists. From stars of years ago: George Perez, Michael Golden, Bill Sienkwicz to contemporary greats like Paulo Rivera, David Finch, Steve McNiven, Artgerm and Simone Bianchi. I had brief talks with Chris Claremont, Peter David and others before, when asking around where Grant Morrison was, someone told me, “You should check out the Image Panel.” Oh God! Off we ran.
Too late! Mr. Morrison was here, but left without a trace. Someone said Stan Lee was here. Some said Neal Adams. Uggh! But wait, isn't that a Scott Snyder signing at Midtown Comics booth? So we go there and then suddenly realise that's mighty Joe Quesada (Head of Marvel) sitting there. Gleefully I meet him. And when I turned, over at the DC panel, I recognised Geoff Johns and Jim Lee. Dang. Too late to stand in line. So I get hit by lightning and just walk over there and say, “Hey. I am from all the way from Dhaka. Can you guys please say 'Go Dhaka!' for the fans back home?” (Or something to that effect) and they happily obliged. Wow. They are great guys. Over the moon, I go over to the Scott Snyder's (Batman's writer) signing, and when he hears I own a comics shop, and get all the latest comics by air, he says, “Wow, that's amazing man.” Ok, this was cool. Snyder telling me I am doing something amazing.
I got many comics signed, and some artwork prints signed too. Got some items I was looking for like G.I. Joe #1, Steranko Fury and variants. I got the prints framed, and these give me a warm glow. But nothing can beat the experience of being in the Con. Excelsior!
The story is a glimpse to many a kid's mind. Their ambition to be something and their secret performances; be it in the darkness of their rooms or behind the privacy of their imagination. For next week we have 'Mediocre' as our topic. All submissions need to be sent in to email@example.com by Sunday noon. Word limit: 350-500 words. Good luck.
Hall of Fame
By Farah Yasmin
A December morning. Lying underneath a warm blanket. It was really cold last night, slept wearing my furry sweater. Still no need to take it off; implies, this is going to be a freezing cold day - a tough day! Yes, I feel colder than other people. When I'm asleep, I feel it more. Because there's no bed in my room. Just a mattress lying lazily on the floor. No, it's for no interior deco purpose. My room just isn't wide enough and if I put a bed here, there won't be place left where I can secretly dance.
No, I don't dance.
I mean, I do. But I don't know how to dance.
I just look at the poster on my wall of Anna Pavlova that my brother brought from Russia. And I wave my arms around, like I'm flying and swimming at the same time. My toes touch the ground as if I'm the celestial nymph. After doing some spins, I stop dramatically and I hear them clapping, cheering and calling out my name. I pant, I smile and I bow low to the invisible “Assembled Crowd'. Then I smile a bit more.
But I can't always smile.
Because 'The Visibles' say that I can't dance, let alone classical ballet. They say I need to know the grammar, I need to know techniques, I need to know history and a lot more. They assume I know nothing and they keep on saying more. And I keep on looking at the birds flying on the sky, looking how they use their wings and beautifully move through the air. Without learning anything, they just know how to. They are beautiful, they are amazing. They know how to believe in themselves.
So do I.
I know how to believe in myself - how to be beautiful and amazing.
On my way to home, I cover the head with hoody - the earpieces deliver me the music of maestros. I keep walking looking down. I pretend there's a huge stage with enchanting lightings. I pretend I am dressed up alluringly. I pretend I'm dancing flawlessly. I pretend my co-dancers are well-synchronised with me.
When I finally reach home - reach my room, I look at the poster and I pretend the greatest ballerina of all time is happy. Then I smile. I do some spins, I stop dramatically and I hear them clapping, cheering and calling out my name. I pant, I smile and I bow low to the invisible “Assembled Crowd'. Then I smile a bit more.
I smile a bit more every time because I've my own Hall of Fame. And it was effortless constructing it. And it's easier to get in there whenever I want.