Christmas, a long time ago

I don't know where to begin to write about this photo. It isn't even a photo: it's a crop, only a tiny piece of a much larger picture that featured all my siblings, plus my sister's boy friend Derek. We were all in wacky positions on the sofa beside the Christmas tree. 

It didn't occur to me until just now to crop out the part with Arthur and me. And it jumps out at me now, startling: so there we are. Arthur influenced my childhood, not to mention my life, more than anyone. Arthur was crazy. He was a flutist, a musician, a ne'er-do-well and very very smart. As time wore on, it became more and more evident that something was "wrong with" Arthur. In his early 20s, a few years after this photo was taken, he was diagnosed schizophrenic.

Whatever that means. But in an odd way, he embraced it. His life was hand-to-mouth on the streets of Toronto, though I did get to see him once in a while. He was a beloved figure, always, even if he did not always make much sense. The family tried to help, they really did, but he was hard to keep track of. He was in and out of hospital, and once when he described a hospitalization to me, it was as if he were telling me about his vacation in Acapulco. It was a grand adventure - no kidding! None of the bleakness, the shame that a "proper" mental patient should feel.

Though he did "mental patient" with great style and verve, he really was mentally incapacitated at times and found it hard to get along. Practical things were difficult. Because he was naturally appealing and very spiritual, various religious groups adopted him, literally took him in off the street and gave him food and shelter. First it was the Buddhists, then the Sikhs, and I don't know who else. I am grateful to them now.

Arthur died horribly, in a fire, in 1980. It was the same year John Lennon was shot. I don't know how I got through that year. Everyone said things like, oh, it was smoke inhalation and probably a painless death. Then I found out what death through smoke inhalation is really like. Everyone said things like, well, at least now you know where he is. They even said: maybe it was for the best.

It wasn't for the best, not anybody's best, and certainly not his. He had his life, odd as it was. He influenced me enormously. I can't even describe his sense of humour. It was bizarre; he could be bizarre. It wasn't always pleasant being with him.

My second novel Mallory has a character closely based on Arthur. It was important to me to write that novel, but like everything I have ever published, hardly anyone read it. I try not to dwell on the sense of futility that gives me.

When my brother died, I rather bitterly thought: now I get to inherit the mantle of family fuckup. And I did, to a large extent. I wear a "diagnosis" too, though a different one. I take "meds" too, though different ones. I don't like jokes and cartoons about meds because they are not funny, though I see them everywhere. If I mind, I'm told I have no sense of humour.

But Arthur was good at his diagnosis, he usually wore it lightly. He told me about a time in hospital when they had a "patient's night out" and went to a pub. When it was time to order a drink, one of the guys kept calling, "Oh, nurse!" He thought that was very funny.

I don't wish to paint him as this jolly schizophrenic. There was that time he tried to exorcise a demon he claimed had taken over my body. And he often smuggled hashish into his bedroom, where we smoked ourselves senseless. I was only about 15.

I wasn't popular as a teenager, at all, and was often miserable. Oddly, Arthur WAS popular. Strange as he was, he always had friends, and they came to him. He never did a single thing to attract them.

I will never figure out the riddle of him.

If you've had a brother, and then you don't, it leaves a hole, a brother-shaped hole. It leaves you wondering why you had to inherit this mantle, this "not right in the head" stuff that is supposedly so important. I am NOT "right in the head", but that doesn't matter so much because I have my life. And I suppose it's nothing special, except to me.

Say Misty for me

How to wrap presents (NOT)

Happens to me all the time. I've also had tape stuck in my hair or on my knee (!?), and of course cut the paper so it's too short and won't go around the gift. Or discovered I left something out, and very carefully tried to open up the paper along the seam, and rrrrrrrrip. 

This is one of the rites of passage of Christmas, and every year I say "this time it'll be different". It isn't. It's just as sweaty, tiring and tedious as every other year. I somehow established a custom years and years ago of making pompoms and other yarn designs (twisted, braided) instead of ribbon, and God. It uses up VAST amounts of wool, and leaves, always, mats of yarn-bits and ends caked onto the rug.

But we do this, we do these things. Even if it's all thrown away, ALL of it, even (especially!) the elaborately-made pompoms which no one appreciates.

They don't appreciate it because they speak a different language, because they don't know what the hell this is all about. Their accomplishments shine in the eyes of the world. Mine don't.

But I keep on doing it, because - because it's what I do, and I know I will continue.

Northern Lights in Norway: beyond amazement

Man Possessed by Gay Demon on Live TV (Original)

One of my favorite videos.

Hula cats

Mele Kalikimaka is the thing to say 

On a bright Hawaiian Christmas day

That's the island greeting that we send to you

From the land where palm trees sway

Here we know that Christmas 

will be green and bright

The sun will shine by day 

and all the stars at night

\

Mele Kalikimaka is Hawaii's way 

To say Merry Christmas to you!

Bird and berries

Bentley vs. Cyberpenguin!

Bentley is the first to admit that he is not good with technology. He prefers a warm lap, a Temptations cat treat, an ear scratch and a pinch of catnip.

But every once in a while, His Nibs comes up against some evil cybercreature. He usually wins by walking away, so it's not very exciting.

But hey - it's a cat video. It's a CHRISTMAS cat video, for God's sake - what more could you want?

Wild horse attack

Well, no. Actually, it's a lot of wild ponies from Assateague Island disrupting the peace and quiet of tourists on the beach. But I don't think anybody minds meeting Misty's descendents up close and personal.

Rockin' with Santa

Caitlin is out front at the start, then on the left side from 0:26 to 0:52. After that, you can follow her easily because she is the BEST DAMN DANCER UP THERE!

Drop dead. Plop. Flop.

I don't know how I get myself into these moods. Dragging bottom emotionally for no reason that makes any sense, except that it's December, I thought I'd look up some Christmas poetry. I found one by John Betjeman that was quite nice, if long - but it fell apart by going all religious at the end, with babies in stables, etc., and ending with "God was man in Palestine/And lives today in bread and wine". Way to wreck it, John.

William Topaz McGonagall's atrocities occurred to me, and I wondered if he had done any Christmas poems (for the only thing better than a good Christmas poem is a bad Christmas poem - but it must be monumentally bad, not just dirty or jingly or a stupid takeoff of Clement Moore). But I've already "done" McGonagall in past posts, and I'm a bit sick of him, to be honest.

I found a horrible Robert Frost poem in which a man pounds on his door of a snowy evening and asks if he can cut down all the lovely snow-sparkling pines on his property to sell as Christmas trees. And here Frost hums and haws over it, turns it over in his mind, thinking: well, here are the advantages in it; and hmmm, here are the disadvantages in it; and: AIIIIIEEEEEK! Cut down all your friggin' trees?? What are you thinking? I guess back then it must have seemed that there were trees enough, that they were endless, and just a crop to be managed like any other. But I was so upset at this point that I didn't even read to the end.

Discouraged, I threw away Christmas and widened my scope to include any old poetry that was sublimely bad, but it's hard to find truly awful stuff. I found articles quoting three or four weak lines in, say, Tennyson. Auden once used a bad adjective, and somebody found a pun in Shakespeare, comparing an orange to Seville (or was it servile?). Well, who gives a shit about that? I wanted bad, and I wasn't getting it.

Until.

Until I found. . . This. 

A Tragedy

Theophilus Marzials

Death!
Plop.

The barges down in the river flop.

Flop, plop.

Above, beneath.

From the slimy branches the grey drips drop,
As they scraggle black on the thin grey sky,
Where the black cloud rack-hackles drizzle and fly
To the oozy waters, that lounge and flop
On the black scrag piles, where the loose cords plop,
As the raw wind whines in the thin tree-top.

Plop, plop.

And scudding by

The boatmen call out hoy! and hey!
All is running water and sky,

And my head shrieks -- "Stop,"

And my heart shrieks -- "Die."

*          *          *          *          *
My thought is running out of my head;
My love is running out of my heart,
My soul runs after, and leaves me as dead,
For my life runs after to catch them -- and fled
They all are every one! -- and I stand, and start,
At the water that oozes up, plop and plop,
On the barges that flop
                              And dizzy me dead.
I might reel and drop.
                                                Plop.
                                                Dead.

And the shrill wind whines in the thin tree-top
                           Flop, plop.
*          *          *          *          *
A curse on him.
                            Ugh! yet I knew -- I knew --
If a woman is false can a friend be true?
It was only a lie from beginning to end --

My Devil -- My "Friend"

I had trusted the whole of my living to!

Ugh; and I knew!

Ugh!

So what do I care,

And my head is empty as air --

I can do,

I can dare,

(Plop, plop

The barges flop

Drip drop.)

I can dare! I can dare!

And let myself all run away with my head
And stop.

Drop.

Dead.

Plop, flop.

                                              Plop.

---

                                        [-- from The Gallery of Pigeons (1874) ]

As if this bounty weren't enough, I found these little notes attached to an article about him, claiming that Marzials, not McGonagall, was the worst poet in the English language:

"Theo Marzials, the last of the Victorian aesthetes, who lived on in rural retirement, addicted to beetroot and chlorodyne (morphia, chloroform and prussic acid), for two decades after the world thought him dead. In the 1870s, as a young man with long hair, flowing moustaches and a silk bow tie over his lapels, he worked at the British Museum. According to Max Beerbohm, the great Panizzi himself, founder of the round Reading Room, was one day surprised to hear a shrill voice crying from the gallery: "Am I or am I not the darling of the Reading Room?". . .  Marzials almost outlived danger. "On the last occasion when I happened to catch sight of him, looking into a case of stuffed birds at South Kensington Museum, he had eaten five large chocolate creams in the space of two minutes," wrote Ford in 1911. "He had a career tragic in the extreme and, as I believe, is now dead." But he wasn't. He was living in a farmhouse room in Colyton, Devon. The bed, occupied day and night, had a saucer of sliced beetroot beside it, the smell of which mingled with the fumes of chlorodyne, the smoke of an oil lamp and the steam of a stockpot perpetually simmering on the
stove."

This is disjointed as hell because I've edited 300 or so words out of it, so who knows who "Ford" is, but then again, who cares? The important thing is that I have found a truly horrendous, a harrowingly bad poet, and this opens the door to all sorts of posts about him. Or not. Depends if I can find anything else. Oh, here's one -

The Ghost of Love

by: Theophilus Marzials (1850-1920)

The wan witch at the creepy midnight hour,
When the wild moon was flying to its full,
Went huddling round a damned convent's tower,
From out the crumbling slabs or tombs to pull
Some lecherous leaf or shrieking mandrake-flower.
Beneath she heard the dead men's voices dull;
Around she felt the cold souls creep and cower;
In hand she held a grinning damned's skull!

Then through the ruin'd cloisters, strangely white,
T'wards the struck moon, all swathed in colod grave-bands,
She saw dead Love wringing his hollow hands,
And gliding grimmer than a dank tomb-light.

And with a shriek she rush'd across his path--
And now the hell-worm all her body hath!

The problem with this one is, as Zero Mostel says to Gene Wilder in The Producers: "Nah, it's too good." In fact it's neither good nor bad, and is as purple as most Victorian stuff was. But it strikes me as bargain basement Gerard Manley Hopkins, and even a pale photocopy of Hopkins has a certain power behind it.

I don't know what "colod grave-bands" are, but maybe they played gigs at the cemetary. Were they people of "colo"? We'll never know. (Could be a typo, also.) So even at being the worst, Marzials wasn't the best. Or the other way around.

MARZIALS DISH. This was all I could find about his sex life, and it came from Wikipedia so it MUST be true:

"The relationship between Marzials and fellow author Edmund Gosse is debated, with some claims that their relationship was more than platonic."

But wait, there's more. . . a truly cheesy poem!

We have seen the Queen of cheese,

Laying quietly at your ease,

Gently fanned by evening breeze --

Thy fair form no flies dare seize.

All gaily dressed soon you'll go

To the great Provincial Show,

To be admired by many a beau

In the city of Toronto.

Cows numerous as a swarm of bees --

Or as the leaves upon the trees --

It did require to make thee please,

And stand unrivalled Queen of Cheese.

May you not receive a scar as

We have heard that Mr. Harris

Intends to send you off as far as

The great World's show at Paris.

Of the youth -- beware of these --

For some of them might rudely squeeze

And bite your cheek; then songs or glees

We could not sing o' Queen of Cheese.

We'rt thou suspended from baloon,

You'd cast a shade, even at noon;

Folks would think it was the moon

About to fall and crush them soon.

James McIntyre

I don't know what to say.

Tappin' with Santa

Caitlin, amazing, at the Christmas dance recital (on the right side in the first two shots). Keeps tugging at me, because of course I remember her getting born, and everything after that. Now that she's officially a teenager, Grandma's not cool any more - not that she ever was! - so the unpopularity which dogged me all my life, and which I had seemingly beaten for a while, has caught up with me again. It was ever thus; I must get used to it. 

Meantime, she just killed it! She kicked ass, though tap was not always her strong suit. The founder of the dance company, the legendary Miss Charmaine, tactfully asked her if they could work together individually for a while, and "something" happened - she just caught fire. Now she wants to move on to hiphop (or hip-hop or hip hop or however you spell it). I've seen her do hiphop, and she's great, a natural. It's a much harder form of dance than you would think, with a ton of choreography. One must be both loose and precise. Oh never mind, she'll figure it out. Way to go, Caitlin!

My congratulatory PicMix glitz animation for Caitlin.

Bentley Attacks!

Though Bentley is a very sweet cat, he can be kind of unpredictable. He ambushed me when I tried to take a video of him lurking in the Christmas tree (not under). What can I say? He's a cat. That's what they do. No harm was done to the videographer.

(Gif version, for the short-attention-spanned).

Cat

Scary little Christmas: violence on the puppet stage

This has to rate, if it rates at all, as the most violent thing I've ever seen on a puppet stage. It's shocking not just for its casual and gratuitous violence, but for the stunned looks on the faces of the kiddie audience, held captive by the most un-jolly Santa I've ever seen. Most Santas just don't have it down, in particular the laugh: it comes out ha-ha-ha, or, as in this case, an evil little chuckle. There are moments when this guy is lecturing the kids in which his gestures are like something from the movie Downfall.  But that's nothing compared to the puppets, who rip into each other with heartless, sociopathic glee. There is a very fake soundtrack of forced children's laughter layered on top, which does not match the help-me/get-me-out-of-here faces of the kids at all.

There is no shorter version of this that I could find, or I'd post it. Eight minutes is just too much of your life to waste on something like this. And yet, it's fascinating. Here Santa is the ultimate authority figure. You WILL watch this puppet show, and you will like it.

Snowflakes