Lovely Caitlin: TEN years old!

Two little words that nobody says

Two little words. There are two little words, NOT three (the ones written on those cheap heart-shaped boxes of candy from the drug store) or four (the ultimate, shining, tinsel-coated four that cause men to get down on one knee at hockey arenas with the Jumbotron on them). I never hear these two little words any more, and in fact I can’t even remember the last time I heard them.

If someone is offensive to you, if someone says something rotten, if someone hurts your feelings with the nastiest thing they can possibly say, what generally happens? What does the offender say, if they bother to say anything at all?

“Oh, I didn’t know you were so sensitive.” (or, alternately, “Jeez, stop being so sensitive!”)

“You obviously don’t know how to receive feedback (or, alternately, “You need to work on your ability to receive feedback”).

“I was only trying to help you” (with your bad breath, terrible cooking, lousy taste in clothes, etc.)

“I just don’t see how you can be so ungrateful” (for all this help!).

“How dare you accuse me of saying something so mean!”

“What’s the matter with you? Why are you so neurotic?”

“It was a joke! (your taste in music, movies, art, people). Don’t you have a sense of humor?”

“Oh, no, you misunderstood me. I would never say anything like that” (you’re fat, you’re boring, you’re lousy in bed).

“Well, I’d never react that way. I always receive criticism as a compliment to my ability to change in a healthy, positive direction.”

"I know I'm right, but if you really need me to say it. . . "

"Well, what do you want me to say?"

"I didn't say that."

"You made it up."

“You’re just playing the victim.”

“You made me do it.”

“You owe me an apology.”

“Oh, but this is karma.”

“Everything happens for a reason.”

“Criticism is just God’s way of remaining anonymous.”

“Here, read this book.”

“Here, read this book.”

“Here, read this book.”

For some reason, every nation in the world has turned to Teflon. NO ONE takes responsibility any more, for anything. To do so is so rare that it is seen as almost freakish.

Just when do people learn these baroque twists and turns, these arabesques which slip and slide them out of any necessity for owning up to saying something personally hurtful? We all know the advantages in this system. It means people can spew out the meanest, most venomous comments and then turn the blame around and aim it at the victim. Yes, victim. If someone has a poison dart thrown at them, they are a victim, though the word now has such negative connotations that it's seen as an insult in itself.

A victim of someone else's verbal cruelty does not deserve to have their own protests shoved back down their throat. Nevertheless, it happens all the time, along with all the other popular flip-flops practiced by the heartless. No one “makes” anyone do anything abusive, but this is something you hear over and over again from the thugs that make everyone else's life so utterly wretched.

I have seen people behave abominably because they hurt me. You see, I am not allowed to say anything. Ever. If I do say something, THEY flip out, act as if they have been horribly abused. "How could you do this to me?" Then the shivering little rabbit, limping after being so badly kicked, crawls under the bed.

I have a remedy for all this twisted shit, and it is very simple, though not (apparently, or people would do it once in a while) easy. It’s only two words, and once they’re out, you can run and go gargle with mouthwash and then go home.

"I’m sorry."

Not, “Even though I know I was right, I guess I’m. . . “

Not, “Even though I know you’re way too sensitive, I guess I’m. ..”

Two little words.

And that’s all.

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Fifteen-second Classics: GIRL GANG!

Editing your novel can be hazardous to your health

Encountering a T-Rex in some steaming Amazonian jungle is NOTHING compared to the embattled state of editing your novel. You will come to see it as a nightmare beyond your wildest dreams. 

But just maybe, if you keep at it, you and the monster can learn the cha-cha-cha.

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Damn cute, is all!

It's a bird, it's a plane, it's. . . Superharold!

Harold's hand (what it really looked like)

As you can see, there was not much left of Harold Lloyd's right hand. Half of it was blown off by a prop bomb that turned out to be fully loaded. But the way he dealt with this was - way cool.

Though he wore a prosthetic for his pictures, as far as we know, NO ONE NOTICED IT. That's because he didn't try to hide it. It must have come in handy to be a magician well-versed in prestidigitation, so he managed well and probably ended up better for having an obstacle to push against. In public, he was cool about it,  knowing when to wear the glove and when (as above - bowling with half a hand!) he could leave it at home. Sometimes putting his hand in his pocket sufficed; it became a characteristic gesture, part of his coolness.

Yes. And this was at a time when disabilities were considered shameful and almost always covered up. Here he's out dancing and obviously enjoying himself. The hand looks even more slender and wand-like, but he does not seem to care who sees it. 

I wish I could learn what he stood for, how he lived. If you're cool with something, most everybody else will be, too. And if they're not - they lose. 

If I keep practicing it for the rest of my life, maybe I'll get it.

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Who's that smile?

Just a few seconds in time. . . A candid shot of Harold Lloyd strolling along the beach, exuding health and confidence and enjoying the day.

These times, they will never come again.

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Harold Lloyd: Vrruckter Millwoch!

As I trudge through the (first round, only) edit of my novel, The Glass Character, which involves the very dishy but dead silent comedian Harold Lloyd, and as I (sometimes) wonder why I wrote the thing in the first place, it being so problematic in the editing process, I must refresh my mania for said Harold Lloyd by poking into some very strange promotional material indeed.

I think this one is for his last movie, a flop called The Sin of Harold Diddlebock, which involved a yellow plaid suit and a lion. The lion has been cut off the bottom for reasons unknown, which is too bad because I think this might have made a handsome poster if it had been left whole.  It looks to be in German, using the alternate title Mad Wednesday. Either way, the movie wasn't very good, though  that title (in German, at least)  is something memorable.

You might find this title on an Ikea poster. Things look a little out of proportion here: the cops are waving their sticks at him, which they never did in Safety Last!. So I honestly don't know what this is about. He looks like he's sitting on a very large rectangular cube of some sort. No clock in sight. Or could it be Mad Wednesday, where he does some aerial stunts, unfortunately all done with illusion?

This one I really like. It could be for Haunted Spooks, an early one I like, in which I think his hair stands on end. He looks very European in this, very French. Mildred Davis looks doll-like beside him, and she has red hair, which I don't think she did. But all in all, this is a good-looking, stylish poster with great use of colour.

This one is TOO abstract for my tastes. Most of the European posters are.  I have no idea what language this is or what it means, though it must be Scandinavian. I don't know if he's swinging from a chain in this one, or falling. His legs look disturbingly fat, as if he is suffering from edema. His shoes look like lady shoes, let's face it, and what is that conelike red thing stuck to his feet?

This one is interesting in that it's in more than one language. Schaterlachen is definitely German, but Fous-Rires looks French to me, meaning crazy laughter. One of the photos in the glasses lens is from The Freshman, the other from Girl Shy. I don't know why this is after six years of studying Lloyd, but I know a lot about him, though I am not allowed to let it show, or I am cut down to size as if it's an embarrassment. Must be karma. 

This one is called The Fox Hunt.I don't remember a Lloyd film with that name, but there is one - I think it's called Among Those Present - in which he must pass himself off as a gentleman capable of riding the meanest horse in the stable so he can impress his girl on a fox hunt. I think he gets her in the end.

Filmtosset! So what's a filmtosset? Nobody knows. Is that a rocket going off, or what? No, it's a spotlight of some sort. He looks to be landing on his ass with a briefcase, so who knows what it's about. Oh! Maybe it's Movie Crazy, one of his early talkies. In that case, I'll pass.

I've saved the best till last. Here is a lovely poster, an almost perfect match for a photo publicity shot (below), for the movie I Do (translated as Un Heureux Mari: a happy or lucky husband). It isn't just the charming drawing of the two of them in the kitchen, he tending to a broken plate, nor the saturated colors, but the inclusion of a nickname Lloyd wore for a very long time in Europe: Lui. Meaning: him. You know who I mean, that guy, the regular fellow. The regular fellow who captured the world.

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Women laughing alone with salad

Women Laughing Alone With Salad

By Edith Zimmerman | January 3, 2011

From The Hairpin, January 3, 2011

The pills I took were a bad idea

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust. T. S. Eliot The wishbone Today I had the thought, Do not, do not, on pain of freaking death, look backward, Look backward over your shoulder at anything that you Have done or that has transpired, Because you will have one of two reactions: You will hate what you have done, who you were, all the  mistakes You have made, all the chances not taken, Or else you will so love the times that were sweet  blossomings, Heady gardens of the mind, That you will ache for those times and die inside, Knowing they will never return. Today I had that knowledge, but did I absorb it? I never knew when things were crowning anyway, When moments were sublime, For they slid out from under me even as I experienced them. Far from trusting that these moments would come again, Which they would not, I tried to seize them, to keep them close, but they only  changed form In some incredible miracle from solid to liquid A collapsing snow castle. My life has been a road steadily pulled out from under me By some unseen hands And I’ve had to run to keep up with it To keep from falling on my ass Or hitting the back of my head. Run, run, fucking run. My life has been some sort of awful conundrum, An impenetrable puzzle that the newspaper Forgot to publish the answer to, With too many gifts of the wrong sort, things I could Never share because I was never given the chance: No, not never, for I tasted of the thing I wanted most, Or thought I wanted most, Like a tongue on powdered sugar. Births slingshot into nine-year birthday parties, And I see the infant I watched slide into the doctor’s hands Blowing out her nine candles, Looking about fourteen years old, Her hair up, her eyes knowing, Her smile splitting my heart. She looks nothing Like me or my side of the family, And the Spanish blood that lurks several Generations back is clear in her almond-eyed, Almost Castilian beauty. It can’t get any better, God won’t let it, In fact God is the reason for all this: I want to say, take me NOW so I don’t have to see any more, So that I will not be dragged to the awful breaking point, The point of disaster that I know is coming If I don’t get out of here soon. This puppet dance amuses me, Though the first time I saw it in that odd old movie It tore me to pieces. I forgot to mention in the labels That the music is by Bartok Who knew a thing or two about horror. I could say something now about puppets and strings, But I know it would be awful. I am in a labyrinth, somewhere in the middle so that It is possible to move in any direction And be equally lost. I hit Dead end after dead end, the board Tilted nastily so that the little silver ball Keeps on dropping through the holes.  I don’t want to read any more biographies, Don’t want to read about How lavishly gifted people Threw everything away with both hands Continually Because I don’t know what these things are Supposed to do for us anyway, Inspire us, Inspire revulsion or pity Or embarrassment or discouragement or what? I am told to try and try. But it turns out That this is what they tell people anyway, it’s kind of Standard, A form letter of advice, And I am the only one who pays attention to it. It has become clear to me Just today,  just this minute That my efforts are an embarrassment to everyone Because they didn’t really mean I SHOULD try – It is the best way to get rid of me quickly With no sticky feelings involved Or perhaps it makes them feel better, Which is what apology is really all about, It has nothing to do with the wounded party, Who smugly assumes the person is truly contrite. I have a certain  fascination for divination and Signs, Splintery snaps of the wishbone Dried on top of the fridge for months Yielding only the dessicated remains of a turkey or duck Knowing none of this ever comes true, That there is in fact no special protection, No amulet that holds off disaster, And the realization is strong, and inspires all sorts of Awful visions: Dancing along the edge of the Skytrain platform Feeling a little woozy As if the couple of pills I just took Might after all have been a bad idea. http://margaretgunnng.blogspot.ca/2013/04/the-glass-character-synopsis.html http://members.shaw.ca/margaret_gunning/betterthanlife.htm