Weaponise Optimism

I love a good pithy meme as much as anyone. I like the snarky ones and the silly ones, and I even like some of the over-the-top-posi ones. I prefer a melancholy couplet over a motivational poster, but sometimes it's nice to see something encouraging. Earnest. Sometimes, though, I see things and I stare at them and I try to parse their meaning and all I can think is, 'The fuck did they think they were saying cos I think they missed the mark.'*

And then I saw this one and I had to say something because it wasn't just asinine - it was demeaning and harmful. (I am being a little melodramatic, but honestly less than I would like to admit.)

The strongest people make time to help others, even if they are struggling with their own problems.

Wow, is this a load of bullshit. I am so fucking sick of seeing this kind of sentiment floating around because it pretty much can only incite shame in the people who read it and really take it to heart. They're going to think of every time someone made time for them, and every time they didn't make time for someone else because they were burnt out and needed to rest, and they're going to feel like shit and they're going to feel weak. Why would anyone want to promote a message that will make people feel ashamed and weak? Outside of propaganda, I can't think of a good reason other than sadism. Or really, if it's truly honestly obliviousness? Please start paying attention. Language is changing, but what we do with it is important. Because it affects us profoundly in ways we don't entirely understand.

What this also does is reinforce the terrible behaviours that our shitty capitalist hellscape is forcing us to adopt, where we feel we must give and give and give even when we run dry, because that's what "strength" is. How exactly the fuck is it strength to keep giving past your limit? Fuck that. If someone needs to take a fucking break, and they can't hold space for me when I ask, GOOD. That's a good thing because it means they are setting a boundary, and they are trusting me to respect that boundary. That is the best one-two combo ever in a relationship: self-respect and trust. I would rather someone say no, than to help me to their own detriment. I like it when people set boundaries to work on getting their own shit together.

This isn't to say I think that we should only be looking out for number one. I don't. But having a community of people who respect themselves and one another, who know how to communicate their needs and who allow themselves to be vulnerable enough to ask for what they want and need, means that people will have time to heal and rest so they can keep helping others and (themselves) heal.

This sentiment makes me think of how my father explained "altruism" to me. He said this came from Ayn Rand, and that was pretty gross to hear, but the explanation is still relevant and interesting. If a parent goes hungry to feed their own children, that is not altruism, because the parent benefits from the action, if somewhat obliquely, because they have a vested interest in their children's survival. But if a parent let their own children go hungry to feed a neighbour's family, THAT would be an altruistic act. The parent is doing good, and not just to their detriment. They are doing it to the detriment of their own children. They get no benefit whatsoever by helping their neighbour, because it means they and their own children will go hungry. The parent would feel guilt, but they would do what they believe to be the right thing, even if they're hated for it.

We don't need to promote self-directed harm just to help others. Because it eventually will lead to a massive dearth of us altogether. One can run on empty for only so long before it kills them.

This weird positivity culture thing is getting to me. I don't think we should give up and I absolutely support looking for the good. But what I'm interested in, what I want to see in the world, is a place where we don't have to choose between self care and caring for others. Because we'll actually have the time and means to recover. It sounds like straight up fantasy, but that's only because it's not something I can have in this lifetime. The road is too long, and I'm quite finite. But I can do my part, even if it is small, to help us keep moving in the right direction, not let us give up hope, even if we move such a short distance it doesn't feel like we moved at all. We are making so much progess it's amazing. The conversations and language are changing faster than ever because we are talking more. That means there is hope.

I don't want hope to be some platonic ideal that is treated like a cure-all salve that relieves us of responsibiity. I want us to know how much our ideals cost us. I want us to feel the parts that aren't pretty, that make us hurt, that bind us together, that motivate us to get through this shit. Because those will be our legends, the stories our children's children's children's will tell of our struggle and of our victories, however small they may feel in the moment.

Armageddon is averted through small actions.**

I want to weaponise optimism.



*actually I was just thinking 'whaaaa?'
**Neil Gaiman, "Only the End of the World Again"

Just ... don't, okay?

A furor of indignation and outrage has swept the internet because a remake of The Princess Bride was introduced as a possibly viable idea. The internet went mad, in a truly impressive display of solidarity among lots of disparate and oppositional factions, we all rejected the idea. And the existence of social media means not only can we all talk about it across the globe and foment large-scale public opinion that this is a Bad Idea, but that we have instant access to the opinions of the persons who made the film the first time around. Cary Elwes' response was delightfully eloquent and on-brand: "There's a shortage of perfect movies in the world. It would be a pity to damage this one."*

I have a long and passionate relationship with this film, as do many persons who are crying foul at this idea. I am far from unique in that I know the script and can recite it off the top of my head. But it's more than that for me. So much more. I have owned so many different versions of this film -- every time a new Special Edition came out, I added it to my collection, because each new edition usually had at least one new special feature documentary or commentary track or something. My absolute favourite special feature of the many I have consumed was the Writers Commentary. William Goldman talking about making the film is a gift without price.

One of the nice things about this fan outrage has been the opportunity to drop massive amounts of trivia on unsuspecting audiences, and inso doing, making them love the film *even* *more* than they already did. I love telling people about the connexion between The Princess Bride and This is Spinal Tap. I like telling them about why there are certain significant differences between the film and the book. I like telling them about all the little things I've picked up over the years, that just add to the depth and texture of my love affair with this story.

I have a few arguments against the idea of a remake that have a lot less to do with my own relationship with the film (because I can choose not to see a remake), because it's not that I have concerns I'd be disappointed (I know I would be), but rather that I think if William Goldman were still alive, he'd not condone such a project.

The Princess Bride (book) was published in 1973. It was another 14 years before the film was made. Had he wanted to turn it into a film immediately, it was entirely within reach for Goldman. He was an established and respected writer in Hollywood. He had the right connexions. He just didn't have the inclination to do so right away. This was because the book was William Goldman's favourite book he had written. It was his baby, and he wanted to make sure that when the film got made, it was going to be done according to HIS artistic vision. From the point it was published to Goldman allowing Rob Reiner to make the film, Goldman was approached time and again by people wanting to make the film, and he kept saying "no" because he was looking for "The One" and Rob Reiner was it. (That's where Spinal Tap comes into the story -- Goldman said after seeing This is Spinal Tap, he knew Reiner was the right man for the job.)

Goldman wrote the script himself, and this was not the usual vanity project of a novelist who is afraid of Hollywood getting its grubby hands all over it (though he didn't want that, either). Goldman was The Screenplay Doctor in Hollywood through his career. Other screenwriters would go to him for assitance with their own scripts, and by 1984 (the year Spinal Tap came out), he'd won two Academy Awards for screenwriting. One for Best Original Screenplay (Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid) and one for Best Adapted Screenplay (All the President's Men). He knew what he was doing, what was possible, and what was negotiable. All the changes in plot were THE WRITER'S OWN IDEAS AND CHOICES rather than changes forced upon him by producers or the director.

Goldman had enormous artistic control in this endeavour, not because he was the writer, but because Rob Reiner respected Goldman as a writer, and he understood just how important the book and film were to Goldman. It was very important to Reiner that Goldman be pleased with the final project.

(He succeeded.)

Boiled down to its most basic essence, the reason this proposed remake upsets me more than, say, all the Disney movies we've seen come out recently is because I don't look at the film as merely entertainment. It's much more a piece of Art to me than Entertainment. And the lens of 'Art' vs 'Entertainment' makes it so much more important that the work stand as a unique finished piece that was as close to perfect as was possible for the artist to get to expressing his art. A remake feels like a capitalist money-grab, rather than a true artistic reinterpretation of a work of art.

*(@cary_elwes, 17 Sept 2019)

Heartless (early draft)

I wake with a start, my heart beating hard in my chest. Sleep paralysis grips me, an oppressive weight crushing my chest. My heart pulses savagely against my ribs, causing my whole body to throb with it. This is my third nightmare in a row. I am healed.

I inhale a ragged breath of cool, antiseptic air. An IV drips nutrients into my veins. My stomach long since past registering hunger, I no longer feel the tight painful cramping. I do not eat, I do not really sleep, passing most of my days in a haze of mindless fog, dreading the Orderly’s next appearance. And then the nightmares come, an ugly, terrifying harbinger. My body registering fear at being whole.

I huddle under the thin blanket on my bed, my restrained wrists and ankles making the effort pathetic. I am afraid. I am always afraid.

My cell door opens and the Orderly enters wearing surgical scrubs, face covered with a mask. Their cold, empty eyes sweep the room, then the Orderly steps to my bed and unlocks the castors with a squeak and a grunt. I am wheeled into the hallway, my IV secured to a post on the bed itself.

I am momentarily blinded. The lights in the corridor glare at me and I blink my eyes several times until they adjust to the blazing light. The ceiling is glass-smooth and mirror-bright, and I watch my reflection as I am taken to the operating theatre. I am a wraith: starved, empty, paper thin. My heart beats hard against its cage, a frightened bird.

The operating theatre smells of sharp lye, ozone, and something slightly sweet, but toxic. The Orderly wheels my bed to a large, pressurised gas canister. A mask with a hose is attached to the nozzle. The Orderly holds the mask over my mouth and opens the tap.

The inside of my nose is instantly coated in a sticky sweet film as I inhale the tranquilising gas, and my limbs grow heavy, as if gravity has increased. My frantic heartbeat slows to a booming hollow gong in my chest. The mask is lifted from my face and the blanket is pulled off me. I shiver slightly in the cool air of the room, but I can barely feel it through the weight of the tranquiliser on my senses.

My restraints are unbuckled. The Orderly stands at the head of my bed and picks up the sheet on either side of my shoulders. A second pair of hands lifts the sheet from the foot of my bed, and they transfer me to the operating table in a single smooth motion. I try to blink, but once my eyes close, it is too hard to open them again. It does not matter if I can see my torturers. I already know what comes next.

A bright light comes on overhead, burning my eyes with pink light and spots through my eyelids. My hospital gown is pulled open to bare my chest. There is a slight buzz of cold as the incision site is prepped. I am almost entirely detached from my body, the tranquiliser making everything soft, muted, barely noticeable, like an echo reach the very end of a long tunnel.

I hear metallic clicks and a needle-thin spike of adrenaline-heightened fear pierces the tranquiliser fog. I know when the scalpel touches and penetrates my skin, feel my flesh part beneath the sharp steel. The Surgeon slices me open like a fish for gutting. My chest gapes, my flesh peeled back, exposing my ribs, my heart beat still slow and plodding.

The Surgeon murmurs something and the Orderly’s reply is a soft buzz in my ear, but I cannot hear the words. Her finger taps against my breastbone and the Orderly hands her something. There is a pressure on my chest followed by a sharp popping that causes a spasm of white hot pain to stab through the tranquiliser. More pressure and another sharp pop, and then again. The Surgeon spreads my ribs, snipped neatly away from my sternum.

The pain subsides almost as soon as each spasm ends. The lethargy of the tranquiliser wraps around me again. I feel the Surgeon stick her hand in my chest. I feel her press against the flesh, shift the bone out of her way, invade the sanctum of my ribcage. I feel her fingertips press against my heart, which continues to beat slow, steady.

There is a pressure, and then I feel my flesh part again and I can no longer feel my heartbeat. The blood vessels anchoring the organ in my chest are severed. I gasp. There is a loud snapping sound and the strong scent of ozone. The light burning through my eyelids is suddenly blocked as the Surgeon leans over me, watching the small organ she electrocuted begin to pulse, erratically at first. The overhead light is blotted out until the tinny beat steadies.

They jump-started my secondary heart.

My chest feels hollow as the Surgeon closes and stitches up the incisions. My secondary heart beats, but it is so faint, so weak compared to the heart the Surgeon just harvested. It is a single tom trying to fill the role of an entire section of timpani.

Once the Surgeon is done, she steps away from the operating table. I am lifted by the sheet and transferred back to my hospital bed. The Orderly closes my gown and covers me with the blanket. They wheel me down the mirror-ceilinged corridor, back to my cell.

A fortnight will pass, and they will come for me once more. The portentous dreams will come with the crushing weight on my chest, telling me I am healed once more. Three nightmares, and then the Orderly will wheel me to the Operating Theatre once more. And the cycle will begin once more. Fortnight after fortnight, as it has gone for so long, I can no longer remember my life outside this hell.

The little plaque next to my cell door reads: Patient #6438900, AB-, bi-weekly heart donor, but I must remember this is not who I am. I have not always been in this sadistic laboratory prison. I cannot have been. I can't.

My name is Tamsin Lev. I must remember. I must ... remember.