Damned Octopus; or,A Letter to the Artist on the Occasion of Loss
(Author’s Note: the views expressed in the following, especially those concerning marine life & Hollywood, are entirely mine.)
Dear Jim,
I’ve sent very few fan letters in all my years — two, I think — preferring, as my handwriting sucks, to write such a thing in front of the person of my affection on the occasion of their achievements, which have no doubt moved me so deeply I can’t contain myself. I appreciate every dumbfounded celebrity who stood there — possibly cornered, let’s be honest — and let me love them as I do.
You are a little different, though, because you are not here as I shelter-in-place and the achievement is something more profound.
You have spina bifida and you made a movie. That movie then went on to lose an Oscar to a fucking octopus, a creature no amount of brilliant filmmaking will ever sell me on the idea the facts of our disability revolution mean less than guessing a fucking octopus wants to cuddle or something.
The original version of this contained gallons more vitriol toward those godforsaken cephalopods, as well as historical context for Harold Lloyd and Marlee Matlin regarding the Academy Awards, the stupidity of #CripFace and the misguided (on a good day) belief, and flat-out ignorant (in reality) belief that our struggle is akin to that of historical racial hatred, a prolonged shaming of Oscar’s voting body, who got so much right about diversity this year and then defeated their purpose by way of a fucking octopus, all crescendoing with my symbolically taking a sledgehammer to the steps of the Dolby’s stage while we all yell, “I am Spartacus!”
It was epic.
But it was also wrong.
This should be human-sized, like I’m talking directly to you, just a couple of dudes with spina bifida shooting the shit about camps we both went to when we wore younger men’s clothes.
Your experience led to your movie, and mine led me to write this. There’s a lot in between, sure, but it’s important to note movies saved my life. They made me possible, but what also made me possible was teachers and friends and family who all got it. They made the transition into the real world, which was all dark woods and howling wolves, a little easier, at least to the extent when I look back, I can see all the places I’ve been and the guys I was.
I wanted to make movies since I was a kid. I initially thought spina bifida would get in the way. I suppose, though, at a certain point, I thought I could use my pain to fuel my art. I was that Angry Young Man. Nowadays, I see creating as a respite from the darkness. And I am grateful.
What you and the other faces of your movie showed me was there is a point to every gesture, every word. We never see it at the time if we’re lucky because we’re busy living. You showed me — us — the value of simply being. With so much death around us, living has become an act of heroism.
That revolution was quiet at times and you made us lean in close. I remember when my neck was sore from all the leaning, butI thought I must do the same to others, make it impossible to ignore the clear-eyed truth of living as you did, without apology or excuse.
I know “inspiration” is a dirty word among this community of ours, but there it is. You inspire me more than octopoid. You say to me this can be done and so do it. Statues are nice, but you made something that will never be eroded or taken away, a monument to life and being seen.
One of the other fan letters, by the by, was to Neil Young. He sang this:
“It’s gonna take a lotta love
To change the way things are
It’s gonna take a lotta love
Or we won’t get too far…”
Here’s to you and how far we’ve gotten.
With love and resolution,
Michael
PS- This also belongs to Ms. Newnham, as well as all associated with “Crip Camp.”
PPS — Fuck that octopus.
