Love & lack in the Larson universe

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Me, in my new ‘Mixed Idioms’ t-shirt.

How can I write about Gary Larson cartoons when he doesn’t want them shared anywhere on the web? As he explains here, in an online letter:

These cartoons are my “children,” of sorts, and like a parent, I’m concerned about where they go at night without telling me. And, seeing them at someone’s web site is like getting the call at 2:00 a.m. that goes, “Uh, Dad, you’re not going to like this much, but guess where I am.”

Meanwhile, I struggle to imagine the series of posts I’m planning without any reference to the fact these cartoons are, for me, touchstones. So I’ve settled on a short piece geared to anyone, like me, already familiar with the Farside cartoons to which it refers. Of whom I know there are plenty. And there’s only one place to start…

Bluebird of Happiness

Remember Ned? Sitting on his bed, facing his windowsill, on which has just landed ‘the Chicken of Depression’ – dear Ned, in all his dishevelled splendour. Unshaven, unslept, slumped alongside his broken mirror, under a naked lightbulb…:

The Bluebird of Happiness long absent from his
life, Ned is visited by the Chicken of Depression.

Ned has quite a lot in common with Wendall Zurkowitz, ‘Slave to the waffle light’ – although Wendall may seem more ‘on top of things’, in a surface way – not least, that we approach both from behind. There’s something so vulnerable about people’s backs – the fact they’re observed without observing.

We see them as they are when they’re alone. Especially, as with these two, in their own home-environments. They’re not presenting brave faces to the world – as no doubt they often must. This is them at home. Slumped. Attending honestly to what they care about. And lack.

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Signpost on my ‘loop’.

Brilliant writer

I love these characters – and ‘characters’ they are. The joke is excellent; the humour’s funny. Punchlines deliver. And Larson is the master of the perfectly-worded caption. One step out of place here, he might lose us completely; he never does. For Larson is a brilliant writer. His cartoons are like poems, or sublimely-turned short stories. And the fact he writes so carefully and accurately matters almost as much to me as the drawings. At least, the two aren’t readily separable.

Plus, somehow, he speaks so clearly to ‘our’ vulnerability – through his characters and their every-day settings. And his vulnerable characters are ‘so exquisitely vulnerable’, as a friend of mine put it. But he’s never cruel or unkind. He never ridicules.

Those who people his cartoons are lovable. That’s the overriding sense: of compassion. For them. In their absurdity. By extension, for us all who are absurd and vulnerable. Even when we’re out there, trying. (Remember the ‘Larson boy’, as my brother and I always called him, pushing on the pull door at the ‘Midvale School for the Gifted’? Course you do.)

It’s not surprising, really, that Wendall Zurkowitz looks so stressed and anxious. Waiting on his waffle light. (As we all must.) It takes some effort to cope with life, all things considered. And when you acknowledge we’re this vulnerable. It takes courage.  

p.s. Ned-in-my-head

I wrote a poem once for the ‘Ned’ in my head. Gave him a cat; hoped it might help:

A milky drop forms on the teat of one tap,
then falls all those miles and silent miles
to the deep echoing ravine below, where
Ned’s useless legs half float like moon-legs
in the gentle water’s white soft soundlessness,
its surface striped with bleak light
filtering through Ned’s closed blind.

Later, propped against pillows, staring out
at the rain, the rain, the kind that weaves
this way then that, like an energetic grey
skin of wind, Ned gulps at his coffee,
spills some down his chin; snorts, sobs,
snuffles, coughs, and slaps a tissue to his face
and lips. Poor Ned weeps for three whole minutes.

Then, dragging his laptop back out of the drift,
clicks on his inbox, even though its flaccid
desktop icon shows it’s empty. Turns his head
as the bedroom door creeps slowly open.
The big orange cat enters. Disappearing beneath
the hump and edge of bed, it springs like Cato
out of nowhere into Ned’s open arms.

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