crumb-catching

I don’t know why this old post stands out to me, among the many I’ve done – it’s called “wrong nostalgia”. It’s about Pokémon, and I remember exactly where I was when I wrote it. It’s at my usual stomping ground: the Boyce Thompson Arboretum. There’s a shaded nook with a bronze statue of a boy. He’s feeding a deer, and ignoring a small dog poised underneath, crumb-catching. Kayla-coded little dog. 

While I was there recently, I was listening to an old pokemon album. I didn’t own it as a kid, but I found it on Spotify last year. It’s called “Pokemon: 2.B.A Master (Music From The Hit TV Series)”. Despite not having direct nostalgia, the sound of it is soooooo……….of my childhood. And very, very kids entertainment-y. It evokes a specific early era of Pokémon, before it became an IP targeted at nostalgic adults, moreso than kids.

The shift Pokemon has experienced reminds me of a specific Bluey episode, “Rug Island”. Bluey and her sister have set up this imaginary, kid-only island. Their dad Bandit pretends to wash ashore, and spends the afternoon playing with them. The theme of the episode is that adults can visit kid-only island, but can’t stay. They have to live adult lives. What happens when they try to stay, like with modern Pokemon? That island becomes part of the adult world. It’s no longer a kid’s space. That magic goes away, and any residual magic is what we call nostalgia. It’s not alive anymore, in the same way.

Adults can enjoy kid-centered IPs in parallel with kids, they just have to understand the necessary boundaries. Kids’ media can be great art, and healing if you have deep inner child wounds. But. Keep that space sacred, because childhood itself is a sacred experience.

A dad like Bandit comes onto kid-only island as an actor. My dad was this. He was all of the Exploring Knights, he was ET, he was every character in the Wizard of OZ while I got to be Dorthy. That performance can be fun for the adults as much as the kids. It’s the same with writing or illustrating, any creative endeavour made with children in mind. For me, appealing to kids has never been a purposeful intent in my artwork. It’s just where my spirit is called. I have to be careful not to say, “Oh, I’m actually a kid in an adult body.” BLEEHHGG–.  No. That’s not what I’m saying. The art that comes out of me just tends to have a certain naivete, or optimism, that doesn’t land as well in the adult world. 

I was reminded of “Lazy Town” recently, too. It’s………a crazy show. Coocoo bananas. The villain character…. I know he was memed to death, but man, does the actor look like he is having a hoot and a holler. That’s infectious! For kids, especially. There’s something freeing in kids’ entertainment, that cynical, business-minded people misunderstand. There is a universe between the two interpretations of “it’s for kids, so it doesn’t have to be ‘good’”. The correct, moral, good faith interpretation is that kids are more interested in the spirit and intention and creativity behind something. It doesn’t need to live up to adult standards, in the cinematography, or the sharpness of the dialogue. They can appreciate that, but the purity of your intent matters so much more. They’re not going to be scrutinizing, they’re going to be lost in the fantasy.

To a business-minded person, the calculus is, “kids are not discerning, so we can give them slop.”………. I can tell, the older I get, the more I’m gonna hate what Mr. Beast did (and continues to do) – even without having kids myself. There is something so sick about mining childhood. It’s worse than TV shows from the 80s, which were glorified toy ads. The money Mr. Beast makes is directly proportional to “watch time”. His videos are an algorithmic science experiment, meant to keep kids’ eyeballs glued to that screen for as long as possible. It’s fuuuuuuccckkkkked!!! 

Sometimes I…I don’t know. Do I overreact? Or is everyone else under-reacting?

In contrast, Laura and I were recently watching a video about Rankin/Bass, made by Quinton Reviews and featuring Worthikids. They were reviewing the more obscure parts of R/B’s catalog, and so much of it was bat-shit insane. And yet, human! It had soul. They did a 2-D animation, which stylistically reminded me of Rocky and Bullwinkle. Comparing the short segments in Rocky with the Croc micro-drama episodes (from danny’s second channel video), that sense of soul comes into sharp relief. Both shows are built with kids’ innate low attention spans in mind, but Rocky was made with jokes for the adults in the room. Same with Disney movies – in theory, parents are more likely to take their kids to a movie they also enjoy. That’s different than the content crack Brent Rivera/ Mr. Beast types give to kids, from the metaphorical back of a van through the ipad screen, out of sight of caretakers. The brand authored micro-dramas are the next step: the crack isn’t the delivery method of the advertisement, the advertisement is the crack. Cut out the middle man. 

This idea of entertainment becoming a more isolated experience came up while I was at the funny farm. They had a gym in the garage, and since we had no personal electronics, we used shared speakers. There was a moment where I thought, damn, I wish I could listen to my own music, but I would never play it out loud. I paused, and realized – music emerged in human history as a communal activity. It’s actually so recent that we can just stick something on or in our ears, and listen to a personal concert. It’s a privilege, yet something soul-healing is lost. Something you can feel around a campfire, singing silly songs or sharing spooky stories. At its best, the TV in the living room serves a similar function. The story teller at the pseudo-campfire is someone you don’t know, who you invite into your home through a magic box. 

Radio was the direct predecessor, and theater before. Hmm…. Let’s cook on this. This is a proto theory. There’s something about entering the theater, or tuning in to a radio show, that allows the mind to suspend disbelief much more than usual. It has to do with aligning to that heightened, fantasy frequency – psychologically. I saw Hamilton, close to when it was released. My mom made sure to say, “Do not ask your father how much he paid for those damn tickets.” They were second row at Gamage, the theater at Arizona State University. I cannot put into words how I was so completely transported. It was like the ghost of Alexander Hamilton came to Lynn Manuel Miranda and put him in a choke hold, saying, “You are going to tell my story, and every night when it plays, the audience will feel my life like it’s thier’s.” 

That magic worked on me. As an outsider to that version of art, acting is spellbinding. When the lights go down, and we allow our brains to enter that realm…. it’s like giving performers temporary superpowers. They just need charisma, some slight of hand and misdirection. They make themselves someone else, they make us believe we are somewhere else.  

I’m so jealous, but you can’t have everything. It actually makes me enjoy it more, or differently. I appreciate visual arts because I know that artform deeply, but there is a certain awe in watching someone effortlessly create in a way that looks impossible. I’m unburdened from thinking “damn, I gotta do that! I gotta be as good as that!” That push can be inspiring, but I like to relax into the joy and wonder of inscrutable talent.

My dad could do that for me while I was growing up, even though he wasn’t a performing artist. That’s the thing with kids, right? They have such easy access to that fantasy frequency. You don’t have to take the extra step with me, but maybe you see how generational storytelling starts to feel spiritual. There’s something about it, that handprint on the cave wall – those fat-ass elk paintings, or whatever. When we say spiritual, or evoke things like ghosts or ancestors, maybe part of that is the legacy that lives through storytelling. Narrative – how we make meaning out of our lives. That’s the content we, the human mind, add to our physical existence. It has substance and reality in our continued cultural consciousness. When you artistically express a story or a personal truth, that ripple may continue past your body’s period of animation — especially if that ripple reverberates and expands when it resonates with others. If you want to make “spiritual” only an emergent property of the human psyche, I think that’s an in. 

From my perspective, as a woowoo-curious lady, I see it as tapping into something bigger. Something more than human. You could interpret it both ways. That’s me coping, honestly. I want more people on the bus with me! Don’t all get off, don’t you do it, you motherfuckers. The stupid thing is, the self defeating thing is, I want the cynical asshole people on the bus. I want them to check me, because I don’t trust myself. I want that anchor, so please! Stay on the bus. I’ll always throw you a bone, I’m not gonna make you commit to anything. I value your perspective. We won’t go off the rails, I promise. At least not fatally so. 

–

I showed Laura the first episode of the pokemon anime, since she only had vague and passing memories of it. I think that’s why this pokemon-arboretum connection came on especially strong. On my visit, I meandered over to Bronze Boy while listening to that 20 year old Pokemon album. As I watched bunnies dart across the path, neat queues of quails snake in and out of the sparse vegetation, butterflies and dragonflies float by with teasing mystique….I couldn’t help but feel like I was on a pokemon adventure, in everything but name. Well, maybe a level in Pokemon Snap, without the scripted track. Exactly what I wished for in childhood, and it’s here! I just had to show up, hand in hand with that now inner child, holding and celebrating her joy without shame. 

Unfortunately, my ready access to that childlike fantasy frequency is a symptom of my dysfunctional neurochemistry and trauma. My mind is theatrical, sometimes to the point of warping reality. Everyone experiences some version of this, particularly when emotions are high. I just have it on X-Games mode. It is my always. Sometimes I surrender to the drama, because it fuels my art. The overwhelming feelings become vibrant color pallets, caricatured expressions, gesture and momentum in brushwork. Unfortunately, to see reality again, I have to break the illusion. I have to look for the smudges in the facepaint of the actors, the cardboard silhouettes of the background props. It fucking sucks, when the play in front of me looks like heaven. Reality feels like hell.

I think that’s why people tend not to take that approach, even if it gives their mental illness more power over them. My strategy shatters me, my integrated sense of self. The intuitive childlike part of me creates the fantasy, and I have to split apart from her and tell her, “No. This is only internal.” It feels like self-abandonment, it rips my heart in half, but I think that’s just the price you pay if you want to responsibly manage an injured mind. You look at artists who have bipolar – nicki minaj, lil naz x, kesha, demi lavato, the list goes on – and you wonder: are those ugly, messy moments inseparable from their creative talent? Maybe it is. Maybe for me it’s just an implosion. I try to mitigate the fallout, but the emotional debt is still owed for those creative highs.

I try to lessen the debt by watching the internal drama with detachment. My inner 5 year old comes out in a pink sparkly tutu, wand in hand, saying “No no, look, mom, it will work this time! I’ll spin once, tap my toes twice, swish my wand like this — and prince charming will appear! I saw it in a book once. Ready? Laaah, da dahhh taptap SWOOOSHH! Ta- daaa……ah?”

“I’m sorry, Robyn. It doesn’t work that way.”

“….then why does it feel like it will? Why does my heart scream at me that it will?”

“The heart suffocates without genuine connection, but you were taught that you are unworthy of it, inherently. True love feels like a fairytale, so you search for the magic ritual that will whisk you away to Neverland.”

I’ve learned I can’t actually push it away either, because she make such a fucking fuss. I have to watch her disappointed tantrum over and over and over, hoping that grief will eventually soften into something less self destructive.

—

Hush

I know they said the end is near

But I’m still on my tallest tiptoes

Spinning in my highest heels, love

Shining just for you

–

And they called off the circus

Burned the disco down

When they sent home the horses

And the rodeo clowns

I’m still on that tightrope

I’m still trying everything to get you laughing at me

–

I’m still a believer but I don’t know why

I’ve never been a natural

All I do is try, try, try

I’m still on that trapeze

I’m still trying everything

To keep you looking at me

–

Because I’m a mirrorball

I’m a mirrorball

I’ll show you every version of yourself

Tonight

—

The last thing I’ll mention is something also related to the Pokemon album. There’s a song on it called “Misty’s Song”, which I imagine 10-year-old boys would certainly skip over – “Ewwwww, girly mushy love song? What the eff!” Ironic, or appropriate I guess, that the song is about Misty’s hidden feelings for Ash, and her grappling with the certainty that he would not accept, or even understand, a confession. I believe that trope comes from the phenomenon of girls maturing slightly faster than boys, at least on average. There is a disconnect period in the tween stage, where girls start to have proto-romantic feelings, while boys remain fully children. 

I’m also thinking of Wendy from Peter Pan. I imagine myself as her, looking wistfully at this main character who is off doing his own thing. I’m part of the supportive cast, footnotes in the story of his life. But the playful twinkle in his eye when he smirks, that shit eating grin, FUCK. You know you would ruin it if you said anything. Don’t fuck up the vibes, don’t rock the boat. It’s enough to just be here, to see him light up when something you’ve done makes him feel appreciated. Maybe even when you don’t see. It’s enough to give.

That dynamic is familiar to me, because it was modelled by my mother. That feeling of pouring love at someone while they were turned away is my earliest memory. Looking, longing – that’s what love is, to my inner child. Don’t reveal that you have needs, don’t reveal that you want something from them. You’ll mess it up. The less you ask for, the more you will be tolerated.

On a surface level, it seems like a pretty terrible relationship dynamic to romanticize for little girls. Feminine characters fully embracing this self-abandoning side-character role, for a boy who is totally oblivious and uncurious about them as an equal human being. She’s there just “enjoying” this bittersweet voyeristic love… the fuck is that? As a role model for kids? I fear it’s not aspirational, but simply a reflection of a childhood reality.

My traumatized mind took it as a blueprint for the only version of connection I thought was available to me. Despite being a feminist, it was easier for me to identify with someone like Wendy than someone like Mulan. I was attracted to the implied nobility in the quiet resignation. The humility of it. Those were traits reinforced to me as desirable and “mature for my age”. Despite the fact that I admired these badass girlbosses of renaissance Disney movies, I saw that their abrasiveness was only overlooked once the men began to develop feelings. In my mind, that would not happen to me, so that was not a useful playbook if I was chasing acceptance.

At this point in my healing journey, I view acceptance as a natural consequence of self respect, and I (try to) surrender the who and the how to the universe. Characters like Mulan act on principle, even when losing love feels certain. (“well if that’s love, it comes at much too high a coooooostttt!! I’d sooner buyyyy deffyyyying gravity…”) From their perspective, no karmic reward of reconnection will come when the dust settles. That’s a blueprint I can take on, at this stage. I don’t need to have faith in a delayed reward, I need to prioritize my own values, inherently. Unfortunately, my heart continues to very stupidly love people who don’t align with a self-respecting version of my life. That I cannot control, without shutting off my heartspace entirely. Mulan never stopped loving her father, or Li Shang, but she acted on her moral principles regardless, fully believing their presence in her life would be sacrificed for it. She refused to keep herself small and humble. In her case, the love returned to her, to this now authentic and whole version of herself. 

Of course it did. She’s a princess in a Disney movie.

Still, I’m in the slow process of evolving from Wendy-a-chu to Mulan-chu. There’s no flashy evolution screen or magical girl transformation sequence. I look for clues, I just look for clues. I think there are some already. I’m done crumb-catching. I’m ready for an open palm.