November, 1918: Indigestion.
It's incredible how something good can be lost so quickly...
The honeymoon ended off on a round note... Mildred and I are well.
Since I returned from Catalina, however... I haven't seen the studio. Three weeks now. I simply can't go near it.
I've got this idea... it's a good one, it really is. Rural setting, sunny little town, Charlot, the Jack of All Trades sleepily passing his time... and that's all I've got.
I've never felt such a maddening sense of immobility. It's like a stone in my head...
On top of creative blockage: since we slid ashore, I've found myself suffering the worst continual case of indigestion I've ever experienced. Maybe I'm manifesting outwardly my inner turmoil... or is it inwardly my outward... well.
It's not been a fun three weeks, anyhow.
We did manage to move everything in, finally, to a rented home on 2000 DeMille in Laughlin Park. It's cozy. There is, however, a small problem of space. We've not enough space for... it's hard to say it... but... Mildred's mother, who has taken ill... Mildred would have us take her in. That's just one more block to bear. So, moving again very soon, I'm afraid... I would rather own than rent anyway.
In this lull between pictures, I've seen little of Edna, but when I do see her, she's been drinking, or she's with Paramount's prize boy... I've told her countless times how detrimental drinking is... especially, often, her kind. The kind where you can no longer distinguish friend from foe. The kind that tears your body apart, and ruins your reputation.
I am confident that if she was working she wouldn't be conducting herself in such a frivolous way.
Well... Let's hope I can figure out this damnable picture and get her back into the studio before she kills herself.
The honeymoon ended off on a round note... Mildred and I are well.
Since I returned from Catalina, however... I haven't seen the studio. Three weeks now. I simply can't go near it.
I've got this idea... it's a good one, it really is. Rural setting, sunny little town, Charlot, the Jack of All Trades sleepily passing his time... and that's all I've got.
I've never felt such a maddening sense of immobility. It's like a stone in my head...
On top of creative blockage: since we slid ashore, I've found myself suffering the worst continual case of indigestion I've ever experienced. Maybe I'm manifesting outwardly my inner turmoil... or is it inwardly my outward... well.
It's not been a fun three weeks, anyhow.
We did manage to move everything in, finally, to a rented home on 2000 DeMille in Laughlin Park. It's cozy. There is, however, a small problem of space. We've not enough space for... it's hard to say it... but... Mildred's mother, who has taken ill... Mildred would have us take her in. That's just one more block to bear. So, moving again very soon, I'm afraid... I would rather own than rent anyway.
In this lull between pictures, I've seen little of Edna, but when I do see her, she's been drinking, or she's with Paramount's prize boy... I've told her countless times how detrimental drinking is... especially, often, her kind. The kind where you can no longer distinguish friend from foe. The kind that tears your body apart, and ruins your reputation.
I am confident that if she was working she wouldn't be conducting herself in such a frivolous way.
Well... Let's hope I can figure out this damnable picture and get her back into the studio before she kills herself.