New Old Shoes

Welcome to my personal holiday season.

The entrance of Autumn has always been the most special time of year for me. There are so many things to celebrate. There’s the harvest, the weather starts to change, a long Baseball season finally ends, a fresh Football team finally kicks off, and I always got a new pair of shoes around this time when I was a little kid.

It’s like my own New Year is beginning. This is typically the time for me to review the past 12 months, sum up my accomplishments and failures, and toss out my oldest pair of sneakers.

This year I have one more addition to the routine. I get to examine the anniversary of The Guilty Head and try to make some sense of it.

What the hell is this, anyway? A journal? An internet diary? Some twisted, unrelated mish-mash of demented commentary? It’s definitely must not be a “blog” since I detest that word and it has no meaning for me. Does that mean I can’t do this anymore?

Looking back, I don’t know why or how the hell I really started this. All I can say is one day about a year ago it just happened, I sat down and I started writing. I’ve always been prone to writing a bunch of silliness but this time was different. Instead of just thrusting bits of it at my unsuspecting friends and then magically deleting all the evidence from my hard drive, this time I decided to catalogue as much silliness as possible all together in one tremendously silly package.

I read that there may be many people doing the same these days, plenty of out of work pensioners and so on, retired managers now surfing on minimum wage while hammering away each week at a potential novel or free-style poetry which was inspired by a life from a long time ago. Maybe I’m just following that odd trend instead of establishing a new one.

I struggled in the early days with the proper title. The package was named something else at first but I quickly found that original name inappropriate. It took a while but one day the true name of this stuff finally dawned on me. I won’t relate the details of that scene but in that way I guess it all chose its own name instead of me trying to fit it all into some curious name that I may have casually once given it. Does that make any sense at all?

I distinctly recall there was a low period where I did not want to continue. In a few pieces, I alluded to the way that was overcome. I think I will leave that as an allusion, the way it should remain. If there’s some good news here, I now find curious things to report on all week long and I was not forced to sell my soul to any devil. I have no idea what I did before that change occurred.

Well, anyway, those few who know the true story about that may keep it to themselves.

For several months I worried about the visual aspects of this non-blog. I wanted it as stark and plain as possible to better fit my personality. At first I thought the standard-issue background was even a bit too gaudy for me, that bland black and white would be far more appropriate. Then, after viewing a few others, I was enchanted with the idea of colorful pictures of this and that to better set any intended mood of the day.

But, now, I couldn’t care less about all that stuff. It’s fine as it is, I suppose.

Looking at the content, I find myself in some sorta strange literary limbo where nothing is really bad but nothing is particularly good, either. Maybe it all just bounces around a bit too much, then again, maybe it doesn’t bounce enough. I once considered adding a little blurb up front to better define what the unaware reader my find hidden in the archives.

My only thought on that was concerning a homeless guy I occasionally saw at a bus stop at Cleaver and Main in Kansas City near the bustling Plaza fountains. This guy would often sit there, ranting loudly and incessantly to the cars and frightened people who wandered by.

That’s my theme, I thought. I can start the blurb with “Consider the endless words of a penniless wino with internet access and very limited editing skills …” Maybe Literary Limbo would be a better title, after all.

One aspect of the GH that I am most interested in is whether or not Art plays its part well. I can be very snobby about art. I have a very specific definition in mind when I speak of it. I have labored for years to express that definition and keep in my pocket a wonderful speech on art that I may one day share with all my lucky readers.

When we were in school, our teachers often stepped away from the chalkboard and suddenly asked us to describe what we had just learned in our own words. Saying it in your own words, rather than regurgitating the monotonous facts, has always seemed to me one of the real honest tests of education. If nothing else, for the time being, I encourage everyone to sit down, think about it and define art for themselves.

With regards to this crap found in the GH, I can say I am not totally displeased with any such subdued relationship with true art (not further defined at this moment and, trust me, not nearly as haughty or conceited as these poor words may reveal).

I know people who would say that most of my writing yearns for facts or at the least a heavy dose of supporting material. Too often, it seems, I tend to toss something out there as a fact and then never really back it up. I’m not big on footnotes, think they detract from the artistic flow and everything, but I understand my weakness on this point. Of course, I also know a few who say I get bogged down in minutiae far too easily. (I think that last problem is hereditary.) Either way, I know that sometimes I am spot on target.

For example, if you would like to read the full text of the Senate Intelligence Committee’s report on prewar intel assessments on Iraq (which, of course, is like suggesting you may enjoy having your eyelids removed or your bare genitals beaten with a large flat object), then you would enjoy the non-facts included in The Quixote Solution (which was posted before the Committee’s report). In particular, you will find two references that I found interesting in both related stories. Both refer admiringly to Colin Powell’s intel analyst policy and both make reference to the power of a negative report or, in the Select Committee’s often repeated words, “a lack of evidence”.

Curiously I don’t find these clues to be a vindication of the facts so much as I find them to be embarrassingly honest.

Speaking of honesty, I will unveil this one secret to you to help define the times when I miss the target completely, in terms of both facts and artistry.

Many moons ago on an island, far, far away, I once had a teacher, a Mister Heffernan, who singularly impressed upon me the literary value of a well-placed epiphany. I have no idea if Mister Heffernan is alive or dead today but I know his spirit has followed me around whispering in my ear ever since.

If you read the poorly constructed piece titled “Ode to Carlos, Sturgis ‘06”, you will in part read about a character named Carlos and clearly detect my futile search for the proper epiphany to describe him and his kind.

In retrospect, the author didn’t spend enough time with the “Carlos” story. The author felt rushed, forced by a vague deadline of his own making and didn’t give it the care it deserved. In the story, the author knew that Carlos needed to be well defined. A tight, remarkable description of Carlos’ appearance was significant to the story and to follow-on reports as well. But the author had a lot going on. What can the author say? We all make mistakes!

A few weeks after posting “Carlos”, I was in a local watering hole soothing my thirst when the real Carlos joined me at the bar. We had a few drinks, laughed about our good times, ya know, the typical light-hearted nonsense between afternoon drifters.

A lady sitting at one end of the bar, whose name I do not know, was intently looking at the many Kodak moments which cover the ugly walls of this particular establishment.

Suddenly, she called out to us.

“Hey,” she yelled, “Carlos, here’s an old picture of you! Man, you had those Charlie Manson eyes even back then!”

Carlos, flashing his infamous toothy smile, turned to her and murmured, “Yeah, Charlie Manson eyes, I like that.”

I tell you, friends, I choked a full glass of beer out of my nose and nearly fell off my barstool. In three small words, that bitch had painted a picture of Carlos far more vivid than my entire paragraph of worn clichés. How the hell did I miss that?

I’m thinking that whole Carlos episode was just a matter of poor timing. Yes, there is no doubt a curious power in the epiphany but it is like an egg or fruit that just needs a little extra time to cultivate and grow. That is a lesson I won’t soon forget.

As to the editing, or the non-editing as it may be, I am satisfied with most of it. That’s because I prefer longer stories with lots of words in them. I find 2,000 words to be hardly a few hours work for me. I am usually saddened by shorter newspaper articles and the like. I often feel for the poor reporter who has endured a needless reduction of words and heavy editing. I really like any wandering essay that will last me through an entire dinner.

At the same time, I anxiously fret over the abundance of typos and errors, lousy grammar and trite clichés. Any such witness of my amateur education really bugs the hell out of me. I’ve suffered this affliction for years and years throughout my painful letters to various friends. I can’t tell you how many times at night, just as my head hits the pillow, when my body twists and my brain throbs at the sudden realization, “My God! Did I write ‘Illusive’ with an E”? What was I thinking?”

That’s the kind of shit that keeps me up at night, man.

If I am pleased at all with this mess, then I am pleased with the newly discovered appreciation I have for the word “catharsis” and it’s beautifully Greek intention. Gradually, painfully, but almost surely, I have begun to dance a bit more gracefully with my innate fear of criticism and rejection. Rejection is a hurtful partner, occasionally we step on each others toes, but the rhythm is rounding itself out and we may even be rewarding ourselves with an awkward dip every now and then. Fortunately, no interloper has paid attention long enough to break us up, I suppose.

Maybe that’s what it was all about to begin with.

So, what the hell, it all means nothing but I guess I’ll reluctantly keep tapping away at this for another year. My few friends who occasionally read this slop don’t complain too much. And those who are offended don’t respond at all. There’s really no harm in pressing on, is there? I hope not.

Oh, and I must throw out this one old ratty pair of sneakers. Of course, all names on The Guilty Head have been changed to protect the guilty and honor the innocent. Maybe one day we will get over that but it doesn’t really matter, does it? In any case, treat that admission with suspicion since these names may have chose themselves and most likely are just more illusions which I hope to not misspell again.

Happy New Year,
Mb