by Steve Kenny
width as to be a limitless place of unending fuel for the mind. A good writer is an astute observer of the human condition and has a social contract with the reading public, and will be aware that if and when a supposedly factual piece appears in print, it damned well better be accurate.
I once wrote a story, a memoir. In my memoir, I recount a motorcycle crash I had. I was going eighty miles an hour, but right before I crashed, I was aware that I'd managed to slow the bike down somewhat. I reported that slowdown in my writing. Although I wasn't sure exactly how fast I was going, I made my best guess and put it down. Sure, crashing a motorcycle at eighty would have sounded better, and sure, I'd like to look like superman in my own work, but I just couldn't do it. It wouldn't have been an honest description of the event. Sure, I could have fabricated details, fattened and added and borrowed sensationalist phrases and descriptions, but that wouldn't have sat right with me, would it, if discovered, I would hope, sit right with the reading public.
In my memoir, there is much dialogue, taken from journals I'd kept. Some of that dialogue was with family members no longer with us. I found myself wishing that I had taken down more dialogue at that time. For the sake of the argument here, I could have 'invented' dialogue for my story. I mean, it's my memoir, right? Who could challenge my credibility? , I didn't create imagined dialogue; I couldn't do it because it wouldn't have been true. I kept some passages out, but only for the sake of decency, and out of respect for those depicted.
I didn't fuck with factual accuracy in my story because I want my work to stand the test of time, just like a Michelangelo statue, or a classical Greek work of art. To borrow the real name of a suicide victim and insert it into a purposefully inaccurate story like so much filling in a turnover is pretty goddamned bad. A writer surrounding such a real event as a suicide with flights of imagination, and then, years later, promoting a book about the arguments surrounding the facts of that suicide, to my mind, reveals a callous, impersonal, and uncomprehending mind at work.
There's a revelation in my memoir, a few, as a matter of fact, that reveal my immaturity, my dysfunctions; far from flattery. Did I change, did I bend, did I skirt, did I skip the passages? No, I didn't. Not for the sake of art, not for the sake of a pretty, written sentence, not for the sake of ego, not for the sake of career, not for the sake of sensationalism, not for the sake of appearance, not for the sake of formula, not for the sake of a sale, and especially, not for the sake of my own satisfaction at the expense of the integrity and honesty of the story. I left it alone, to let it speak for itself in all its ragged, imperfect honesty, exactly the same way Van Gogh left his brushstrokes alone, a hundred and twenty two years ago, before he put a bullet in his own chest. How do we know he put a bullet in his chest? Because we were told by reliable sources, that's why. If you want to be considered a reliable source, and desire the same respect and privileges an honest journalist has when covering stories that a respectable journalist would cover, then you need to have the ethical backbone of an honest journalist.
The lifespan of a fact is one thing. Usually a fact is a fact is a fact. The lifespan of a suicide can usually be determined to within hours or minutes, or sometimes, even, seconds. The lifespan of a royalty check, however, seems to trump all reason, in this, the age of Superficial Representation.
Yeah sure, Picasso had to defend his art throughout his long life, and in the process issued some very profound, pithy, toothy statements concerning art, the act of creating art, what constitutes art, what is legitimate art. Yeah sure, he famously said that Van Gogh's example freed us all to create art as we saw fit, from A to Z. Before we forget, though, someone had also once asked a famous painter how he could tell when a painting was done.
"I put down my brushes." He replied, in good conscience.
Any writer that is more narcissist than realist, more enamored of how what they've written looks, rather than whether what they've written rings true, should probably set the pen down before someone gets hurt
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-Message In A Bottle-
I used to think of Open Salon as one big Classroom.
Over time, however, I have come to view OS as one big Neighborhood, where everybody owns a piece of land, with a house and a yard.
Everyone sits on their porch, writes their pieces, and sends them off in the mail to all the other Neighbors in the Neighborhood.
In due time, some of our pieces will actually get read by some of our Neighbors, and some won't.
And some may actually get a response, and a Neighbor may either Agree or Disagree.
Meanwhile, lately; today; this morning, as a matter of fact, I realized that all of us are supposed assume that we are all under "house arrest" [a Blogspot is real a fixed position in virtual space, is it not?], and so, have to remain on our own properties; our own porches.
And in our Neighborhood, most of us are surrounded, on at least three sides, by huge privet hedges, privacy fences, picket fences, chain-link fences, or brick fences, which means, as we sit on our own porches, that we can see some of the other Bloggers, and some, we cannot.
I call these tall fences our "Digital Curtain".
But some Bloggers, I have seen [through watching their style of communication], enjoy having complete freedom; that is, they have, in fact, no fences, at all, and can come and go at will; walk the Neighborhood; peer into windows, listen in on phone calls; read our stuff without us knowing and without our permission; swim in our pools; watch us at all hours.
Meanwhile, because of our obvious limitations, I see meaning being misunderstood here at an alarming level. I know that I don't mind saying that I have a very, very hard time interpreting meaning and context here at Open Salon on a regular basis, even with those I percieve as like-minded.
I, we, need to do better.
Here's how I see me here:
I am sitting on my porch, alone, surrounded by a nice yard. Running 'round the sides and back of my property [my Blog] is a privet hedge, beautiful, but so tall and thick that I can't see any other Blogger in this Neighborhood.
But, I write and send it out, hoping to reach someone. And sometimes, frustrated, and feeling particularly alone, I will stand up and shout in the direction of where I think my Neighbors are.
So far, eh, I've gotten a few replies, which has alleviated some of the anxities and sense of isolation, and for that, I am thankful.
Still, I strongly believe that we can all do a lot better at communicating with each other here.
Just a castaway
An island lost at sea
Another lonely day
With no one here but me
More loneliness
Than any man could bear
Rescue me before I fall into despair
I'll send an SOS to the world
I'll send an SOS to the world
I hope that someone gets my
I hope that someone gets my
I hope that someone gets my
Message in a bottle
(Message in a bottle)
A year has passed since I wrote my note
But I should have known this right from the start
Only hope can keep me together
Love can mend your life
But love can break your heart
I'll send an SOS to the world
I'll send an SOS to the world
I hope that someone gets my
I hope that someone gets my
I hope that someone gets my
Message in a bottle
(Message in a bottle
Oh, message in a bottle
Message in a bottle)
Walked out this morning
Don't believe what I saw
A hundred billion bottles
Washed up on the shore
Seems I'm not alone at being alone
A hundred billion castaways
Looking for a home
I'll send an SOS to the world
I'
ll send an SOS to the world
I hope that someone gets my
I hope that someone gets my
I hope that someone gets my
Message in a bottle
(Message in a bottle
Message in a bottle
Message in a bottle)
Sending out an SOS...
.
"Message In A Bottle"
The Police
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November
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There are small holes in my carpenter's jeans, and a few stains, as well as some paint spatters. Same with my t-shirts. Seems work clothes are my favorite clothes to wear. Yet, my clothes are clean. All our clothes are clean: twenty two dollars worth of clean at the laundromat. Seven washloads: blankets, towels, rags, sheets, pants, shirts, underwear, your little onesies and pajamas; your little socks and hats; your spit-up rags. It's all clean.
The freshly swept and mopped hard VCT waxed tile floor feels clean beneath my thermal sock covered feet, yet I can still feel the cold. Still, the cinder block walls give shelter, and this place feels more like a home than any we've had in this town.
Holding you, over on one side of the small frontroom with you snuggly covered with one of your little baby blankets, your mother is wondering, out loud.
"She's wondering who I am."
I am sitting in the old cushioned rocking chair, surrounded by small stacks of different sized spiral-bound notebook paper. I am working on organizing all the scraps of writing I've compiled over the past year. I look up and over my reading glasses at you two and smile.
"No she's not."
"She's staring at me, wondering who I am."
You are ten days old. We love you with all our heart.
"No, she knows who you are."
"She's looking at my glasses. I look different to her."
Your mother has astigmatism, but hasn't been wearing her glasses lately.
"No, you don't." I say, gently.
In this place, we have found our direction, in this home, where once were two, we have found we now have you.
Your mother holds you in her arms, and at forty eight, your mom is a natural. At fifty two, I am still numb. My glance turns into a long moment of wonder and deep joy. I watch as your little hands move. To my mind, they are the most graceful, beautiful hands I have ever seen. They are very tiny, yet just about everyone has noticed your long fingers. Maybe a little piano player? Who knows? Still, Mendelssohn plays softly in the background.
Surrounding us in this small, modest room, we have two couches, a few large plants -small trees' really- and a wall of books, from floor to ceiling -my little thrift store library- sitting on bookshelves I made years ago from long boards of 1 X 8 pine. The days and nights are slow and fine right now, honey, as we take turns feeding you, holding you, and wondering, when we cook, if you like the smell of corn muffins and chicken broth, turkey and dressing and mashed potatoes and gravy.
"No, she knows who you are. She knows you by the way you smile, by the way you look at her, by the way you hold her, by the way you kiss her and talk to her. She knows you by the sound of your voice, and your scent; she knows you by your lips, your smile, and can feel your love."
Outside, the winds blow, the temperature drops, the trees shed their leaves, the squirrels forage and the birds flock to the bird feeder. Novembers are like that, little cutie. Inside, here in this small home, with you, we make a family. Tonight, we will be inside, and warm, and as we settle in for the evening, I will read to you from 'A Light In The Attic' or 'Where The Sidewalk Ends'.
But right now, it is still daylight outside, and I am looking at you and your mama. Happiness has finally and once again washed over me, over us, my little sweetheart. Thank you.
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-What We Did On New Year's Eve-
A ten-dollar, five-foot-tall Salvation Army Christmas tree stands in the corner of our frontroom, in front of the old ten-dollar Dollar General quilt nailed up to the door to keep the cold out. It stands between the futon, which sits in front of a wall-wide, floor-to-ceiling homemade bookcase loaded with books, and an old thirty-dollar Salvation Army couch we've had for five years now, which sits beneath the wide frontroom window. Neither the old steel door, nor the cinderblock walls keep the cold from seeping in inside the concrete slab that lies beneath the waxed asbestos tiles, but we don't care. We are wearing our thermal socks and having fun.
She runs over to the couch and slams into it, excitedly, and tries to climb up, while I come up behind and say, "I'm gonna get you!"
She screams and laughs, before I push her diapered little butt up and onto the couch. She scrambles up and stands, resting against the couch's back and tries to lift the blinds. I lift them for her. Her little eyebrows go up and her little mouth opens, forming a little "o," like a little Chrismas Caroler singing, and with a look of wondrous curiosity, shouts, "What's that?"
"What's what?" I ask.
"That."
What?"
"That."
In the glass, in front of the darkness, there is a magnificent reflection of Christmas lights that are beside and above us.
"What's that?" she asks again.
"Those are Christmas lights, honey. Look. There and there. Those are reflections."
"What's that?" she asks.
"What?"
"That." She is pointing now.
"That? It's dark outside. The sun's gone down. It's New Year's Eve, honey. Tomorrow it will be a new year, honey. New Year's Day," I say.
From the speakers that bracket the wall atop the bookcase Stevie Wonder's "I Just Called To Say I Love You" is playing. I lift her tiny body up and into my arms gently, and sing to her while brushing her her from her eyes.
"These barrettes need fixing, sweetheart."
When she's in my arms, we dance, and when she's not, she's never far from me. We call her our little shadow. The Little Boss. With doe's eyes reflecting love, joy, curiosity, astonishment, she's the wonder of our lives.
She is dancing; her little shoulders swaying in my arms. I kiss her little forehead. This is only her second New Year's Eve, but my fifty-third. Am I thankful? My joy and happiness is beyond expression.
I sing to her.
"I just called, to say, I love you. I just called to say how much I care..."
Today I found Open Salon's posts to be astonishingly good. L in the Southeast's "'A Report Card On Selma, The Movie' was quite a moving post, and Zumiliscious' 'Black success, entitlement narcissism and racism' was just brilliant.
I grabbed my first beer at about eight, and had to wait until my wife came home, and then watch an episode of the Walking Dead with her, before I posted. Probably not always a good idea when I've been drinking.
But in the meantime, we are whiling away the hours tonight waiting for her mama to come home at eleven thirty. She's been up for about two hours now, and will stay up until her mother gets home to tuck her in.
You Are The Sunshine Of My Life plays, and then, Sir Duke.
With a silken head of hair already down to her shoulders and incredible blue eyes which carry all the depth and understanding and hope and innocence of the best Rockwell or Raphael Sanzio, she invades my heart with just her smile, as I change her diaper, before deciding to let her wear the little red Minnie Mouse cotton nightgown she got for her birthday this past November.
This is so very far away from 1961, and Chicago, and yet so very close to everything that I have ever needed.
I have set her down, and am now sitting on the futon, next to the Christmas tree, beneath an old clamp-on, 13-watt lamp, trying to read the fourth, fifth and sixth chapters of Dickens' A Tale Of Two Cities, ahead of this afternoon's Open Salon posting of chapters five and six, but the paragraphs are breaking apart in my mind before I ever get going. Knowing none of this, she turns her attention to me. From across the room, and with her little gait, she walks over, as I watch her approach, looking up, over my 175-power dollar store reading glasses. I will gl
adly put down my reading for her.
"Uppies, little honey?" I ask. She raises her little arms up, and I lift her once again onto my lap, and, turning, climb up and onto the futon, to stand before the speaker. It's not loud at all; maybe on 3. We listen. Sir Duke starts. She stares into the speaker in wonder. We step back down onto the floor, and gently bouncing her in my arms, we waltz around the room singing and looking at the Christmas stuff.
She is my daughter. With a mere four hours left in this year, we will bounce from room to room to room all night and tickle away the hours. We will bounce on the bed and roughhouse, and laugh and play; push cars on the waxed tile floor, bounce Nerf balls around, slide around on the floor with our socks. She will run from me laughing and I will chase her up and down the hall, all night, til mama gets home, when, finally worn out, she will take her little baba of whole milk on mama's lap, on the old two-dollar Salvation Army chair that sits in front of the futon, while I read and post comments on OS. When she is finally put in her crib, we will then watch a little Netflix together, and ring in the New Year quietly, with a kiss, and a "Happy New Year." "Happy New Year to you."
So this is what we did on New Year's Eve, in 2014, when you were barely a year old. We had a wonderful time. By the way, you've been working really hard on your ABC's and that work is beginning to pay off. Soon, you'll be able to read this for yourself, Little Sweetheart.
Happy New Year, Little Honey.
Little Boss.
We love you.
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