593: Limping Mind Games

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The dumbest question to ask a kid must be “What do you want to be when you grow up?” (Often preceded by “So”). For me the best answers for that are “How the fuck should I know, I’m seven”; “Lizzie Borden” and “Anything that takes me away from you.” But I never used any because even at that young age I knew it was an insincere “points winning” question usually asked by some dweeb whose aim was to screw my mother.

One is never too young to be a realist.

Looking back I believe that we are ahead of the game when the stuff we endured in childhood fails to turn us into raving loons. All children suffer physical knocks–since age six my right index finger points slightly down, like a dowsing rod, due to getting it caught in a closing car door; but that was it, no further bad came from the little ordeal. Yet the mental thumpings we suffer, those that did not receive any sort of (or very little) treatment, will leave us with mind limps that continue to worsen over the years.

Of course the severity of the injury dictates the progress of the limp. Losing the spelling bee to that lil Miss know-it-all Suzie Finch shouldn’t ruin you beyond growing up to have a tendency to require more from a Susan than, say, a Deborah in matters of casual friendship. But a violent, oversexed relative of yore might drive you to doing things best identified by DNA swabs.

A lot of this sort of thing gets into our writing. I’ve had remarkably poor luck with girls named “Misty” (one, in particular, in high school changed the spelling to “Miste”–just to be a bitch, I figure; she was fantastically consistent). Until I drink myself into alcoholic dementia I will never use that name favorably in my writing.

I have two large differences that were born early, but these were caused by observation, not injury–well, not direct injury. I hold these to be true although I know that I am often wrong. Anyway, from my mother’s many marriages and affairs I do not believe that love and sexual attraction have much to do with each other, and I refuse to support that in writing. And I’ve come to believe that Evil is caused by the arrogance of Good. When I was a child no teacher ever stepped up to guide me. Not once. I gave the fuckers twelve years. I was left to assume that because I was a poor kid my high IQ (137-142) must have been a shot in the dark. And although I know it makes me, if not unpopular, at least an outsider, my early and often nothing experience with authority has caused me to believe that the only reason why someone like Donald Trump is in office is because the so-called progressive forces became over confident and lazy and all over their self-made Golden Calves. Bernie Sanders said it best, but no one really listens to him, now do we? We tend to be never wrong when we are secure in our holiness.

I hate happy-clappy things. Those are usually tacked on like the slight light of hope at the very end of a film that has been non-stop violence since it opened. Behold shapely Theodora of Gomorrah, beholding the white light of God, above the pile of corpses she has created. But I will allow that growth is possible in something like writing when you can look back at your old stuff and see the times you bailed and said something that meant nothing at all, on the level of meaninglessness with what do you want to be when you grow up? I often find lies in things I wrote early. And although I am often wrong I’d rather be an honest wrong person than a calculating Gold Calf polisher.

Besides, Lizzie Borden was never hanged.

I’ve begun looking for head limps in writing. I think it is an interesting pastime. Stephen King (always use an example most people know) has a thing about cancer. Nearly everyone not killed by violence or the paranormal dies from it in his work. I bet that traces back to his mother. The excellent story The Woman in the Room, from Night Shift is a direct and moving tale about that sad party. William Shakespeare appears to be anti-Dog. You never see them in his works, except in less than kindly mention as in calling someone a cur. Then again that is probably because they do not play well on stage, still, it seems odd for some reason. Hemingway’s reluctance to display emotional blowups might be a part of his style, but there are instances in his writing where those would make more sense. Might be something about control there–he was said to have feared losing grip of his mind. But, hey, we all got our things. Although I’m no one special, I’ve written a total of well over a hundred-thousand words about two people and I can tell you right now the four-letter word love does not appear in there, and that ain’t by accident.

Still, nobody hanged Lizzy.

From here on my inability to perform a segue will be replaced by a nice sterile number. Yeah, I like that. Blame it on my dowsing finger.

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The Week That Was drifted in again and since it was the second Sunday, Dale Williams Barrigar drifted in, as he is likely to do with another lively essay about Art. Tweedy on Reed is a lively thing and it gets to a critical point about the soul. No matter your age, if music can still communicate with your soul, you are still alive in the most vital sense.

Dale brings the Art of Chicago out for all to see. For ages The Jungle (and in his way, Al Capone) defined Chicago Art, but the blues is the town’s true driving force. And there is a fine writer like DWB around to tell of it.

Monday dawned and shone light on the steel of The Butcher by Brandon Sharp (whose surname is perfect for the task). I worked in places much like what Brandon wrote about in this and he truly captured the terrible hierarchy that exists in the restaurant business. I was lucky, only one Chef I worked for was a complete prick (actually, she), the others had humanity even though egos were always present. Truly insightful work and we hope to see more from Brandon.

Tuesday brought Louis Lovelace and the Salvation Economy by Zachary Arama. Even with decades of writing and about five years of editing in me, I often see titles that place the “What the fuck?” on my face. At least that’s how my face feels on this side of it. But that is not a bad thing, just a reflex and it usually works out that the title is the best one for the work. I think that is the case with this one. This is a fun and cautionary tale, and a reminder of being careful of what you ask for, even when you are not sure what it is you want.

Little Bites by Jake K. Itsuk bullseyed the center of the week. The world is a devouring place and many of its inhabitants are good with the overall plan. It’s to Jake’s credit that he was able to get as much story into such a brief space. Although brief there is no sense of truncation, which often injures shorter works. Eerie and tense.

Claudine Mussuto scored with Almost Cinderella on Thursday. This is an involved piece with psychological and physical drama. And in the flow come many startling images such as ”…father’s sex toy…” which hits even harder due to the confidence and control Claudine has in and over her honest, thoughtful prose.

The Week That Was part of the Week That Was closed with Clickety-Click by Ian C Smith. There are plenty of ago pieces submitted and published by LS, but few have the verve found in this one. Callow youth, when written about with honesty and without them rose lenses on, is one of the finest things written about and read with pleasure. But it is also something too easy to mess up. The good and bad in this sort of thing are so closely related that only writers who know what they are doing should give it a go, as the case is well made here by Mr. Smith.

That’s it for another week! The usual hooplas and hosanas all around, And although it is impossible I hope that everyone enjoyed the World Cup and did not hate the winners beyond any necessary degree.

And now…

But first a song by the late great Bonnie Tyler. The band I was in did another one of her hits, but this one, though it never made the U.S. truly captures her spirit.

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The List: Ten Shitty Things Neither Caused Nor Made Worse by Politicians (and you really gotta dig)

• New Coca Cola (circa 1985)
• T-Mobile ringtones (I’ve been a customer for years, but their tones suck)
• Major League Baseball numerology (I see they show launch angles, speed and complete distance of homeruns. Why?)
• Hell Boring Disaster Flicks Starring Big Names (At their worst, The Poseidon Adventure, Towering Inferno and Airport were interesting in watching a trainwreck sort of way–but here, in this genre, boring is unforgivable. You start spotting face lifts and wigs, Meteor and Earthquake stank the most )
• Speaking of such: Ubiquitous hair piece shared by John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart and Bing Crosby as though it were the Gorgon Sister’s eye .
• Caitlyn Jenner’s canonization (I do not object to her as a person, but I think we can let up on the Nobel-like push. I know fifty people on Seattle’s Broadway District who are the same and a hell of a lot cooler, and did it without “spiritual support.”)
• Leafblowers in the early morning (I’m up, but it is still a rude thing to do)
• Cheap and Tawdry tell-alls like Mommy Dearest and the one Bing’s son wrote about the old nards’ kicker.
• People who dump their Cats in my neighborhood for people like me to see to (I have spent literally thousands on this project and I feel that people who cannot raise a Kitten properly should not be allowed to reproduce)
• All yours

Word of the Bi-Week Desideratum (N) Something needed or wanted

Leila

From Way the Hell Ago, When Helen Reddy, Cher, Diana Ross, Linda Ronstadt and Karen Carpenter Ruled the World

And because I like the song…