Nothing To See Here: “Country Crooner” (Part Sixteen)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

Offering my acoustic rendition of the beer song from yonder days was intended to dampen interest in the mysterious career of Rodney Dean. I looked upon it as being something of an outlier, compared to other lyrics written over the years. A sort of attempt at blue-collar comedy that might have been welcome on Hee Haw. But fan reaction online was immediate, and overwhelmingly positive. My contact at the record label, T. Randall Squire, had pegged it right. The hillbilly character I had unwittingly created was one that consumers of Country Music were willing to embrace, once they had been assured that this shaggy crooner had not been birthed from an artificial intelligence program.

 

My virgin account on TikTok received thousands of hits after the live performance.

 

For the professional promoter who was hawking my material, this yield was a sign of bigger and better things to come. Yet for me, a different sort of reaction was aroused. One that found me going blank at my desk. Any interest in continuing the charade I had sired was gone. I quit writing for several weeks. And therefore, had nothing relevant to post on my newspaper blog.

 

Internet speculation grew about what had transpired. Some thought that I must have entered a treatment program for alcoholism. Others figured that I wrecked my pickup truck, and had been institutionalized for rehabilitation. One persistent thread on Reddit even suggested that I had been involved in a love triangle, and been shot in a fit of jealous rage.

 

But the strongest reaction came from my entertainment contact. Having waited through a long stretch of weeks and months, he finally messaged my cell phone with an angry rant about lost revenue and missed opportunities.

 

“GAWDAMN IT BOY, WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YER SENSE OF THE ZEITGEIST? WE HAD A TIGER BY IT’S TAIL, AND YA DECIDED TO LET GO! I DON’T GET IT! YER LEAVIN’ MONEY ON THE TABLE! THAT’S A SIN IN MY BOOK! WHAT THE DEVIL IS WRONG WITH Y’ALL?”

 

I was amused that he actually included the word ‘zeitgeist’ in his voicemail. I was still grinning when returning his call.

 

“Sir, I’m done with this little farce of ours. It was a hoot to play my guitar and sing for an online audience, but that is as far as it goes. I’ve exhausted my repertoire of cowboy tunes for the moment. I’d rather go in a different direction now. This is becoming a bore...”

 

Squire started coughing as if he had choked on his cigar.

 

“NAW, NAW, NAW, NAW! DAMMIT BOY, Y’ALL KNOW BETTER ‘N THAT! YER APPALACHIAN BLOOD IS STRONG! I KIN FEEL IT IN EVERYTHING YA WRITE! THAT’S PURE REALISM RIGHT THERE, AND IT’S WHAT PEOPLE ARE LOOKIN’ FER! THERE’S SO MUCH POP GARBAGE OUT THERE, BULLSHIT SLUNG AROUND BY FANCY PRODUCERS AND STUDIO HACKS! WHAT YER OFFERIN’ LISTENERS IS SOMETHIN’ GENUINE! RUDE AND CRUDE, AND RAW! THAT’S WHAT WE NEED, MORE HEROES FROM UP THE HOLLER! YA CAN’T QUIT NOW!”

 

I had a feeling of gravel churning in the pit of my stomach.

 

“Sir, there’s nothing real about me as a cornpone songwriter. I studied through Cornell University, I wrote for a national magazine, and I had a prosperous career as a business manager. All before my life fell apart maybe, but that was the foundation for what came later. I used to be clean-cut and erudite and all of that...”

 

My friend the music mogul burst into a spasm of raucous laughter.

 

“I GET IT! I GET IT! Y’ALL MADE A FEW BUCKS AND THEN THAT HOUSE OF CARDS CAME CRASHIN’ DOWN! IT LEFT YA BROKE AND DIVORCED, AND LOOKIN’ LIKE A DAMN FOOL! THAT’S THE REALISM, BOY! HEARTBREAK AND LONELY NIGHTS! GETTING’ DRUNK AND FIGHTIN’ WITH YER NEIGHBORS! MAYBE EVEN GETTIN’ DRAGGED OFF TO THE HOOSEGOW BY YER SHERIFF! YEARS AGO, PORTER WAGONER USED TO WRITE ABOUT THAT SHIT! NOW IT’S YER TURN! DON’T GET OUTTA THE SADDLE JUST YET!”

 

I was oddly uninterested in his sales pitch. Being disabled and retired had given me a new perspective on living.

 

“Sir, I’ll just say it plainly, you’ve got mad skills as a talker, but none of that connects with me right now. I don’t need money or fame, or the glare of a spotlight. My ambition died a long time ago. I hobble around here in my singlewide trailer, drink beer in the afternoon and evening, and generally ignore everything else. If somebody stops by to share a brew, that’s great. If not, I’m content to be by myself. I don’t care about being sociable, or popular. And I certainly have no interest in becoming a music star, on stage!”

 

His voice morphed into an edgy growl over the virtual telephone line.

 

“Rodney, yer not thinkin’ clearly! I don’t want ya to dump this confabulation of ours so lightly. Let it sit in yer head fer a little bit. I kin keep stringin’ the listeners along fer a while. Let me work my magic. Meanwhile, get back to writin’ songs and recordin’ them at yer desk!”

 

This time, I had settled on making a break with the record label that would last. His argument did not change how I felt.

 

“No sir, with respect, I will pass. I’ve run dry with the sort of material you want. My wandering days out on the road are long gone. I can hardly walk now, even with my canes. My body is a high-mileage wreck. I’m at the end of a wild ride, and glad that it is nearly over, to be honest. I’ve had some interesting experiences...”

 

Squire paused while stubbing out his stogie. Then, began to whisper over the wireless connection.

 

“I know yer type, boy. Y’all kin say that stuff right now, and think ya mean it, too. But there’ll come a day when ya get that tickle of inspiration in yer noggin. It might happen at any time, anywhere. That spark will light yer ass on fire again. And y’all will be scribblin’ out new words and new melodies. That’s when I’ll be there, waitin’ and watchin’ fer a second start to happen. Count on me! I will damn sure be there!”

 

Once our conversation had ended, I sat on my porch with a jug of Kentucky bourbon. A burn of high-proof liquor lingered in my throat. And my head drooped low, as I pondered the words still echoing in memory. The words my music mentor had so wisely spoken.

 

Because, I knew he was right.

Nothing To See Here: “Country Crooner” (Part Fifteen)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

Other than having a very basic familiarity with social media sites, I did not know much about the business of streaming content via internet connections. Because of my place as a late member of the ‘Baby Boom’ generation, such things were not really on my personal radar. I still looked upon content creation in terms of print media, and physical recordings. Though I also knew that such a narrow view of the world was one quickly passing into the realm of antiquity. But for my contact at the record label, this handicap was not in effect.

 

T. Randall Squire seemed to have an uncanny sense of every avenue to promote music and entertainment. And he was keen on making my work available to a greater audience.

 

With some assistance from a young nephew who possessed insight into technical matters, I was able to install the TikTok app on my cellular device. Then, I propped up the phone vertically on a section of porch railing, and took my guitar in hand. From the bench, I intended to broadcast a short selection of tunes from my catalog. But as this impromptu concert was about to begin, I felt myself trembling with anxiousness. Once, a few years earlier, I had written about a character who pursued a similar leap into the realm of performing for public consumption. But that fictional adventure had been easier to process, with the benefit of artistry offering a comfortable measure of detachment. Now, I realized that upon clicking the link stored on my wireless accessory, I would be visible to a vast audience of unseen spectators.

 

This spark of revelation made my stomach ache. I was about to be completely exposed to an anonymous crowd of onlookers, with no barrier between us except for the virtual space from my vantage point to their own.

 

With the sage advice of a seasoned veteran, Squire coached me to put worries about my performance aside.

 

“Y’all are gonna be fine, boy! Don’t let it get under yer saddle. See, it’s just like playin’ fer friends in the neighborhood. Nobody will bust yer chops or jeer while ya sing. As a matter of fact, I reckon they’ll be hootin’ and hollerin’ and dancin’ up a storm! None of ‘em has ever seen ya live, before. They don’t have any idea who ya really are! This is a chance to make yer first impression as an up ‘n comin’ star! If it pans out, then y’all will be set fer bigger things! Like a tour of honky-tonk bars, or even the Grand Ole Opry!”

 

I wanted to vomit. My fingers had turned numb.

 

“I’m a shaggy, old hermit you know? I can’t think that anybody will be too interested in what I’ve got to offer...”

 

When the connection had been made, I saw myself on the screen. Then, a mood of humility took hold. I paused before plucking out some simple chords, and looked straight into the digital camera.

 

“Friends, my name is uh... Rodney Dean. I live in a little residence park south of Lake Erie, in Ohio. I’m disabled, retired, and to be honest, not someone who’s spent much time thinking about being on stage in front of people. The truth is, my angle on all of this has been writing for newspapers and magazines. But I’ve always had a love for music, and the culture of Appalachia. So, I scribble out song lyrics now and then. Nothing I have ever created is too difficult to wrap your ears around. I’m not one for complicated melodies or classical sophistication. My upbringing was with members of the family playing down-home, earthy tunes about real events and the lives of working folks. That’s what got me started on this habit of putting words onto paper. If you have a love for that kind of thing, then I hope you’ll be pleased with what I am about to sing, right here and now...”

 

I could see that comments were scrolling below my image, on the screen. But without the benefit of reading glasses, those lines of text were illegible.

 

“Anyway, let’s start with one I wrote a very long time ago, while living with my first wife and her son, in Painesville. This is a ditty about the familiar habit of drinking cold brew for refreshment and relaxation. I never intended it to be taken seriously. However, you might say that I imagined this to be a jukebox anthem, like something one could expect to hear from a Country Music personality like Garth Brooks...”

 

“Gonna drink me a couple twelve-packs today

You know I’ll darn sure kill the case

Yes, I’ll drink those little, 12-ounce bottles

To chase the blues away

Then I’ll go to the store and buy me some more

Bring it on home to here

I’m gonna take me a swim in a sudsy river

Of Blue Ribbon Beer!

 

Sitting with my friends and some Wiedemann’s

Or maybe a quart of Blatz

Then I’ll swig some Bud or Miller Lite

Until I run out of cash

Then it’ll be time to clear the fridge

And drink everything left behind

A single bottle of Busch or Steel Reserve

Until I’m drunk and blind

Now I don’t need no fancy swill

A blue-collar taste is fine

You can keep your damn Corona

Served with a wedge of lime

I’ll ride till dawn with a 30 rack

Of Genesee Cream Ale

Or Yuengling Amber, chilled up just right

On ice, in a galvanized pail!”

 

My contact at the entertainment company huffed cigar smoke while listening. Then he pounded his workspace with both fists.

 

“GAWDAMN, THAT FELLER REALLY FIGURED IT OUT! LISTEN TO THAT Y’ALL! I KIN HEAR THE CASH REGISTERS RINGING! WE’RE ALL ABOUT TO BE RICH!”

 

I was too busy with this amateur improvisation to notice that a small group had gathered at the end of my driveway. Yet when they began to clap rhythmically to the cadence of my strumming, I could sense that the moment had taken on a character of celebration. Familiar members of our trailer contingent swelled in number, as I continued to croon about becoming inebriated.

 

From his distant office, T. Randall Squire sent a string of messages to my device, in capital letters.

 

“THAT’S IT BOY, THAT’S IT! KEEP GOIN’ DON’T QUIT WHILE YER AHEAD! SING TILL YA CAN’T SING NO MORE! SING TILL YA BUST YER LUNGS! SING UNTIL THE MILLIONS OF BUCKS START POURIN’ IN! WE’RE IN THE MONEY! WE’RE IN THE MONEY!”

 

Nothing To See Here: “Country Crooner” (Part Fourteen)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

As a new week began, I found myself stuck for material while working at the desk. Hours passed from morning to afternoon, as I sat staring into the empty void of my computer monitor. Then, as is so often the case, a word progression came to mind.

 

“If I took a leg up to the saddle, and sat tall, against the sky...”

 

This brief epiphany opened the portal. I stiffened in my roller chair, and started to peck away at the keyboard. Four verses of song, and a repeated chorus, came quickly.

 

Once this manuscript was completed, I posted it to my newspaper blog, online.

 

Fallen Man

 

“If I took a leg up to the saddle

And sat tall, against the sky

Would it matter to the one who holds my heart

Would she see that I’m empty inside

I might do the best to prove my worth

It’s a task I’ll take in hand

But when those horse hooves slip on stone

I’ll become a fallen man

There’s no shame for those ones who wake

To see the morning sun

And I’m a member of that tribe

With a blade and loaded six-gun

But when the air turns crisp and cool

I find there’s a different feel

To dusting off a cowboy hat

And turning on my bootheels

 

The judge’s word hits hard

When there’s no spot to land

Down in the dirt, and lonely

Just another fallen man

 

If I found a way to speak

Of what I see when eyes are closed

Then maybe I could cash my chips

Like a gambler, being exposed

But the truth is a strong medicine

One I take with hesitation

It’s bitter in my throat, you see

A rush of bad sensations

I know my place so well from this

A time spent wildly wandering

From coast to coast and back again

Feeling nothing except the sting

Of a jealous girl who took my love

But never had my name

She couldn’t make that leap of faith

And I was left in pain

 

The judge’s word hits hard

When there’s no spot to land

Down in the dirt, and lonely

Just another fallen man

 

If by chance I changed the script

Of a moving picture arc

I’d write the plot in pencil

And make corrections in the dark

But that detail is not to be

I’m riding out, in secrecy

With a gaze into the yellow orb

That will blind my memories

That hopeful hop to another town

Will take me from this place

Where I have failed to prosper

A feeble runner in the footrace

Perhaps when I am no longer known

I’ll take heed of lessons learned

A second start in the anonymous guise

Of a drifter gone ‘round the turn

 

The judge’s word hits hard

When there’s no spot to land

Down in the dirt, and lonely

Just another fallen man

 

I don’t care for the sounds of woe

No shedding of tears for me

I’ve got no need of a warm embrace

No yearning for sympathy

Every step I took was done

With the knowledge of my path

And now that it has brought me here

I’ll hear the devil laugh

It’s assured that the grave will hold

What’s left of these old bones

Ashes from the fireplace

Of an abandoned, happy home

I couldn’t stay there willingly

When my lady friend departed

I heard the call of eternity

An end to what we started

 

The judge’s word hits hard

When there’s no spot to land

Down in the dirt, and lonely

Just another fallen man...”

 

The attention span of T. Randall Squire, my contact at the record label, must have been exhausted by waiting. Because he did not respond immediately. A few days passed as I worked to develop other ideas from my personal archives. But on a Tuesday, shortly after the noon hour, a notification popped up on my Messenger app. I had left the phone in my kitchen, while making a ham and egg taco for breakfast. A brief voicemail was waiting when I got up to retrieve the device.

 

The entertainment guru seemed to be pleased with what I had written. But a hint of worry was audible in his voice. He projected a growl of irritation that tingled my ears.

 

“Rodney, y’all have kept up the pace with yer Country tunes, and I’m mighty grateful fer that. There’s just one problem with our little confabulation, and that’s all this nonsense about artificial intelligence. Some folks have started to wonder if ya are a real person, or just a gawdamn hi-tech application! Since they never see ya in concert, I can understand why that kind of bullshit might appear to be justified!”

 

I responded to his call after pouring a cup of coffee.

 

“Sir, I have to say that anyone who’d think I am a fraudulent, AI program must be weak in the head! Some bot in cyberspace would do a much more professional job of mimicking the hillbilly sound for radio airplay. I’m rude and crude, at best. My guitar chops have declined since reaching the point of disability. And I never could sing like Hank Williams or George Jones!”

 

Squire puffed on his cigar and thought for a moment.

 

“Look boy, I get what y’all are sayin’ about havin’ stiff joints and so forth, but I’ve been thinkin’ about us movin’ in a different direction. In the old days, a lot of cowboy crooners would travel with a flat-top pluckster, and nothin’ else. They might sit in a bar and sing all night fer people getting’ drunk or cheatin’ on their mates. It was good fer a few bucks, and it filled the tip jar. A lot of legends were created that way. Give it some thought. I figure it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to try!”

 

The professional promoter was thinking in old-school terms. But I had a different take on the evolution of popular music.

 

“Those dance halls and juke joints were a part of our history. But things have changed now, kids are on their phones or playing video games. The market is not what it was even a dozen years ago. So, if you really want to sell my stuff, then a new way of thinking is required. Look at websites such as TikTok, or even Instagram. That’s where the content creators are going to get attention. The business model is constantly in flux...”

 

Mr. Squire must have dropped his stogie while pondering this suggestion. His tone spiked in volume and intensity.

 

“THAT’S IT RODNEY! Y’ALL GOTTA MAKE A DAMN LIVESTREAM APPEARANCE ON ONE O’ THEM SOCIAL MEDIA PLATFORMS! I CAN HAWK THAT SHOW BEFOREHAND, AND PUT IT OUT WITH SUPPORT FROM THE BIGWIGS! I KNOW HOW TO STIR UP INTEREST WITH ALL OF THEM MAJOR COMPANIES! YER A GENIUS, MY BUDDY! A GENUIS, ONE-HUNDRED PERCENT!”

“Fallen Man”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

If I took a leg up to the saddle

And sat tall, against the sky

Would it matter to the one who holds my heart

Would she see that I’m empty inside

I might do the best to prove my worth

It’s a task I’ll take in hand

But when those horse hooves slip on stone

I’ll become a fallen man

There’s no shame for those ones who wake

To see the morning sun

And I’m a member of that tribe

With a blade and loaded six-gun

But when the air turns crisp and cool

I find there’s a different feel

To dusting off a cowboy hat

And turning on my bootheels

 

The judge’s word hits hard

When there’s no spot to land

Down in the dirt, and lonely

Just another fallen man

 

If I found a way to speak

Of what I see when eyes are closed

Then maybe I could cash my chips

Like a gambler, being exposed

But the truth is a strong medicine

One I take with hesitation

It’s bitter in my throat, you see

A rush of bad sensations

I know my place so well from this

A time spent wildly wandering

From coast to coast and back again

Feeling nothing except the sting

Of a jealous girl who took my love

But never had my name

She couldn’t make that leap of faith

And I was left in pain

 

The judge’s word hits hard

When there’s no spot to land

Down in the dirt, and lonely

Just another fallen man

 

If by chance I changed the script

Of a moving picture arc

I’d write the plot in pencil

And make corrections in the dark

But that detail is not to be

I’m riding out, in secrecy

With a gaze into the yellow orb

That will blind my memories

That hopeful hop to another town

Will take me from this place

Where I have failed to prosper

A feeble runner in the footrace

Perhaps when I am no longer known

I’ll take heed of lessons learned

A second start in the anonymous guise

Of a drifter gone ‘round the turn

 

The judge’s word hits hard

When there’s no spot to land

Down in the dirt, and lonely

Just another fallen man

 

I don’t care for the sounds of woe

No shedding of tears for me

I’ve got no need of a warm embrace

No yearning for sympathy

Every step I took was done

With the knowledge of my path

And now that it has brought me here

I’ll hear the devil laugh

It’s assured that the grave will hold

What’s left of these old bones

Ashes from the fireplace

Of an abandoned, happy home

I couldn’t stay there willingly

When my lady friend departed

I heard the call of eternity

An end to what we started

 

The judge’s word hits hard

When there’s no spot to land

Down in the dirt, and lonely

Just another fallen man

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page: “Cell Phone Confession”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

During my first marriage, a difference in energy levels often seemed to cause irritation in the homestead. My wife was older by a decade, and from that advanced perspective, had developed traits that were honed by experience. Her wisdom often proved to be useful during the period that we were paired. But occasionally, she reached a point of fatigue more quickly when we were on the road and staying active. This caused her not only to feel fatigued in a physical sense, but also aroused some emotional distress over attempting to match my faster pace of living.

 

I kept late hours at work, and in the office, wherever we lived.

 

Memories of this conflict are amusing in current terms, because like my father, I met a wall of chronological limitations upon reaching the middle years of a normal lifespan. While I did not necessarily slow my movements, by choice, I noted that keeping up with the tempo I had set became more difficult. As disabilities took hold, this decline in personal velocity only intensified. I fought bravely against the genetic template that was in effect, but when being sidelined several years ago in terms of gainful employment, that condition overwhelmed my persistence. I called it being early to the party, as someone who had been nudged into retirement, and an odd sort of solitude existing on the fringe.

 

At 55, I had become redundant as a participant in the labor pool. But conversely, more active for myself with creative pursuits.

 

When I worked long hours throughout the week, even on holidays and late at night, I still found time to stay current with household chores and social connections. Yet having succumbed to the routine of a senior citizen, that discipline seemed to ebb. Perhaps it was a realization that living alone, and without a mandated schedule of any sort, many things that once appeared to be important lost that designation, completely.

 

This unsettled some in my circle, who were accustomed to the former incarnation of what I had been. No longer a night owl, I became instead a morning rooster, rising with the sun. Responding biologically to the crowing fowl in my head. This adjustment came as a surprise to me, and to those who expected that I would be available at all hours, for adult refreshments by the campfires of summer. Eventually, I found myself standing in front of the bathroom mirror, pondering a visage that had now become unfamiliar. No longer groomed for a corporate-level presentation while on duty, I had descended into a pleasant detachment from that world of responsibility. I quit visiting the barber, and also, jettisoned my razor. Dress shirts, neckties, and any associated apparel disappeared, in favor of T-shirts and athletic trousers. I took to wearing one of my baseball caps throughout the day, instead of only when away from work. With my joints aching and bones bent by aging, I adopted a wooden bench on the front porch as a favored spot for drinking and interacting with neighbors.

 

The result of all these changes came on an evening when I remembered the reaction of my former spouse to our vexing difference in perspectives. With a generous amount of brewed alcohol in my system, and a relaxed mood eliminating any inhibitions, I decided to place a call for the purpose of confessing the guilt I felt. And possibly, soothing at least some of the old wounds that were left after our breakup.

 

Her previous number was still in service. My voice on her messaging app must have been unexpected. But I did my best to offer a jovial tone of greeting.

 

“Hey Mama Bee, here I am, sitting outside for some fresh air and such. Things get stale inside, I find myself wanting to escape the confines of this singlewide abode. But doing so is more difficult than in olden days, because to be blunt, I don’t go anywhere, anymore. It’ll probably sound amazing to you, but I often find that days and weeks may go by, without needing to leave this narrow space for any reason. I have even given up shopping, after a period of patronizing small, family markets, and places like Dollar General out here in the country. I get things delivered now, it is a great help with my lack of mobility becoming more and more of a handicap. I only leave to get my mail, pay the lot rent, or visit a doctor. Otherwise, I don’t care to roam around as when we were together. My sense of adventure has dissipated over time. I am in an old-man mode of living now, not by choice necessarily, but because all other options are gone. The payoff is in having more energy for writing projects, and research online. I feel it has been a worthy trade from one phase of life, to the next. Yet sometimes I sit here, indulging myself, and remember our lively conversations. We communicated better than most I think, compared to other married couples. It was our forte. A shared quality that I miss in the evening hours, when the craft of creative wordsmithing no longer occupies my thoughts. I become melancholy and sentimental, which is another change from those distant months and years. All of this has a connection to what I saw in my own father, as he grew older. So, for better or worse, I wanted to say that to you, at least with this rambling, recorded note. I hope you are well, and enjoying the role of being a grandmother. What we experienced together was a gift. One that I will cherish, into eternity. Take care of yourself, and everyone. You are still in my heart, always. Thanks for listening...”

 

With my reflective moment complete, I returned to the household refrigerator. There was still almost a full case of Miller Lite on hand, along with beef sticks, pickles, and cheese bites waiting to be devoured. I had developed a routine of ordering items as needed, while sitting with my wireless link, in hand. So the cupboards and appliances were well-stocked. No longer was the thought of having to carry water jugs and cases of food in from my car a major concern.

 

But while sitting by myself, I realized that the audio document left via a phone queue should have included a caveat about my transformation, from a young bull to an older mule, now put out to pasture. I guessed that as things stood in modern times, we would have been much more compatible. Though with the benefit of hindsight, perhaps it was better to have left that truism unsaid. It no longer made any difference.

 

Each of us had learned to cope with what life brought to our doorstep. For that blessing, I felt grateful, and content.

“Outside”

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

Here on the outside

It’s a place where I dwell

Shaped by the shadows

And the solitude of self

I’ve never seen daylight

Though it’s much to admire

After long hours spent

Crouched here, by the campfire

A night wish made

To rightly be reborn

My beginning, from the end

A stitch for the veil, torn

Until that trek from

Darkness into day

When the waking begins

I’ll gently turn away

 

I’ve always been on the outside

A gambler chasing gain

At the tables to win

Simple, and plain

I’ve always been on the outside

A loser at the game

In a world that doesn’t even

Know my name

 

Here on the outside

A refugee from rot

Rooted like a mighty oak

Standing tall on its spot

Branches outstretched

To the heavens, above

Receiving the embrace

Of a magical lifeblood

That same kind of exchange

Takes place when I read

Tales of the old world

Written in antiquity

A path to the past

Paved by those who did not tread

With fear or failing

But courage, instead

 

I’ve always been on the outside

A gambler chasing gain

At the tables to win

Simple, and plain

I’ve always been on the outside

A loser at the game

In a world that doesn’t even

Know my name

 

Here on the outside

A familiar plot of land

Metaphorically speaking

The origin of man

A species well gifted

With talents aplenty

Yet a warrior’s spirit

To scatter that seed

I am no different

Except for a twist of fate

I ended up broken

Like a crack in the dinner plate

For years I was trained

But the process had a price

The headmaster relented

I was left to my own device

 

I’ve always been on the outside

A gambler chasing gain

At the tables to win

Simple, and plain

I’ve always been on the outside

A loser at the game

In a world that doesn’t even

Know my name

 

Here on the outside

With the quick and dead

And visions of the vanquished

Swirling in my head

When I vocalize

These things that are witnessed

Then there is a correction

Better baubles to possess

I grew strong in silence

Eyes open, and mouth closed

Watching and waiting

For the pecking of crows

Who feast on the fall

Of a mighty horde

Once great and grand

Now judged by the sword

 

I’ve always been on the outside

A gambler chasing gain

At the tables to win

Simple, and plain

I’ve always been on the outside

A loser at the game

In a world that doesn’t even

Know my name

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page: “Creative Conundrum”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

“Publishers are notoriously slothful about numbers, unless they’re attached to dollar signs – unlike journalists, quarterbacks, and felony criminal defendants who tend to be keenly aware of numbers at all times.” – Hunter S. Thompson

 

As a teenager, I used to ponder the growing lethargy of my father with a measure of befuddlement and dissatisfaction. While in his 50s, I noted that he would sometimes choose to simply ‘tune out’ from family activities. With his oversized, Pyrex measuring cup of coffee, he would sit by a radio tuned to a public station, which offered forms of Classical, Jazz, or Folk music no longer top of mind for fans of popular culture. While listening, he would read a book from his extensive library, or perhaps enjoy a new acquisition found at a thrift store or yard sale. His tastes varied greatly, from theology, to history, to science fiction, so I never knew what to expect. But regardless of the subject matter at hand, this quiet ritual seemed to ease the fatigue which was visible on his face. I reckoned that somehow, the journey of being a son, husband, brother, uncle, parent, grandfather, pastor, and mentor, had sapped him of the inner glow associated with being alive.

 

Only later would I understand that his fatigue was born of action, not weakness. Being busy had given him insight and inner strength. Yet also caused his bones to ache and his body to sometimes seek the comfort of a few moments spent in restful repose.

 

Such thoughts came to mind recently when an esteemed friend spoke about having published a series of books written for children. He confessed taking pride about this status as someone who had their work delivered by a traditional firm, with the skillful assistance of others providing illustrations to accompany the stories, and editing services. Distribution, marketing, and a yield of royalty payments were all handled as part of this contractual agreement. Almost as an afterthought, he included a caveat that this belief in being validated by good fortune was in no way intended as a knock against others who had vended their work through some alternate means. Such as a print-for-hire service, which gives creative producers a range of choices available at an affordable cost.

 

I celebrated this joyful memory with my friend in real time, of course. But later, remembered being singled out for criticism by some in my circle, for using a self-publisher such as Amazon, to create physical copies from my own catalog. These individual naysayers reckoned that because I had not signed a conventional agreement to have my manuscripts placed before the public eye, that it was an admission of illegitimacy. That view seemed to mesh with others who asked a familiar question, if I ever became bold enough to confess being an author of books in general conversations.

 

“ARE YA MAKIN’ ANY MONEY AT THAT, KIDDO?”

 

My one match with a regular printing company had aroused frustration when I saw my items being marketed worldwide, even inexplicably in far-flung venues like the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. While I could not chase them down for figures on what had been earned. I became stymied by this limited success, under contract and bound to accept my predicament.

 

While living in New York State, I learned the French expression, ‘L’art pour l’art.’ Which roughly translates to the idea that art should exist for its own sake. Or as friends around Cornell University used to say, the dedication to ‘Make art for art’s sake.’ Therefore, the belief that somehow any sort of pursuit associated with the craft, be it painting, drawing, designing, acting, writing, or playing music, is simply a commercial exercise diminishes the overall experience. It is a concept rooted in faith, one might observe. A view of humanity founded on our worth as demonstrated by what we may contribute to the greater continuum.

 

Simply getting a regular stipend for hours worked feels too much like punching a time clock, to this writer. But it is of course, no more than a single opinion among many others.

 

When one of my nephews, who is highly educated and bright, made this common observation about ‘real’ volumes being made by a recognized publishing institution, I directed him to consider the book section at our local Dollar Tree. Every title on their shelves had been originally produced by one of those notable firms. And were now being sold for a mere pittance, in the aftermath. I asked if those products, now being dumped for a sum far below their market value, could still be considered valid? He had no answer for this riddle, but refused to budge from the assumption that having a formal contract in place gave validity to an author.

 

While puzzling over this pervasive viewpoint, I thought about other areas of artistry and their unique standards of worth. Were independent filmmakers somehow bastard visionaries? Or bands without their signatures on paperwork with a major label, crippled and insignificant? Perhaps poets and urban performers were also without merit, despite their creative zeal? This argument was easy to make, but more difficult to defend, in hindsight. What standards truly define legitimacy? And in the case of artistic endeavors, what right does anyone have to judge the impact of a specific individual, or their output? If indeed, it is a matter of numbers, then has everyone who missed on being popular with the teeming masses failed in their personal pursuit of glory?

 

The elder member of my bloodline had been able to publish his Biblical work via College Press in Joplin, Missouri. So for him, such wonder over the value of written manuscripts did not exist. But for me, as a veteran of newspapers and magazines, with much enthusiasm over doing my own covers, layout, and editing, the situation was more complex. I liked being in charge, directly. And, the benefits were increased, as a yield of that hands-on approach. Not only in financial terms, but also, as a chance to hone and develop my managerial skills.

 

As a younger man, I could work myself into a tizzy over such perplexing queries. Often, with a headache and sour stomach occurring as my reward. Yet with this current incident of uncertainty arising, I realized that my sire, in yonder days, had found the right solution to having his perceptions challenged.

 

He simply immersed himself in the pleasures of being present and aware.

 

Papa R. D. would pour a mug of coffee, turn on his AM/FM receiver, and find some reading material. From that point in the day, forward, everything else would cease to be a bother. In my own manner, I have adapted that methodology to serve well, at my own household by Lake Erie.

 

Being busy at the desk is all that I crave.