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Blind Carbon Copy - Gator Springs Gazette Editorials

RETROPHILIA

DON'T LOOK BACK
by Blind Carbon Copy

It didn't surprise me none to be asked to write the editorial for an issue based on nostalgia – a bittersweet longing for things, persons or situations of the past; the condition of being homesick; homesickness (from the Greek, nostos, a return home). I suppose, having been around longer than all of the other staff members combined, I am well qualified to speak on the subject. Besides, everyone else around here seems to be more concerned about SPF numbers and where the bass are biting.

You may recall in last month's WHAT'S UPDIKE? issue a reference to the French expression, nostalgie de la boue, defined as, "yearning for the mud; attraction to what is unworthy, crude or degrading." While not all nostalgia is de la boue there is usually a tendency to wallow in it just the same. It would not surprise you, once you got to know me better, that I won't use this opportunity to wallow in my own nostalgic mud. This don't mean I can't indulge in a retrospective moment now and then, but I've learned there's no point in wishing you could go back to some remembered happier time. Sure, there's a place for memories – at the same time raw materials from which we build our future and yardsticks against which we measure the present. If you look behind you to find happiness, you're definitely missing the point. Wishing you could relive the past is a waste of energy. If you want that experience again, bring it into the now, make it part of your future and live longer by sharing it with others in all of the right ways.

Forgive my philosophical wax, but as storytellers, we have a unique opportunity to bring the past, present and future into focus in creative ways. Instead of dwelling on what could have been, you can make it happen for someone else. Instead of worrying about what the future will bring, just get off your metaphorical butts and define one you can embrace. If you must wallow, forget the mud – wallow in the process itself. Wallowing is for the now.

Well, well – what's this? Which idiot left a post-it on my screen? Probably the same idiot who hired a blind copy editor in the first place. Excuse me for a mo.

Hey, Min! Can you read this for me?

Sure, B. It says 'Scrap DON'T LOOK BACK – new title is RETROPHILIA'.

Thanks, babe. Sheesh. You'd think they'd have enough sense to send me an e-mail so I can listen to it – or at least put the post-it where I'm likely to find it.

RETROPHILIA. For the love of Pete! Heh! Guess that would be PETROphilia. Oh, well. I ain't rewriting this. Just read it all – some great stuff here.

Retrophilia. Sounds like a disease.

TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES

DAS LIED DES BLINDEN
by Rainer Maria Rilke (with translation and commentary by Blind Carbon Copy)

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

Ah, the Rainman. He thought he had some insight into the world of the blind when he showed me this poem, wow, how many years ago was that, now? It was part of a series he was doing on those he saw as social outcasts and because this one was written in the voice of a blind man, he asked for my opinion. My German was better then and I did appreciate his striking images and clever wordplay, but I had to tell him the blindness he described resembled his personal point of view more than mine. He was always kind of a gloomy gus, if you know what I mean.

Now, I'm afraid my German is a bit rough – I never studied formally and it has been years since I've heard any, but I remember that afternoon like it was yesterday. We were drinking incredibly strong coffee in delicate little cups while my reader, Friede, who had been translating Goethe for me at the time, sat close by smelling wickedly of apples and cinnamon – I may have been just a little bit distracted.

Translating poetry requires a certain skill set I'm not sure I possess. One must have an understanding of the subtleties and nuances of each language and the result must deliver the same message, yet maintain the poetic standard. It takes a poet to be able to do this effectively and the credit for the translation can be as important as the original work.

I have read several translations of this poem but none translates precisely or acknowledges the inspired imagery and wordplay of the original. The second verse addresses the structure of society against the solitary shrine the blind man has erected around and to himself. The noun Schrein (shrine), chosen for its similarity to the verb schreien (to cry) used later in the verse, has been translated variously as cry, scream and outcry, the words for which are actually Schrei, Geschrei or Aufshrei. I won't get into the other discrepancies.

What I have tried to do, however, is translate the poem the way I understood the Rainman to mean it, based on our discussion that afternoon so many years ago:

translation from the original German

ORPHAN TRAIN

GOOD HOMES WANTED
by Blind Carbon Copy

From 1854 to 1929 a few hundred thousand orphans and homeless children were transported by train to various midwestern towns and cities by the Children's Aid Society of New York. These 'orphan trains' as they came to be known provided an unusual way to provide homes and family life to many children, though certainly some of them fell prey to the same kinds of abuse and exploitation they had come to take for granted in the streets of New York.

Some of these children weren't orphans at all, though I suppose they wouldn't have had as much luck calling them bastard or runaway trains. Some didn't know their natural parents, others escaped from those they knew too well, but they all had first hand experience questioning their own personal worth. Even those who were fully accepted as family members were often taunted by others in the community: You don't belong here, your own parents didn't even want you.

My mother died when I was a baby and my father took his own life when I was twelve. Granny took me in, but even though I knew she loved me, I felt it came from a sense of duty – she never asked to be burdened with a blind child at her age. Being an orphan (or a bastard) can be hard work. If I hadn't come to live with granny, though, I would never have developed my love for reading – even though she died in 1807, I still remember her reading to me from Shakespeare and from her bible.

The contributors of this issue were asked to submit their literary orphans to this train – works which seemed to have lost their way, works which they felt strongly about but which had not been graciously accepted by other editors. Coincidentally, some of the works feature orphans, bastards and variously dysfunctional others. I have taken the liberty of including my own story in this collection as it seems to be a good fit. It first appeared in Tonya Judy's Flush Fiction Magazine, a vehicle once infamous for its willingness to take risks. We were all sad when FFM froze in time, but at least you can still read the old issues – follow the link in GSG's Tasty Links.

I hope you will enjoy taking in each one of these orphans and reading them with care. They need you and you will be all the better for it.

WHERE KITES HAVE BEEN

WKHB IN GATOR SPRINGS
by Blind Carbon Copy

"And that was Kite Dreams, from Seals and Croft, dedicated to all the screamers and dreamers out there."

I know a place where kites have been, where we can laugh and ride the wind.

On a visit with some friends to the beach, I helped their daughter build a kite and tie on the tails. She helped me get it airborne and I still remember the rush of the kite's pull on my arm as it soared upward. It was impossible not to imagine being the kite and wondering how far I could go if I weren't tied to the earth with a string.

Not everyone is capable of riding the wind, metaphorically, or otherwise. In fact, many do not even know how to laugh. But there remain a few who are tuned in to a different frequency, and while they may appear to be earthbound, tethered by those pretending to have their best interests at heart, they somehow manage to see through different eyes.

Children, like that girl on the beach, are born high. Their capacity for magic interpretation is endless, but their souls get heavy as they take on more and more ballast from well-meaning caregivers. At some point, they may loose the ability to dream or even to laugh. Others refuse to grow up or through a twist of circumstance remain oblivious to anything earthbound.

This issue celebrates those moments of special clarity experienced by those who have been WHERE KITES HAVE BEEN.

Quoted lyrics from Seals & Crofts, Kite Dreams from the album THE LONGEST ROAD (lyrics and music by James Seals, Louie Shelton and Brian Whitcomb, 1980)

Blind Carbon Copy - Gator Springs Gazette Editorials

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