This is Bill Hutton — man, poet, friend. I snapped this photo four years ago, as he stood before his Colorado Springs house covered in an array of odd thrift-shop junk art and crafts. He called it "The Theatre of Mankind." I called it a "kaleidoscope in reverse."
He spent hours outside on most days explaining the glitter to passersby, peppering in bits of ancient history and famous quotes. A sports trophy was "The Holy Grail."
He said a picture of a peacock fashioned of plastic jewels on black velvet reminded him of the explosive chaos at the universe's ethereal beginnings — an event, he claimed, he witnessed in person from a safe distance. He said he met Napoleon (yes, MET), the French emperor, who of course once opined that "imagination rules the world."
A large wooden key on his porch, Hutton told me, could unlock the cosmological eye in us all.
I met Bill during a tough time in his life. He was battling uncompromising city code inspectors who didn't see his house quite the same way he did. I was a reporter for the local weekly newspaper at the time. He came to the office to meet inform me of the impending crackdown at the Theatre of Mankind. When I arrived, he was laying down on a glass table -- flat on his back. He explained that he was levitating. And so he was!
In 1950, one of his short stories, "Real Life," was included in a compilation of prose and poetry among the works of such icons as Henry Miller, Tennessee Williams and Gore Vidal. In those days, Hutton's life arc seemed clear -- he was on the path to a grand literary career and in enviable company. Unfortunately, the Korean War came and he went. Somewhere along the way, and he was never precise about it, he suffered a mental breakdown while working in the medical unit. War is bloody, he said. Some soldiers don't come home. The ones that do must live with the memories, he told me once, recounting his own experience then pointing to a sculpture of General George Washington, slyly changing the subject.
Bill inspired my appreciation of beautiful things I honestly never paid much attention to before -- ornate and bright things like chandeliers, which he referenced in a poem ode to a beautiful woman he knew. He kept writing in the years to come and proudly was self-published Kinkos-sytle (folded 8 1/2 x 11-inch paper and staples). If he ever gave up his typewriter for a computer, I'm certain some of his works would now be online. My hope is that he would have put them here on MightyMercury.com, a site I helped create in 2009 for creative writers and artists. Bill didn't need to be a mainstream published writer to be great. And even if he was accomplished or famous, I wager I could have convinced him to put a poem or maybe a short story or two here -- to share something special with his writerly kinfolk. I earn my scratch as a freelance investigative journalist, but of course, like so many writers, I too aspire to challenge the depths of my soul.
And I love reading and viewing works that come from that honest place.
So the MightyMercury, which will be led by managing editor Zack Kopp, a writer with a master's degree from Vermont College, is a Bill Hutton kind of place. I hope some of the world's more accomplished writers will take a peek at what we're doing and reach out to MightyMercury contributors -- or join themselves. It's a way of linking to the spirit of Bill. Yes, the disadvantage of the Information Age is there's way too much information and so much disconnection (and I miss postcards!). My answer: Let's use it to our advantage -- use it wisely, make it an asset rather than complain about it. The Internet is not going away. And we are now able to publish so many works and share them so much easier than in the past.
As for Hutton, he died in 2005, not long after I'd written several stories about his battle with code inspectors. (Bill won his fight to decorate his house as he saw fit after an attorney who read my articles came to his aid.) The attorney and I were also among those to speak to a large crowd at a memorial on the lawn in front of Bill's house, which was attended by his nephew who lived on the East Coast but enjoyed reading his uncle's lively letters to family over the years.
The firefighters from Station 2 were there, too, sounding a mourning call with their truck's alarm and lights. Only days before his death, some the station's firefighters had presented Bill with a picture of the station's rescuers, helping him to secure it to his house. Take that nasty code inspectors! And, yes, some of those same firefighters responded when Bill fell off a ladder as he attached an odd item to his house.
Bill had had a heart aneurism, which killed him before he hit the ground. I like to think that angels swooped in at that instant, catching his soul, only to find themselves instantly mired in a fascinating conversation. Who knows? Maybe Napoleon even sent a carriage. Only the best for Bill. A much happier ending than infinite darkness.
All the items on Bill's house had to come down in the ensuing weeks because his house was sold. Bill had hoped it would all become some sort of museum, he told me once -- preserved forever. But with a reverse mortgage, that just didn't happen and though I wanted to intervene, I didn't have the resources or know-how (I hope this tribute helps). It was a sad day when a large crowd of friends and fans came for items -- for a piece to recall Bill by. Some people even vaguely remembered rummage they'd sold to Bill, reportedly a hard bargainer.
As for me, I took a small brass sailboat mounted on a round slab of maple. It had sat before a modest painting of a bluegreen sea swirling into a center circle of pure white. It seemed the white was the other side of the chaos and Bill pointed to the scene to illustrate to me that even a modest craft can overcome the most tempestuous sea if the captain has the courage to hear his heart and the hearts of others; if the captain is brave enough to push forward in the face of something awesome. I am the captain of a modest craft -- my life. Bill knew me well.
I regret that I was never able to return to Hutton one of his most treasured books -- "The Cosmological Eye" by Henry Miller, which I had borrowed. He asked me repeatedly to return it, but I kept telling him I had forgotten it. Truth was, I'm a slow reader. I'm now glad I have the book instead of someone else. Miller's book provides a reminder of what you have to let go of to become a serious writer -- to dare tap into that greatness that lies beyond human shortcomings.
I drove by Bill's former house a couple of weeks ago -- around the time of the 4th anniversary of his death. I happened to be in Colorado Springs. I wanted to send a hail-fellow-well-met into the big blue. A cliche, I know. But he was born in British India and raised by Christian missionaries so it seemed proper.
I noticed the cracks in the house paint and holes where the nails Bill used to hang things with were gone. It was bright and so quaint. There were new storm windows, flowers. Perfectly quiet suburban life just going on.
And blandly so, just as code inspectors want.
Then I indulged, for a moment, that it really was the Holy Grail that Hutton had pegged up there: gone, once more concealed by the mists of time.
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May beauty be my mind's Immediate choice.
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