Talking Head

Learned something new today: I am a talking head. That’s right. I who have spent 25 years writing have been tossed onto the vacuous nincompoop heap, an empty brain with chattering gums, spouting off and doing a little dance for the amusement of others. Pull a chord and watch me go – wheeee! I Am the Talking Head!

It was a casual comment, made by a man who meant nothing by it and who barely knows my name. And perhaps it was just a flip comment in general terms. But it makes me wonder how such a judgment was rendered, and why, when that person knows me only from what others have told him, why those others would attempt injury to my reputation as a knowledgeable person. Sadly, I do not wonder by whom, or for what reason.

But perhaps being classified as such should make me proud. After all, David Byrne is a talking head — I take deep comfort in that. And, really, I am far too ugly and bloated to ever qualify in that group. But if I am, then based on the apparent criteria so is every other expert brave enough to sit under lights, stare into a camera and share his or her knowledge. To me, a Talking Head is told what to say, one of those who gets a script written by others and mouths the words, parroting some anonymous writer’s thoughts and getting paid to do so. I do my own research; write my own stories. I come up with my own ideas, and the opportunity to be a Talking Head comes from writing and studying those things that people want to know more about.

And by the way, it’s not easy – at least, if this really is the definition of a Talking Head.

It’s a bittersweet thing, all in all, to enjoy a moment of victory, to enjoy the result of your labor, yet to be met with silence, evil stares and snide comments. I’m guilty of it too, as are we all, and I suppose that it is just part of life. People are jealous by nature, and when jealous, they do and say things to undermine and betray. The competitive world is full of people who get ahead by making others look bad on purpose, who are not content to allow their own quality to rise and be recognized. I felt it today when I walked through the doors; felt the negative energy, the hate and anger pointed toward me. There are things I do better than others, and there are things they do better than me. For a long time, the realization that this could never just “be” made me sad, and angry too, and I spent many hours thinking about how I could even the score. But I remembered some of the workplace trials my father went through – and they were the same. The jealousy, the maneuvering. The games, and the unquenchable thirst to control the board on which people play out their lives.

That’s what I’m doing. Just playing out my life, and my mandate to provide for my family. When I die, I will not think of the 15 minutes of fame I got on television – I will have forgotten all about it, should I be blessed enough to live a long and happy life. The success I achieve by doing that is a happy byproduct of hard work. I’m not smart, or even very clever. But sometimes I put it all together, and I get to enjoy the results. For those who resent that, I’m sorry, and hope that one day you can be content in your own skin, and leave mine – or someone else’s – alone.