Tuesday, April 22, 2014

The Smell of Poverty

I find that there is something intoxicating about the aroma of poverty.
A quality that hangs in the air after one's departure.
It is not a fetid odor or stench but rather a baked in smell that
brings to mind pots and pans caked with grease, a baked in aroma
that carries with it the living room, the playstation console and
unlit tobacco smoke.

The air of the people whom we call the poor is rich with the
intoxicating flavors of life that covers us like a collective cloak
of invisibility that hides our shame while we aimlessly,
endlessly search for that possession last seen only in a dream
that always vanishes upon waking.

Friday, January 4, 2013

Writing is bad for you.

When did I stop writing things?

My thoughts and feelings throughout the day?

No patience to sit and write them,

No inclination to seize the day.

When did I start being someone

with nothing ever much to say?

With no time to count his blessings,

or lay...

I used to enjoy writing things,

so when did I stop, and Why?

Thursday, May 24, 2012

A letter to Freedom

Dear Freedom,

I woke up this morning on the last day of packing to head back down south. Bloomington has not been altogether unkind to me, but if I had only known that it was my skin color that prevented my peers, my own 'white' peers from accepting me and my art, I would have saved myself a lot of pain and wasted energy. My best friend Eric is coming over later to help me finish painting the house. Once this feverish explosion of energy finally wore off, I was told to separate the last of the items in the three upstairs bedrooms. All that's left are old family pictures of people who are unrecognizably transformed, but thankfully all still living. The Hutchinson family is still alive. I have taken great time and great care in separating what I want to take, and what I want to leave behind. Now the movers, who are working on a deadline are telling me pick out which paintings go to my dad's new house and his new life in Ithaca, New York and which of my paintings go back with me and my Mom to his old life Oak Ridge, TN. What is strange, is that I've finally been able to let go of any preconceived notion of what success is and how it is defined. What is strange, is that I've hit that moment of surrender after the last fervent expenditure of energy that hits young artists who are entering their 30's. I am not afraid of the next wave. I am not afraid of the ones who left me behind. I am not afraid of anything but God now, and I have done my best to earn his Forgiveness. I feel like this is normally the point of a person's life where they look back and decide that to surrender to Destiny is to fail. That the struggle is pointless. I have surrendered to Destiny, but I have not resigned to failure. It is impossible for me to do so. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. I have not committed suicide as many often do, I have not discarded my paintings as many often do. The only thing that I have surrendered is the desperate belief that I too was White. The only thing that I hold onto is the present moment, and the urgency with which I have to abandon this town that has turned so fully against me and flee once more to secluded territory where I can be with my Mom and my Grandma in her twilight years. I have surrendered at last once and for all. But it was not in defeat, it has been in the knowledge that I have already won the battle, my put down my arms, and look over all that I have worked so hard to achieve.

-Spencer Hutchinson
Thursday, May 24, 2012

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

The Prince

The Prince

As the light arises from the sun,
still in the fire of its dawn,
Honor follows its luminous train.
The prince is back in favor.
In its wake, ever follow,
Grace and Victory.
He has all the rebels dancing,
a son per family won over.
They find you talented,
but your luck could quickly change.
A pity.

Favor, reknown and peace.
now all join in the universal chorus.
to celebrate he who
with his divine rays
brings down to earth
Life and Light.

This child.

He is no longer a child,
He is a King.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012


Because a tree can not move
a tree can not defend itself
even though it is very large
a tree has only one duty
to be a tree
a tree can not entertain you
a tree can not tell you what to do
a tree can not take orders
a tree can only be a tree
a tree can only be itself
all the tree has to offer is shade from the sun
if you hurt the tree or take from the tree
no one will say anything
because it's just a tree
a tree is not a person
BUT, the tree can drop a branch on you
for no reason
and then what do you do?
you don't BLAME the tree
the tree didn't do it on purpose
it's just a tree
it makes you think about what you have done
if you did something wrong
perhaps the tree can show you
if you did something right
perhaps the tree can tell you what it is
but you must not hurt the tree
if you have to cut it down
you have to ask it's permission
because the tree is there to help you
and never to harm you.

Friday, November 25, 2011


There are pieces of me all over the world.
All over the country in different places
with different people. The different people
hold these pieces. Some have cherished them,
some have thrown them away. Some don't
know what to do with them, some take them
out and hold them for a little while and put
them away. Some pieces are large, some pieces
are quite small. Some pieces are incredibly
tiny, and it seems at times that pieces of my
heart, my body, my mind, my soul add up
to being more than that which is me, that which
still breathes, and talks.

That makes new friends and leaves more
pieces and doesn't try to catch them as they
fall, but lets them fall like leaves or pine cones
or lets them fly like seed pods and hope that they
land some place safely. And of the me that I am,
and of these pieces which I can no longer claim
in three cites now, I am present. In so many lives
they wonder where I am, where I've gone, why it
seems so appropriate only to see me in passing,
to say hi or just pass on by. As if I still lived there,
as if I were always there among them, my friends,
and what a joy when someone on some day is
carrying a piece of me and they embrace me
and they try to find where exactly the piece they
have came from, and put it back where it belongs
so I can feel it again before letting them take it
back to go on their merry way with yet another
little piece that's all theirs, so that now they may
have two.

And when I come home I am alone again, my
remaining pieces safe, and I can't count how many
there are, and I can't count how many have been
lost, broken, stolen, or given away. But I can
count these people who I call my friends and lovers,
who I still love who are spread out in so many places
who must feel some change int he air pressure
when I come back, who perhaps reach out to touch
me and hope that i have not left yet again.

I am not selfish with myself, and I give my pieces away
freely, but how nice it would be I wonder to have all
of these pieces in one place, not all mine but that belong
to someone else who can count them all, who knows where
all of them belong. Someone, who keeps them all
together, big and small in a cupboard like a glass menagerie
of fragments that all fit together just right, and some how
add up to make another me, a better me, a sweeter me.
And how nice if I could hold their pieces, some one who's
been there the whole time, who knows that their pieces
are safe with me.

And some times, when we come together,
all our places where our missing parts belong fit together
just right, or all of my people in all of my places come to
see me all at one time and put me back together piece by
piece just to see what I would look like.

But you live the life that there is to be lived.
You let more pieces fall away, and perhaps if you think
of it, you can take a picture, or write your name on
a wall that says "I was here once, and a piece of me will
never leave."

The Waiting Game

You've been playing the waiting
game for a very long time. You've lost
track of the hours, the days, the months
and the years that you've been alone,
on your own. Be it a small apartment,
or a rather large house. You see the
happy couples, you see the unhappy
couples, but you see two people
together doing their best to preserve
whatever it is that they refer to as 'love'
and you are so envious of that word
which they say to each other when
no one is listening.

You've developed a habit of occupying the
time you would have spent with another.
You've taken up hobbies,
You've started a career.
You've taken up jogging perhaps,
and weight training maybe, if age permits.

You've taken up painting landscapes on sunday,
or fixing old model trains- and then a song comes
on, and it stops you in your tracks.
You look around-
you and see how empty your house is, the tiny
amount of space taken up by the dog or the cat,
the one place at the table, and the song's sweetness
hits you in the gut, or in the chest, and you feel that
sweetness rise up to your throat as if it were making you sick
and you hasten to change the station, or get away from
the sound, or listen, and let it run its course, let
the sweetness sicken you, and bawl silently
spewing tears. You whine the way a stalled engine
tries to start, and then, you return to you're activities
or go off to work.

Perhaps you think of the lost
opportunities, perhaps you
try to call a friend and they're
busy, perhaps you wonder
how much time you've got
left to play the waiting game,
to play the wanting card, you
think, "lonely hearts are better
than broken ones" and then you

Perhaps it was
only once that you knew it, that
you knew the wait was over,
and suddenly, without warning,
you have the most beautiful
face, you have the most soulful
and seductive voice,
and you move light as air as if
everything around you
was set to the beating of your heart,
and you say 'a lonely heart
is better than a broken one,' and
a winner never quits
simply because they've been left
standing at the altar.

You remember a second, an
instant when the clouds parted
and you were allowed to walk
outside; and the sweet was
sweet and the bitter was bitter
and there was no in between,
and you return to your hobby,
or to your dog and you remember
that the loneliness will be forgotten
again, as it had been in the
past, and you remember the time
you spent waiting before, and
you think not of the loneliness,
but of the accomplishments made in
solitude. Even if they were modest,
or hard for other people to
believe. And you remember those
days when being alone meant
listening to the leaves fall from the
trees, seeing your reflection in
a pane of window-glass
in front of a department
store, and it pleased you
to see that figure of yourself, solitary
and free standing approach a
door where some one else was
waiting to let you come inside.