New Eyes of Old: Inside the Mind of TL Hutton

"I think I need the demons in order to write, but the demons have gone. It bothers me a lot. I’ve tried and tried, but I just can’t seem to find a melody.”

– Brian Wilson; Co-Founder of the Beach Boys

This is a peculiar quote, considering its origin. Especially coming from myself, I know. Who would have thought that the die-hard advocate of heavy metal was familiar with the lighter side of music? Interesting is it not, the things you can you learn about a person once they topple those walls they’d constructed around themselves. That, and I’m so out-of-tune with music these days I couldn’t tell you what I do or do not like. My musical preferences aside, it is a quote that has been roiling around within my mind like a tempest as of late, clawing, gnashing, and tearing away at those vestiges of anima humana deep below the layers of flesh, blood, and bone.

On that same note, I can surmise that in years now long buried beneath the dirty desert grit many of you had come to expect nothing less from me in my abstracted Melpomene musings of life and death, right and wrong, the world and the universe, crime and punishment, Heaven and Hell, so on and so forth. There is a poignant truth – grim as such may be – to be gleaned from Mr. Wilson’s words, however. And – at my potential incrimination of sounding not only arrogant but fucking loco (the former of which I am not and the latter of which I may very well be) – I know this truth on a far more intimate level than most.

At present it is my favorite time of the day: Those coldest, darkest of hours just before dawn.

Not so long-ago society was so primitive in its thoughts and beliefs (I suspect modern society has not progressed much more in its mentality – ironic isn’t it, how progression, more oft than not, results in regression – just different ghosts for different times) that this hour was considered the last of the “Witching Hour.” There were no Catholic Services nor Prayers marked by Canonical hours between 4 and 5 AM, thus demonios, fantasmas y brujas were believed more powerful at this hour, freely roaming the land of the living, and cajoling those unpure to eternal damnation.

Or worse.

Awakened by a reoccurring nightmare from past weeks, I am sitting in my yard swing writing this. An abnormally cool breeze washes over the southwestern declivity of the Ozark Plateau from the north, its icy tongue lapping, rustling the surrounding foliage and proffering the flesh a shiver or two despite the underlying molasses-like humidity. A post-joint Pall Mall burning in one hand, fresh ground and brewed cup of wake-the-fuck-up Chiapas café steaming on the patio table beside me, I find myself fighting not with demons, ghosts, and witches as I once would, but rather, mourning their absence.

In years that are now nothing more than the wispy gossamer of a fading dream many of you came to know my demons.

I am very blunt and forward in this respect and have always stood tall and firm as the mighty Saguaro in my conviction that such could never hinder me in any endeavor unless I granted them the power to do so; most are public knowledge and shall haunt me far worse than any demonio could for the remainder of my days so why the hell reserve my candor in regard to such?

Every person on this tiny rock we call Earth has one demon or another they try their damnedest to keep manacled and fettered away within its respected closet. And –

- well, you are full of shit if you attempt to contend otherwise.

I have always been more open about mine than most are. I find it easier to live in relative harmony with them that way. For the most part that is.

A great many of my demons you do not know, however…

In years now long forgotten, most of you came to know my opinionated, borderline anti-government, somewhat bitter, always a smartass, if not arrogant, prouder of his Mexicano y Cherokee heritage than his American nationality, “Veo gente muerta” protagonist, Thaddeus L. White and the Darkness Writhing Mythos. Either with adamant pleasure or sheer disgust – perhaps some Hell-spawned bastard offspring of the two? - and support, might I add?

And I know why that is - Ahhhh…here’s that arrogance and ego again! - I retain a keen understanding of both the human and inhuman condition. I have always written in a manner that reflects real life, a manner that looks familiar to humans. And in life, well, reoccurring themes are just that – a reoccurring theme. As humans, we never quite conquer a certain addiction or a pet vice, a relationship pattern, or a communication habit.

We are haunted by our particular demons.

Some - well, some are just greater than others.

I have always been a firm believer in the therapeutic benefits to be reaped from the creative process and writing.And if I could be open, honest, and real about my demons in my writing then perhaps I could understand them more and refrain from succumbing to their malfeasance as easily.

Thad’s demons were always my demons. Such was the method to my madness to live in relative harmony with them. A great many were very real. Others, grossly glorified and fabricated, entertainment value and nothing more. Well, to an extent that is: a certain fictional integrity must always be maintained to protect the innocent - and to avoid lawsuits!

But where is that fine line between fact and fiction, truth, and fabrication? Especially in this Cyberdine Systems Skynet world of AI and misinformation we find ourselves in today.

All fiction – no matter how far-fucking-fetched such might be – retains some element of truth within its narrative. My work is no different. And never has it been. Either you, Dear Reader, will discern that truth or you will dismiss it as the fantastical, the unbelievable, the maniacal rantings and ravings of a perturbed individual who perhaps should be locked away in a rubber room to dance the Thorazine Shuffle.

That is all fine and fucking dandy; it is your prerogative to infer such however you please. It is neither my place to judge nor attempt to convince you otherwise; I am but the storyteller – it is up to you to draw your own conclusion from my work.

And the truth – the truth is sometimes harder to swallow, let alone digest, than even the most unbelievable of fiction.

ALL fiction retains some element of the truth within its narrative. It may be a minute iota of the truth, just enough to lend credence and validity to the overall story, or it may be such an overwhelming amount of the truth that it renders itself obsolete, a grammatical implosion of self-destruction.

Regardless, the truth is there to one degree or another.

To quote Edgar Allen Poe: “Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.”

Over a decade of sand has plummeted through Padre Tiempo hourglass since I have written any piece of substance or value.

Such is an agony that I – el escritor – am at a loss for words to describe. For an artist to lose one's Muse, one's Demonios, is an agony far worse than death. And there is no painstakingly-penned prose, no visually enthralling painting, no soul-moving auditory composition that can convey its torments – mentally, emotionally, vocationally, socially, spiritually, and at those darkest of times, mortally.

Thirteen years ago, as a result of certain mitigating circumstances – in those days of seemingly eternal youth spent galivanting and philandering all over the globe (I was quite the chico malo, as I am certain those of you who know me recall) – I decided to kill off Thaddeus White, lay the Darkness to rest, interred beneath those bloody sands of time forever. The last image I left you with of him was an abundant helping of Pâté de Cerebrum served in a warmed Au Jus de Sangre from a self-inflicted gunshot to the head in a shithole roach motel room.

I still remember the onslaught of emails, texts, and calls I had received about such. – hundreds the world over from friends, readers, and publishers. A great many over the years had wanted the Mythos, and I had been there, done that, had that check in hand, that contract signed, and well…it is not about the money. Granted I had never returned one of those checks uncashed but that is the WRONG reason to write. That is another story, however.

“What the FUCK? You KILLED Thad!? Why?” most inquired. “You have ruined all other books for me,” others vied, employing pathos. I always found the latter most peculiar as I have never written a book or novel, merely short stories, and novellas. And I never truly pursued it in any great vocational or professional respect.

Such queries were easy enough to answer: It was time to set my Demons free.

There comes a time in every man’s life when, as the result of an onslaught of unforeseen circumstances, he begins to question his position, his value, his very purpose – and he surrenders, too beaten and battered to continue the fight. Call it a midlife crisis, depression, call it a mental breakdown, hopelessness, call it whatever the fuck you will, that time always rolls in like a hoar engulfing the shoals. Silent, potentially deadly, always destructive at the least.

But then on some selfless subconscious level of civic duty, perhaps such was my resignment to prevent certain skeletons from clambering out of their respective closets and making a feast of your brains.

It has been years since I have produced any work of significance or value, and just as much sand has plummeted through the hourglass since I had attempted to do so.

There were a few times that I had put forth grueling, if not futile, efforts to resurrect some of those old unfinished Mythos. Yet nothing proved productive nor self-gratifying. The words refused to flow like the creative magma they once were. The images, the scenes, abated playing out in my mind’s eye like that of a movie. The dialogue was indiscernible, no longer heard clearly in my mind as if my characters were sitting right there conversing with me. The plot unclear, obscured, and broken. The characters were appallingly vague and one-dimensional.

I had produced far more professional work in the 3rd Grade for Fuck’s sake!

Despite being the fighter I have always prided myself on being, I again admitted defeat. Resigned in the appalling fact that I had set my demons free years ago and they were not coming back. I mourned my loss that I would never be the escritor I had once been, that I had lost the one thing that had always defined me more than any other.

Nothing lasts forever, right?

Interesting, is it not, the thought process of an artist?

All artists – writers, composers, painters, photographers – are obsessional. And I am no different. Then there are those select few of us who (again, at my potential incrimination of sounding arrogant and egotistical) have marketable obsessions. There are madmen and madwomen confined to padded cells the world over who are not so lucky. And in our obsessions, we are also blinded, so enthralled by our idea that we fail to see its futility. It makes us selfish, unable to let go of the idea much in the same respect most people are unable to let go of the past or see the truth for what it really is. Such as I had failed to see that I was attempting to resurrect dead stories. Trying to force the demons I had exorcised so many years prior to come back in, writing the wrong story for the wrong reasons, and –

- well, Hell, it just does not work that way.

Sometimes there is a new story that needs to be told. A new truth that needs to be revealed. Old demons that have never been seen before who claw their way to the surface, showing their horrid faces in the light of day. Not all demons skulk about the shadows of the twilight in search of souls to devour. A great many treads among us in broad daylight, shit-eating grins stretching their faces as they follow us around in our daily lives, merely awaiting the opportune moment to pounce. Just as the man-eating lion stalking the village, maw salivating at the prospect of indulging the sweet coppery tang of sanguine flesh.

A few months ago I was awakened by a nightmare - the same which has rousted me this morn as well, its once sparse cameo appearances taking on more permanent roles in past weeks - its Dantean milieu so vivid in my mind’s eye it was as if my sad browns had actually taken in that phantasmagoric vista, the musty scents of decomposing earth still dancing nauseating gavottes about my nostrils, raping my olfactory nerves, the pale gossamer of a hauntingly familiar yet unknown face staring back up at me from the depths of its Terran sepulcher…

It is a nightmare I know all too well. One which has haunted both my waking and sleeping state for most of my childhood and adult life.

It is the fact behind the fiction. The nightmare that birthed the Darkness Writhing Mythos, yet it is a version of the Mythos I have never once consciously humored telling any soul, living or dead.

Not aloud nor in fleeting whispers.

The demon with the shit-eating grin that I have kept so quietly tucked away that I had forgotten about it.

ALL fiction – no matter how far-fucking-fetched – has some element of the truth woven into its narrative. And there is far more truth to my work than most of you would care to humor.

Remember those demons I told you about? Those who tread amongst us in broad daylight, shit-eating grins stretching their faces as they await the opportune moment to pounce. The nasty lil fuckers who wait until that last moment, jump out of the shadows like a shady salesman from some 1930s Film Noir, all dapper with his slicked back hair and a cheap polyester suit, that shit-eating grin stretching his face as he cajoles “Hey! I’ve been watching you for a long time now and have I got an offer for you!” and then kicks you square in the dick. He insists, crouched low to whisper in your ear, the reek of decay washing over the nape of your neck in hot breaths as the words roll off his lips, that “I can stop the pain, make it all go away. All you have to do is sign riiiiiight here…”

Those are the real ones. The unseen ones. The ones who never leave us, that no Priest retains the Canonical gumption to exorcise, no drug can completely numb us to, no amount of alcohol can drown, the wounds deep below those layers of flesh, blood, and bone that never truly heal, just scab over. The demons we do not allow anyone to see, the facts we don’t want to admit, the truth we refuse to believe.

So here I sit, my umpteenth refill on freshly ground Chiapas café steaming on the patio table beside me, another Bubba Fett pre-roll coming soon I am certain. Sol’s molten eye has begun to rise in its pendulum’s arc, a pewter-yellow orb of pagan rage casting its searing gaze out across the Kickapoo Prairie and Ozark Plateau, negating the cool breeze, forcing the twilight and all its creepy-crawly denizens that go BUMP! in the night to relinquish their dominion over the world.

I sit writing this, pondering if these new demons of old are demons I want to introduce to the world? Do I refuse to tell their stories, or do I embrace them with open arms, release them from their respective closets, and allow them to make a feast of your brains?

As a writer, I do hold the moral obligation within my hands to share my gift with the world and I suspect such is my motive in writing and sharing this with you, Dear Reader: it is not my decision to make, but yours, those of you who are familiar with my work…mis demonios.

Springfield, MO

March 25, 2025

Untitled by Noura Alsaid Iraq