Monthly Archives: December, 2011

WCB rides twice 2/1 and 2/15

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Tequila Mockingbird

http://ratholeradio.org/2010/12/ep42/

Tequila Mockingbird
Thanks for the support @MethodDan @RatholeRadio and for spinning our new song “Blue” – Check it! http://ratholeradio.org/2010/12/ep42/

Rathole Radio 42 – 26th Dec 10 | RatholeRadio.org
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January 27 at 12:05pm · Like · · Share · Promote

Another Time, Another Place*

*Another Time, Another Place*
By Wendy Clark

“If there was an answer, he’d find it there.” My father was a man of few
words, ambiguous and insinuating, of metaphysical poetic statements that
were never open for discussion.

But I suspected my father thought I had the right answers; mostly, I was
only offered broken questions.

I suspected my father knew, as did I; nothing would ever be the same.

I was often suspicious during those wild childhood days; without a doubt,
that suspiciousness had a direct psychological connection: frequently,
when trouble surfaced, I consistently proved myself to be a suspect.

No one had to tell us where we were headed, because there was no one else anymore, anyway. My brother sat next to me and never spoke as we all
watched the present transform into this future we were living in – fading
sunlight, golden against the spinning clouds, our little boxcar clicking
consistently over the tracks; moments suspended into a timeless sensation that roused
a sense of apathetic optimism – while we chased the sun as it plummeted
into the vague horizon; the dark would be upon us soon; we just had to stay on
the right track.

I had fallen outside myself that evening; my wandering mind guided my
eyes to trace the image of my epitaph on the beautiful canvas of the cloudy
sky.

Whispering my last rites, I abruptly stumbled over my words when I was
nearly finished, because I could not, for the love of Pete, recall my own
name! I theorized that I existed somehow; slightly, I knew I was thinking and slightly I was amused; I wanted to speak to my companions, just to verify that I was concrete in this abstract story. I weighed my
conversational options, and but rather wanting to explain to them my
philosophical meanderings – that not everything in life had meaning or
sense to it; life was a mere dream: got to “row, row, row your boat gently,”
and my mind went to another place, another time. I was lost in the chaos of
nothing to lose but my mind yet genuinely as well surprised that I could
sit and handle the sail of our boxcar so coolly.

Out of left field, my grandmother turned to me and inquired, “What is
going
to be there?”

I repeated her question back to her, but slowly and in the form of a
sentence, not a question. I didn’t look at her for a while. I wasn’t sure
if
she was messing with me. As smart as I was, I knew that she knew she was
smarter. I was quiet.

She waited, though, and I finally angled an eyebrow in her direction –
suspiciously – and we locked vacant stares.

I sighed, and finally responded, “Nothing is going to be there until you
have found some good in something, I guess, amidst all the nothing
good.…..
the light, maybe,” I paused because I wasn’t finding the words that
connected to build that symbolism, then I wandered back to her eyes,
“sometimes, if you let yourself go, completely and profoundly, you can
find
some sort of meaning, grandma; the light may only be there – in how you
look
at it just right.”

“Then what happens?”

I shrugged and replied, “Well, maybe we will know when we get there.”

“No plot?” She blinked hard. “That’s not a plot.”

“You see,” I said, “if you don’t have a plot, you can make your own way.”

She softened her gaze and turned to face the distance and beautiful
elasticity before us, surreal as the steamy splashes of the bluest water
on
either side of our car.

“Good story,” she whispered. She smiled at the last of the day. I
proceeded
silently into the night toward a destination unknown.

I was a writer.

I made the story as I went along. I was recharged – my mind was mad with the infinite spectacular phenomenon which engaged my beingness, a gleam in my young eyes, I was on my way there.

by wendy clark hudson

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Benediction baby

The days are dark the nights unkind
And no one is my valentine
And here I am and I’m not fine
And you are were never even mine

I was talking to you today
And you weren’t there
But I forgot what I was going to say

I was listening anyway
And you weren’t there
The fuckin holidays are all the same

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Marketing -101

How to market to dull audiences.

No really, the internet has taken a turn for the worse this past quarter, the trend seems to be a direct impact of the current industry trends, notwithstanding the holidays, most of which are recognized as days to target as potential customers. Unless the market is smart and dull as all the humanity. They are those kids you totally understood what someone meant when you said, “So, like, what’s the deal with that guy?” to your mutual friend or roommate and your mutual friend said, “Oh, Pat is an engineer major,” and you knew from experience and campus legendary stories passed on as fact that engineers were recluses and had to be targeted as such.

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