I had made an important decision that drizzly December lunch hour, a choice that might have been a major turning point, or one that made me realize I couldn’t trust myself, control molecular mutations that were implanted in my DNA, but were fertilized by the irony of life and made me older, smarter, and a riddle unto my own psyche.
I left the office promptly at 11:45 am and it took the usual 3 minutes to get from my desk to the elevator to the front door and down the dozen stairs to the front green and I swiftly broke right up Maroon Hill two blocks west, slushing hurriedly up to the garden gates, and then made haste past the goat petting zoo.
Temporary images whirled past me as I lost more seconds of my hour and tore down to the Landing, the hillside slanted toward sea level and my spine started to burn as my speed increased, the spring humidity filling my lungs with heavy water and my terror elevated to a state of shocking horror for that which broke so many on the same journey to the ends of the earth, the beginnings of the ends of the furiously confused souls who came before me, live amongst me, and will be as unclean with sense of extreme compound awe, as we run past the calm, self-controlled, the composed egos whose filthy poised smirks made our thoughts race faster than our throbbing hearts as we stole away from the sun and found ourselves caught between the past and the future, between the land and the sky, the true and the false, not by choice, but by the means in which we ran though life with desperation and glory. We were born running, we choked on our conscious intensity, and eventually we realize would all die running.
I just wasn’t sure where I was going, but I had to keep on, or let the world stop and close me in its carriage, the cradles of the casual, the place you stop to take a breath is the last exit on the last highway.
Gravity pulled me down the street and I lunged forward as hard as I could, fearing and seemingly unfearful of the fact that my little heart felt determined to blow up in its madness to pump blood into my pulsating limbs, but also my clear head, falling into the ground, falling before I could get anywhere, falling before I reached the new race, the next step to the next step, the next path that always awoke and stirred my soul.
I stumbled on the gravel and drove forth to the liquid at the end of the Landing, the people and children and dogs and boats were the same day after day with faces of security and familiar sanctuary.
I dove into the shallow water and cried the familiar war cry of the storyteller who finally realized to give up on ever ending a tale. Nothing ever ends anyway.
This Friday evening returned the new page. When you speak in metaphors sometimes you really mean it. You meta-for-real speak to me as though there’s figuratively no one home. And I literally tell you there is no anyone home because I’m out with you. And then I black out the resulting insult that is thrusted and blindly explodes like a fireworks it off like a drunk donkey – meanwhile time runs out as my recovery is almost certain, that leans towards the edge of reason to expect a humanistic response.
You broke through the chain fence into the playground; how would I expect you and I to have less than a good time – but you are finally catching on, and I’m trying to comprehend what the story looks like from another point of view.
Does one ever think that when one approaches the front door to answer it, the casual ritual often prevents us from employing our critical thinking – measuring and inductive reasoning – which may have spared us a new experience and not have ever impacted our conscious subjectivity and embedded an apprehension, or a logic, or a system of your interpretation of that moment forward; and you wake up and decide things and going to be different. Remember, you have options; you have three doors to choose from and millions of pages to reference. You are what you know, that’s what page I am on this evening. I am writing them as quickly as you try to figure out why the hell you are trying to figure out what the hell I am talking about you; you turn to face the same brick wall you built of systems and neurons – you flip the page over and it is blank; so you write… you write as a ritual – and you will not be anxious about the knock at your front because you don’t want to answer it and your writing intensifies.
“Great to see you; you look spectacular.”
I didn’t tell her I had never jumped out of a plane before, or that I didn’t really think it was an activity that I had condemned long ago; in fact I had recently signed a petition to ban parachuting in our county, but I did look spectacular, so fatefully, I returned a smile and looked at her dizzy, unsuspecting gaze, her unawkwardness at my rigid side, she was breathing happily while the little propellor aircraft whipped us about
“What?” I knew she didn’t know that I had heard her.
I held my self perfectly still. I grimaced after a minute of this trying activity. The little plane shook and shivered. When she nodded at me I realized I could use this time to take the opportunity to stop this madness once and for all: My new life of urgent truth had to begin now! The little aircraft dipped frightfully through an air pocket and I began to get the heebie jeebies and slow quakes jolted my arteries. Meanwhile I realized I hadn’t many seconds to begin this new path in life, I had to plot my thesis after I jumped out of a plane, landed and recovered. My hand moved to my side pocket and I compulsively rechecked the presence of my ID and paperwork. The parachuting certificate I handed to the pilot was legitimate after all; the online class was quite expensive and I didn’t cheat. I just lied. Of course, last night at Trick’s Tavern, I realized that I would have told her anything. I needed someone to make me feel interesting, and I suppose that is why I tell so many stories to those I am sure I will never see again and I am beginning to think that is a dangerous self discovery.To make matters worse, I was starting to be concerned about this and other self issued discoveries, and this was a rather bad time to start a rapid decline of self doubt.
“I heard you say you were adopted.”
“True, but please don’t forget what you don’t know.”
“I wish you didn’t listen so much.” Our conversation was confusing. I just started to talk about nothing.
“The sun isn’t going down any quicker. My sundown is high…. Have you ever heard of thought disorder?” I looked up at the ceiling of the airplane and recited the definition from Wikipedia, ” ‘In psychiatry, thought disorder or formal thought disorder is a term used to describe a pattern of disordered language use that is presumed to reflect disordered thinking. It is usually considered a symptom of psychotic mental illness although occasionally appears in other conditions. It is also known as knight’s move thinking referring to the nonlinear way a knight moves in chess.'”
The noise of the engine grew louder.
“I said the noise of the engine is getting loud.”
“Don’t worry, anyway.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“True.” She looked at me but I stared out the window at the gravity.
The pilot’s husky orders startled me but I stood up and waited.
The rollercoaster and the hash brownies experience was cupcake compared to what ever happened next. I have little but flashes of the freefall, I did everything wrong and the ride home was long and my whole heart ached in every part of my body.
When I woke up from my nap that evening, I called her and informed her that I couldn’t see her anymore and had to dedicate myself to a new religion – one that would make me a better self. Then I told her that she made me see that I was a liar and a thief and I thanked her and hung up the phone. Well, I actually didn’t totally hang it up on the cradle; it was crooked and I wonder if she heard me playing the blues on my harmonica for the next two hours. Nothing happened for awhile after that. I memorized the words to Ave Maria and took a shower with my cap on. I drank a beer and waltzed down the street to Mrs. Armstrong’s house, two blocks away.
My piano lesson was louder than ever before that Sunday morning; the expressive and impressive strokes brought my instructor’s maid to tears, I closed my eyes for minutes at a time, hoping to get the liquid to soothe my windburnt eyeballs, and I occasionally pause to flip my bangs off my eyelashes and as awkward as this was, I reminded myself to smile when my teacher would criticize my artistic profile and she would smile and nod at the keys as she told me to pick it up again; but I laid it down even more until my heartache broke and let the sunshine ease in, then I would totally stop and slam my fists down like a defeated classical pianist in a cartoon. Like Schroeder. I went to the window loudly when Ms. _________ had to pick up a long distance phone call, and her cat walked across the keys of the baby grand as traffic groaned down the slushy highway in front of her house. The cat was deaf, I thought while a tickle of a giggle hummed in my throat, and the damn thing had no talent. I wished that Ms. ______ would come back so that she was not speaking to her far-away friend about the crappy student playing crappy impromptu for no apparent reason. But the doorbell rang, the distorted volume of the cheap tone made me shove my hands in my pockets like a guilty thief, and the cat got away from the tune.
“Bobby, go home,” she cupped her hand and she spoke to the door at me, “Go home NOW.”
She reminded me of a dial tone.
I wonder who invented the dial tone. Did that same person name it? Was it named “Dial Tone”? I could probably Google it, but I knew myself too well. I did not care. All I cared about was the free association bullshit which prompted me to relate a tone to a human being.
Today was the day I decided to change my life. I also changed my phone number, got a PO Box, a puppy, and a laptop. I almost added a handgun to that list, but after dry-heaving in the alley next to Paul’s Pawn on 12th and Hell Street, I delayed that purchase for my next life change. I chucked my old cell phone in a dumpster, I admired the lack of contacts I didn’t have on my new one, and I slung my leather laptop case over my shoulder, gave a nice little blind kid two dollars, and strolled through the east side with my new dog in a cage on a Ryder I had bought from a teenager who seemed to be a legitimate salesperson.
Today was the day my life decided to change me.
by Wendy Clark (Hudson)
The weather inside was as bad as it was outside. I found the last of the coffee and set a pot on the stove to brew. I could hear the wind in the windows seeping into the living room and I sat in the old oak rocking chair and waited.
I raised my tired eyes to my dangling bangs. Mom told me to get a hair cut before the funeral but the consequences never crossed my mind. The mirror was behind me, so I stood up and watched myself carefully. I used to trust mirrors until I saw other people’s reflections in them. Everyone trusts that the mirror reflects the image one sees, but not me – not anymore. Episodes of false intent made my heart pulse sickeningly and reminders of the images long gone were not to be tangled.
How can you validate/verify/trust your existence?
First of all, you must admit that you are going mad. Loco. Insane in the membrane. You must shatter that mirror, stomp on your shadow, suck helium from an innocent child’s birthday balloon, where your bra or underwear outside of your clothes, drive your truck from the backseat, eat bugs, smile all the time even though your face hurts and your friends have written you off, read the paper upside down, chant in squeaky one-syllable throaty grunts, declare your royalty to your friends and enemies – you can probably conjure many more extreme monsters than you want to think about.
Shall I stop here?
Consider this story.
(Remember – if you are trying to find yourself, don’t do it here.)
Something was missing.
I untangled the telephone cord from my arm and I watched the distorted reflection of myself in the glass of the China cabinet; my eyes glazed over and my lips curled dryly against my teeth, possibly as an expression of suspicious hesitation. I glared at the mouthpiece of the phone and realized I was nodding my head as if I might be acknowledging the end of all calls – forever and ever, amen. Blinking hard, deliberately, and knowing my lack of focus would be nonexistent if I had slept longer – or gone to bed earlier – or could decide if I was a night person or a morning person – or neither, I instantly changed my mind again. I would never make another clear decision as long as I should live. That was a stupid decision, you are thinking, for a person who, only a few words ago, declared she would never make another decision. Pensive and perplexed, I knew something was missing.
My mom told me that my writing often started with the pronoun “I” and I considered this her way of telling me that I was a narcissist. But I am not.
I may be a narcissist but at least I am writing in first person. Pronouns are nouns of perspective. They also help one to not repeat the nouns they represent. AND writing in second or third person would be ….. nevermind. Wendy is not finished here. Pronouns versus antinouns.
Back to my anti-story.
Something was missing. I slid away from my claustrophobic non-reaction and I started all over again.
Do you remember the day you finally called me back and forgot to tell me how you finally remembered why you forgot the reasons which caused you to forget to call me earlier?
I don’t recall reminding you to rehash your reasons. You were too much to take and I wouldn’t take much more than you had to give because I am forever broken with inhibition. You are too much for me to absorb and too much to take and how much I wouldn’t take than a few more of your giving me that much more passion of the lack of what I didn’t miss in on the out.
This ain’t no story. This ain’t no goddamn coffee house. This ain’t you and it ain’t me.
This is not your favorite summer. The smile of the patio furniture and the unbending smirk of the tattered lawn chair reminds you of the birth of your words, echoed in silence and magnified by the PTSD you will never recover from because your mind reminds you of how close pre-traumatic stress is blazing through the drawn curtains of your shaken heart and jittery pulses of neuotic blood pumps normally but your synapses won’t let you interfere. But you paid a lot of soul cash for these moments – you wouldn’t change a thing anyway (would you? could you?); your life is about to begin – any second now – you can feel it…
The air suspiciously reeks of cherry wheat ale and fresh factory plastic; winter is far away and so are you. Like every sunrise you slept through. Like each bad habit you enjoyed. Like me.
The time arrived again. You vill sit and you vill enjoy it.
You will mind your manners just like I told you.
You can’t seem to get out of your head, even though we told you, “There’s nothing to worry about.” Or when we said, “Relax, just calm down.” Or your favorite, “Don’t worry. You worry to much. You need to stop that.”
You wonder why you didn’t tell them the truth. Your truth is that this is not your favorite summer. You aren’t worried about anything and no one gets it because they are not aware that their wise words will change you. If one more person tells you that you’ve got to stop worrying, you may not be able to explain to them why because they are ignorant and self-righteous – they are not not not trying to help you – they are saying those words that make you want to die because you are anxious and you live with it every day and every moment you pray to be calm (even for ONE day), but you nod and hope you will die because you can’t survive surrounded by fear. “Don’t worry,” and you say in return, “OH! I will stop worrying right now! Good idea, fcuk-face! I forgot that I could just turn off chronic anxiety disorder! Silly me!” Of course, then your heart would palputate terminally. That will teach those calm assholes.
Your friends didn’t call, text, email, didn’t leave you a message in a bottle, didn’t meet you by the rocky beach. Seismic waves.
No smoke came from the chimney.
This is not your perfect weather. Please hold your breath as the thermal nuclear radiator opens its doors.
Um. It really depends on whether there is a change in the weather. Take a seat. You are brilliant, except today. Today your brilliance has been replaced by radiance.
Every word (sound) is a vibration, every vibration controls and sustains the universe.
Below has nothing to do with the unfinished entry above.
Readers: The article/sales pitch below is __________ and more infuriating than _________ and this dude must be __________ and ____________. Please read it and send me your reactions/responses. I found this site to be as hilarious as it is insulting to semi-educated people everywhere.
Unless it works. If so let me know and burn me a copy. Hehehehe.
Good night, moon….
The article below is from this site: http://www.hypnosisdownloads.com
Overcome the Fear of Going Mad
Going crazy, insane, mad, nuts, losing it and going loco. There are many ways to express what happens to the human mind when it is stressed. But we often talk about madness or craziness when we really mean just stressed out. True madness is something else. And fear of madness or going crazy happens often when people just don’t truly understand what true madness is and how much they can do for themselves to feel better and more sane.
Fear of going mad can be terrifying. Having a sense of control is so important and people everywhere fear ‘losing it’ and going mad. We all behave irrationally sometimes but when we start to feel overwhelmed it’s easy to fear going mad or ‘crazy.’
It’s important to know that just about everyone has seriously thought they were going mad at some time or another.
Maybe there is someone in your family who had emotional difficulties and you fear that it will happen to you just because it happened to them. Having emotional problems isn’t the same as ‘being mad’.
What does ‘mad’ mean?
Madness means ‘psychotic’ which is a disorder in which people hallucinate visual images or sounds or even smells. During proper psychosis the contents which originate from within the mind seem to originate from outside of the mind to the point at which the person experiencing the psychosis really believes that images and sounds produced by their imaginations are actually produced by the environment. We all experience this when we dream at night-we believe that our dreams are real when we are dreaming them. The psychotic person dreams whilst awake and believes these ‘dreams’ or hallucinations to be real.
In fact the human brain is designed to simulate reality and make imagination seem real. During dreaming your brain simulates images, sounds and other sensations. It does this in a controlled way. So dreaming is controlled ‘reality simulation’ and psychosis is uncontrolled reality simulation. In order for psychosis (madness) to be happening you’d need to believe that hallucinations weren’t hallucinations but in fact real.
This happens in an uncontrolled way during waking consciousness it is seen as madness if the person believes the hallucinations to be real and starts to act on them.
People can hallucinate without being crazy.
We might describe someone as ‘mad’ or ‘crazy’ because they experience strong anger or anxiety and, indeed, any strong emotion makes us irrational but this is not the same as madness.
Of the 1% of the population who do ‘go mad’ (have a psychotic episode) many of them will go on to live normal healthy lives having just had the one ‘break down’ so even people who do experience ‘madness’ at some point don’t necessarily become mad forever. They move on from it.
We all have needs in life which, when they are fulfilled, make us feel more normal and ‘sane.’ This session will describe some of those needs so you can begin to see what you really need to feel better and more settled in your own mind.
Strong emotions make us irrational
Being irrational is caused by strong emotions – this isn’t madness just irrationality and confusion brought on by strong emotion. When the emotion calms down the rationality comes back.
There are things you can do to make you feel more ‘sane’ one of which is to calm the emotional part of the mind down by regular and deep relaxation and comfort.
This session will help you relax so deeply which is a wonderful way of calming the emotional mind. It will reassure you that you can have control and that your mind has a very clear center to it that can look after your best interests.
Download Overcome Fear of Going Crazy and regain confidence in your own mind.
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I honestly do not know what the big deal is. I mean, how many times have you asked yourself, “What’s the big deal, anyway?” You ask me and I shrug and think out loud but I don’t think that is a big deal. I don’t even know what constitutes a item or idea to be given the attribute “big deal.”
The little clock on my computer tells me that five am is about to roll over me. It occurs to me that this is when I feel bad for staying up all night because I may “waste the day.” That is a big deal. Wake me up when the big deals are not so big anymore. Maybe realize that I take big deals from the big deal-makers; maybe I deal with average deals – the ones which you can make really big (or small) but you chose to play along with no one, mainly because your mind makes decisions with out you A LOT and you better just cool it and let your mind do the thinking.
Briefly leave a detailed message at the sound of the tone so that I may email you my thoughts in bullets style phrases according to importance and purpose. Or you may try me on my other cell phone which is this same number but you will not get me live on the other end because I don’t have time to talk to you without going into great detail and I would like to spare myself the embarrassment of confessing my vulnerabilities unless I really thought you gave a fuck. And perhaps you are listening, and maybe it is worth it to reach out to you because I may obtain due enlightenment and I may just open my mind and the door of my heart will creak ajar, but I don’t have the time to risk my psychological puzzles on the chance that they are just riddles – not to be solved.
If we love by letting go… how do we learn to hate?
I read Dr. Scott Peck with a grain of sea salt and a mind open to the wisdom of those who love so much that they will actually write and teach and care enough to be someone who truly tries to touch random people across miles and generations, and I understand his philosophies and I grow and watch myself extend my boundaries and make choices based on love and I am the poster-child for redemption, but I struggle with loving by letting go… generally, I guess, but specifically… I can’t seem to ever let go of what I love…