Yer Semi-Weekly Blarg (warning: steep deep end)

Yesterday. All my troubles seemed — to be taken out on stage by the happiness of my love for writing, revising, rehearsing, and executing musical compositions. With my friends. For a superb audience.

I am grateful for my band mates and friends and family and fans who joined us for my 23rd year of playing at the Capitol Hill People’s Fair. Too many people in my life have passed on and I remember them being there for me for so many years, so many shows, good and sometimes *not so good* and absurd, bizarre, impossible to explain memories. I remember almost every show I have played, when and where, with whom, and the experiences and the people who have come, gone, stayed, and the ones who aren’t here anymore to laugh and play with us. We work hard, sometimes I may be obsessively diligent and proud of working 60 hour weeks — but that’s what I think keeps me rollin’ along. I love my life because I can write it out and play it for you in less than five minutes. And I love my band. And I love the friends who are kind enough to keep coming back and motivating me to be as good as I can be at this game of musical wars that it tends to be — but I don’t let it get to me — I won’t see someone as or let them be more important than anyone else because they have the power to make or break you on the scene. Of course it’s healthy to be competitive, but we aren’t competing. We aren’t judging or criticizing. We are still playing music that we composed and not in this for the money (although we don’t turn it down) and hell, we are not going away as long as we still are being asked to show up. No apologies. I speak for myself and the kids in the band when I say we wouldn’t do this if we didn’t have the balance and ability and joy to play well with others. Enjoy what you gots. You can have it all and set your standards however you like. You can do what you say you are going to do -and- carry through. No one is better than anyone else or has the right to take away what you love in life — not with their words, actions and behavior, or their demeanor.

I have to be grateful for those who have destroyed me as much as I am grateful for those who have mended me.

I have written this statement once before and I have to think to myself that maybe it is more significant than ever.

Saving a person’s life when he is seconds away from stepping off that ledge was not part of the plan. A few years ago, saving a life was important to me until this turned on me as something that was my fault; I knew this was clearly not the case — I was so glad I was there at the right time and place to prevent this — but I was no hero to the people who I loved. I learned what it was to be the anti-hero more than I ever believed possible.  But no no no, I can cleanly admit that I learned that I was a hero, damn it, and to let go of the ones who made an effort to destroy me from that moment in time that I walked into a bad situation, to the phone call I made for help. (Note: Call 911 when someone tries to commit suicide because he or she will certainly try to do it again, sometimes that same day.) The strangeness of thinking — that seconds later, I would have found this person dead and maybe I would never recover from the guilt of not showing up in time, shadowed the years of the disrespect and evil that plagued me because I got in his way of getting out the easy way — and retaliation takes on a wretched anguished ghost who is always there to let you know, “Hey, dude. You are going to hell for getting in the way of destiny,” and shreds pieces of your life and limited time on the planet in order to carry on and live well, and then what happens:

Your life changes you; you change your life.

I’m not dwelling on the reasons I have been destroyed. When I was in those moments, it was difficult to avoid the sick feeling of reflecting for and with no reason, and empty hopes and pure loathing of self, but yes: I am out of there now. I have been for awhile. But I’m better than that — I am fucking lucky that I saved his life and so are the people who weren’t so sure. Those people will never know how to thank me, yet I thank them for teaching me who I am and being myself and happy about it all. Their hostility is common and I know to let it go when I see it. You can have it. Keep it; I can’t sail that ship, I will swim back to shore, please send me my mail and keep the rest of my stuff, or give it to someone else. I don’t want you to give me another gigantic piece of anything- tangible or intangible – that it takes every last drop of sweat to mend for myself so I don’t end up on the wrong side of the rope (so to speak).

Right now, the circumstances are trying to break me again but have not done so. Right now, I am mending and letting it go. Right now, I have myself to rely on — no one else should have to help me — and although the damage is done, I am not finished and I need some letting go. I will be on the other side of this situation and then I can bury it. And write about it.

Saving a life and saving yourself are both similar and equally dangerous. But I get to try to meliorate and rehabilitate myself and spare myself the long ride on the wave of mental erosion and psychopathic entities who betray in the most unfathomable manner, and who hate and break and enjoy it. Watching you struggle is what they need to be happy.


I’m grateful anyway. I never promised you a rose garden. I’m not the sharpest pencil in the pack. I’m not unhappy either.

I know who I am. I’m grateful for that and for losing so much that I never really had – and being a rock star for getting back up, dusting myself off, tipping my hat and exiting the theatre rather than the sharpening the stick and returning with the blackness of hatred I was meandering through too long. I sharpen the stick to make a point; the point of it all is how you find your way back to the shore, back to the mountain after a cliffhanger, back to music after the silence stops making so much noise.

You are allowed to be happy and to laugh despite yourself.

Today is the first day of the rest of your series of other first days of your life. 

Please keep off the grass and don’t feed the dog and don’t stay with someone who makes you truly feel bad about yourself.

You should be playing anyway. That’s what I would do.

Credits: Thank you for the media Michael Kuhl.










Your Semi-Daily/Weekly Bog

The Beanstalk.

Then came the Beanstalkers…

Now that I have decided not to participate in the mischief which bounces beneath me and breathes down my back, the lucky day bursts its bountiful fountains of the purest, warmest light within and around me; my love of life and the depth of my own fragile yet enormous temple of true faith is surrounded in that song of the magnificence of being; the most transcendent revolution of self becomes real.

Now that I have decided to burn the barriers of self-conscious self-doubt and self-betrayal, I decide to run into the living room wall as fast as I can and with full knowledge of the eight feet I have to build momentum. And although the pain is quite a bit more intolerable than I would have expected, not only because I thought a small jaunt of machosim might just fix or trick my mischievious mind redirect the synapses to bigger and better ailments, my expectations are always higher than I could ever reach, and if there was a beanstalk and I caught sight of it, hell yes, I would be stacking phone books to get to those branches and know I was in for something new and cool, whether it broke my heart or set me on a path to heavenly starlight roller-rink, life is all about beanstalks, bruises, and broken branches.

Now that I have decided not to learn any lessons, I will sing you a song about it.
Now that you have decided not to give me any reasons, I will seek them forever.
Now that I have decided not to participate, I have missed the point, I have not given any reason, I have rolled the dice, played the game, and walked away.
Now tell me—you know the stories of the games, you know all the contenders – now are you going to be the dealer or are you going to be the player?
Now blow some bubbles in the wind and sigh happily in the sunny sunshiney super nothing of your immediate detachmentality…. why? Becuse you are no longer a contender.

“Deal me in.”image

Showing Up

The scuba shop was about to close and I couldn’t parallel park my
step-dad’s Rolls, so I had to switch up to strategic thinking in
overdrive. My cell was twitching in my pocket;  I tossed it out the window: no regret. That next minute I was in a parking spot and later I found that I locked the keys inside in addition to leaving them in the ignition and thus leaving the engine on, and even better,
I guess I overlooked the parking break. This combination of mistakes
made me slightly certain that this was not going forward.

Breaking down the barriers of what is absolutely absurd
in the last possible shocking sketches of the impacts of the sentence(s)
spoken, written, or delivered,

education is obviously an enormous influence

so as i sit here, not at my PC but at my life

which must release this laptop from it’s own demons
i remain in a continuous state
aside from some laps of hysteria (euphoric happy behavior [EHB) and unrequited love and delusional regret

i have been squinting at the results of a genetic portrayal that of which has been bothering me enormously as of late.
i do not like to be angry with myself.

i pulse in my own presence; i am  outraged and rigid from the muscles of my ass through the infrastructure of my brain synapses and the risidual effects of their miscalculated commands from some solitary elitest-like osingle-celled assholes who could not find the right neuron to bling on, and therefore, i shall seek solace in the arms of my perception: “Sure, dude. I’m cool.”

– oh, let’s see here… – the most useless meanderings in my misfiring molecular structure:
the little gene 5 card which simply was mutated (velocity and temperature and depth times your mom and divided by the percent of speed of your dad – just as an example) can really fuck a person up.

Go ahead. Look it up. I dare you.

and love for the respect of your own education, perception and experience, etiquette and manners will comfort you while you sketch your sentences, stories and paragraphs; but yes, also may give your present company an idea of who you portray and may determine barriers which see worth breaking, bending, or leaving the hell alone as a roll of the eyes permits.

“unbroken non-influences”

be specific and be careful
who do you think you are, anyway
answers are only consumed by those
who are bewildered
and want to find
nore questions
within every answer

What do YOU THINK it takes to say goodbye?”

Well, all you gotta do is
Open up your eyes
Don’t fall
for that shit again

Notice a mahogany scent, pleasant and pleasing, and I remind myself to
assert my energy forth behind the shades of the autumn semi-sunlight.
The evening falls and twilight breaks even, dealing me that ambiguous
forgetfulness of my inadvertent existence; how often the blur of
fantasy and judgment of my own character ultimately punctures all

I am and I shall be a page torn out of a wordless textbook, unstudied
by the least unfortunate, avoided by the flying electric eels in your
moat, beyond the sweet smelling vineyards you dwell so far away.

I haunt you.

Yes, you finally say to me, you are haunting.
)But this is not one of those times.)

If we are to maintain hope in the wake of our individual personal and
philosophic crises, perhaps we must consider the fortresses of
conscious choice that we build to protect ourselves from hopelessness
may need to be surrendered. Every belief holds a mystery and devotion,
but deliverance from faith is simplicity and creative surrender.

Hope and desire are self-preserving energies which protect us; we long
for something to heal us in the darkness of our self-deprecation and
the burdens of hopelessness. We defend our small territory of sanity
and we trust that our steadfast faith will conquer all. But the
spiritual straight-jacket of this quest for absolute hope dangerously
distances us from the dimension of personal creativity. We cannot
shove hope down other’s throats, we can, however, realize unique
freedom of love and creativity, and we can find a balance and act with
our heart as much as we can move with our mind.

But I didn’t get much work done for as long and hard as my brain
TRIED so hard to take control of matters and break
through to the other side
But I didn’t really feel like working today

But I did anyway.

Now I can’t think if anything
But how happy I am that my brother and I are together
And my stupid gay band is happy and recording and we are happy and gay
and in love again
(or at least I am)
And I can express the fact that I am
about my family getting along
in fact, this is the most psychologically inspiring thrill
that I have had a chance to experience and theorize
in months if not years
(it was an inch if was a mile, er sumethin’)

i sure hope I don’t have to say
“boy, that was just a terrible idea”
-at all-
while they are here
and I am conscious of this
and I am laughing all the way
to the front row.

I hope you’ll join me – and vice-versa.

other people
are on their way but they will show up later
or not at all

I was finally a poet. Last October was another time, I flipped through
the pages of your diary and smiled, despite myself.

“What else?”

The question is important to you, but I was a rookie poet, so I was
still torn between rhyming and free verse, and so I was metaphysically
flabbergasted, I asked for the check, I tipped my invisible hat at
you, and I hoped you were wondering to yourself in a shocked manner,
what in the name of god is that “person” thinking? But in a good way
and said with love, respect, and trust.

Love is respect is trust.

I unbuckled my seatbelt on the way home, but not obviously, because
this would just produce nothing, but secretively so that you would not
know something that I knew, thus I would be very sneaky and risky and
not afraid of death, hence I was very above you and yours, and I
lifted my head up when we pulled back into the driveway of Sonoran
Mental Ranchito; I waved at myself in the rearview mirror.

worst thing in the world
didn’t happen to me today.
i keep forgetting to be thankful for the things
that didn’t happen to me;

and keep remembering what i should forget
not to be thankful for
that did happen to me.

the best thing in the world
also didn’t happen to me today.

meantime, i struggle existentially.
or I had something to do with
my need for approval
my seeking approval from others who don’t have it to give….
“We may look for approval from people who have none to give.”
and i don’t know why this little excerpt is making me
which i had known not to do this for so long
what if i can’t or don’t have the approval to give myself within myself?

PRIME (finished lyrics version)

PRIME (Wendy Clark 2011)

How did you ever let yourself get so far?
When was the last time you bothered to notice at all?
It only takes one mistake to turn the inside right back out
Certainly it’s blinding me as I believed everything you were about.

I’m in the prime of my life
Yeah, I’m in the prime of my life

Will you recall these were the best days of your life?
Will it have ever seemed so nice?

How did just forget the words to the song?
When was the last time the audience had to sing along
You only take 445 mistakes to let the outside right back in
Gradually you find yourself looking past the place you begin

Will you recall these were the best days of your life?
Will it have ever seemed so nice?

Will you recall these were the best days that you had?
Will it always ever feel so bad?

How did you fall logically away
Why was abandoned – why did you dump me so far away
It only takes a million times to find yourself again
Please help me find my peace of mind before I get to the end
I get to the end I get to the end of the end of the end….



Writing Exercise #117. Mas o Menos?

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.

Posted by Wendy Clark at 7:55 PM

You call that inspiration?

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. 

I lift myself off the sidewalk and trust myself. It’s not for nothing, may I forget I’ll never be in the light that you have given me.