When I have something bothering me, causing me pain, distraction, discomfort, or anger, I tend to take it out on those close to me.
I learned that after being inclined to ride that ridge and I was stopped.
The problem is; that’s your damn problem. You can talk about it and maybe someone will listen or care or help, but they can’t fix your problem and that is now bothering you enough to behave negatively, speak harshly, disengage, and then make the point that you are miserable.
Well, hell; I am sorry you are miserable. But don’t tell me I am worthless or weak or easily stepped on.
Like, say it’s all about you: you don’t have to say so; let’s pretend you don’t have the mind or time to think about choosing your words because you are miserable and a loser. You recite the reasons repeatedly to any person or people who will listen. That is, up to a point where you to demonstrate to the person exactly how manifestation of misery and self-fulfilling prophesy are created on a level that is fascinating, and how to know you are not that person and will continue to in no way resemble that behavior and thinking.
When something is the opposite of bothering me, etc., I tend to take it out on those I am close to. Share your good side.
Friends are important.
Friends are people who can take you on a ride in their life and it’s up to you who gets to be those people. And same both ways.
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.
While waiting for antidepressants at Soopz and trying to find a press spreadsheet, I ended up with the desire to change my background. Or profile picture.Who cares right? I have a tremendous amount of support of followers who think I’m hilarious, so be truthful.
DO you think this would make me an expert outcast/outlaw/megalomaniac/narcissistic/lengend etc if I made my background the same as myprofile picture on FB?
Just for like an hour or day –than announce my mistake?
Would this be as much of a waste of time that I am spending thinking about it?
Does anyone see the benefits of posting and doing events?
Or does anyone even see this as i am unable to see conversations and analytics in this interface?
What is it with people today anyway?WCB Official Site
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)
Today I learned that things are not as they seem and that goes for objects, people, places, ideas — basically all nouns — and perception can be impacted without having an epiphany, or a moment of emotional impact, or by getting your eyes gouged out when you were clearly seeing or adjusting to whatever phase of the day you were tackling.
I think we see day for night as we distinguish happy from sad and love from hate, but as time seems to take us as it’s travelling, we seem to have the insight we need to recognize the spaces we are surrounded by.
If this means that we are equipped to live a functional and focused existence and we are present while we ascertain the infinite amount of our pragmatic conscious considerations as the moments creep away from our condition, than the constant evolves into the isolation of a preoccupied reality which manipulates the velocity of our conceptions.
This is not a dog and pony show. This is not a vault of dependent illusions meant to specify our next reflex and will bend the fragment of what you recognize as your capacity to sustain a reasonable recognition of your space and will alter as the life you lead will lead you on the way to the next fragment.
Adjusting to the portrait that has already been painted is a process that eliminates a certain freedom you are accustomed to, and singing a song someone else wrote institutionalizes a habit, and we drag out the abrupt until the inspiration is a technique that convinces us to know a difference in our impression and an impression on the immeasurable subjective state of all of what we think is objective. Or the aspect of the reality that simply is impossible to confirm or deny.
Thank you for your decisions.
Please visit wendyclark.net
to listen to some music.
*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
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
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
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
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
some sort of meaning, grandma; the light may only be there – in how you
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
either side of our car.
“Good story,” she whispered. She smiled at the last of the day. I
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
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.
This book was assigned to me in Modern Literature during my senior year at Florida State University. My prof was a Beckett maniac and we read it all. “Watt” was the last one we read and he told us all that this will be the most difficult novel that we will ever read. This was a mixed class of serious lit heads – some were graduate students and we all came back to class the next day and we were ecstatic and frantic – we loved and hated it – we wanted more and we wanted to GET IT. WATT the hell was Beckett writing about?
Read this. Read it carefully and know that most every sentence should be reread. Have a dictionary nearby, take notes, and don’t give up.
I was a wreck while I tried to read this on my own. I was fortunate to have a professor who turned out a cult of Beckettists. I earned that goddamn English degree after all, I thought to myself. Watt is stronger than any acid we took in college, kids.
You will throw this book across the room more than once, but you will laugh more, and eventually, you will see the world like Watt. But not really.