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.
Disclaimer – This is completely in raw form. I revised Chapter One so far, but as you know, most writing is revising.
But it’s fun.
The American Zero ©WN Clark 2011
Preface: Introducing the end.
Most stories begin in the middle. But not all sequences are chronologically driven.
This is not your typical roller coaster, as I am not your average thrill-seeker. For all intents and purposes, I had never sought thrills, but I recognized, after some therapy and research, that my brain was chemically wired with action and irresistible manipulation, and the urge to resist temptation tended to dissolve when a the thrill came and sought me.
If another direction was something I had sought, then another place I may have landed, but I had not thought about a specific destination or any ultimate decision, moreover, my mind’s guidance map was adjacent the middle of nowhere, I was perpendicular to the edge of an unending highway of misinterpretation.
The ultimate forecast was awful.
But I loved bad weather anyway.
We saw it on Friday on the road to Thompsonville, the wicker love seat, right out there, straddling the centerline. I gaped at Susan and she raised her eyebrows, her eyes wide and she uttered a gasp, which sounded like a high-pitched squeak – the likes of which I would have found peculiar at any time prior to this puzzle. I tapped on the brakes of my old Ford; still we slid on the slushy byway. We pulled to the shoulder about eighty yards past the chair. I looked into the side-view mirror. Susan was already out of the truck, with a very red face.
“I thought she burned it, Bobby!” She said and she slammed the door. Meanwhile, I stiffly swung out caught up to her, buttoning my jacket and pulling my hat down to block the Arctic wind. We both staggered and slipped across the icy interstate as she continued to antagonize me.
“I thought you said the bitch told you she had burned it with all the other shit!” She briskly shuffled ahead of me.
“Yeah, that really burns me,” I tried to joke, but immediately felt ashamed of my usual insincerity.
She whirled back to face me, demon-hell in her acrid green eyes and raised her pointed finger at me, almost like a condescending mother would, “WHY do you have to lie, baby? Goddamnit! WHY are you SUCH A FUCKING LIAR?” And with that she was off again, at least twenty yards in the lead of this race to my wicker chair. I hesitated a moment before moving forward. Maybe I was a liar, but not in this case… I started to contemplate that I couldn’t remember if I had or had not been untruthful or not, despite the overwhelming evidence which pointed to the non-charred wicker love seat covered in snow in the middle of the road.
“Hey baby, come on,” I called Susan with the most tender tone I could summon. Susan didn’t slow her pace. I chuckled under my breath with the nonsensicality of it all, all of it, and I picked up my pace. I held my breath and commanded a somber _expression to my misbehaving facial muscles. Man, she was a enchanting illusion in this hallucination of my existence; her long, red tresses were protesting the gusts of wind, like twitching fingers covered with particles of snow that were also stuck to her black overcoat, her once dark boots were completely white.
I tumbled to the ground twice before staggering to her as she approached the old chair. My gut wrenched sickeningly while I watched her disgracefully started kicking it, and I mean beating the living shit out of it, first with her steel-toed boots and then with her gloved fists and purse. Frozen, I observed this obtuse performance – this display of violent rage – that my girlfriend had launched. My chair was actually being annihilated before me, standing on the barely-visible, yellow line. Damn, that wicker love seat had been with me more than any woman in my lifetime of failed relationships.
“Susan?” I touched her shoulder.
She would not acknowledge me. Brusquely, she seized the chair and sat down sternly, staring straight ahead into the great-big-wide unknown. I traced her gaze, imagining what she was really seeing now. The blowing snow became increasingly more intense; visibility was probably less than ten feet and glancing over my shoulder, my old Ford was nowhere in sight. I wanted to go home now: the fuck with Billy’s funeral, the will, my girlfriend, myself. The hell with it all – all of it. Even the wicker love chair. It was all one huge expanding disaster that never would dissolve in tandem with my constant need to swim – shit, even dive and do the backstroke through these obscure and polluted waters of the beaches I inhabited. True, my ex-wife was a pyromaniac. She often set things on fire when she felt broken. I was one of her broken belongings; I have the scars to prove it. Distractedly, I pondered why she hadn’t set herself ablaze by now. At this image, I uttered a half-snort, half-giggle. Ellen, my old hellion, or “Hell-ing” was an appropriate name for my ex-flame.
The inhospitable wind continued to intensify and I broke from my daze to survey our surroundings. I instinctively reached into my slack’s pocket to retrieve a cigarette, and silently cursed upon recalling that I had quit last weekend. Susan was sitting next to me, crying softly with her face buried in her hands; her body was both trembling and heaving, perhaps because of the subzero wind-chill, but I suspected that was only a fraction of the shivering factor.
Then, through the dense blanket of blowing snow, there were two faint lights coming dead at us. For several seconds I blinked my blurry eyes and hazy mind…
Riddle me this: Alright… let’s see here… um, okay… so you got yourself: two headlights + two yellow lines + an ice-covered pavement + a girl in a wicker chair in the middle of the road, a huge snowstorm…
My heart came to a screeching halt and then I screamed at Susan while I tried to pull her by her sleeves from my tattered chair.
“MOVE!” I cried as I watched the headlights of the nearing truck smile and wink brightly at me. Besides the pulsating beams and the ten-ton weights in my shoes, I recall my screaming, “move,” both to the truck and to the crazy woman I was trying to communicate with in my lounger.
As many a story goes, parallel systems collided.
Perception was no longer within me, if you can attempt to comprehend; the material world with which I had been so habituated had abruptly altered validity, hence nothing substantially existed, intrinsically rocketed into my own mind the most incomprehensible state of every condition – of the preposterous phenomenon of tangible thoughts m
Consider the characteristics or conditions of all the substance in your intrinsic perception, such as the entities which one can identify as a solid state or a liquid state, (or even a gaseous state), and you believe you know by the very nature of the “subject,” to be just what it is, because that truth is fundamental. Now, suppose these primary dimensions of your reality are permuted, a metamorphosis which transforms every element, transcending everything so that it is the not only opposite of what it may have once been perceived as but the same in it’s lack of form and no law of the universe has any law or harmony, (the gaseous factors would really be astounding) and everything is nothing, and all that is or is not, is a contradiction of the same problem.
The concrete is now the abstract.
The trivium is equal to the empty paradox.
Pure lack of time and space.
For no conscious reason, my arms extended buoyantly toward the sky, or so I thought this to be something I did, and skimmed over the highlights of the great big unknown as it would travel with me where it would, with or without me, whatever, amen. This action led to my next transitory side-effect which was (after quickly reviewing the causal theory of epiphenomenalism (physical events have mental effects, but mental events have no effects of any kind) how very useless it was to philosophize at this time, how tired my mind was, then snip-snapping right on back to my strenuously draining brooding of the undetermined unknown and how that unknown was always about to increase in conscious life.
During these mangled, mingled conjunctions of deliberation, of course I saw you step from the shade of the naked and lonesome birch tree beside the storm and closely followed by the truck that symbolized:
There are the places at which you are not, or perhaps where you would rather be, not be, won’t be, the list within the list within the list is infinite, but my point is that the location of where you are (or where you ain’t) is probably the most important place you could ever be. Where you’re notis: any, some, or everywhere you could be, certainly, of course when you have but a critical amount of “time” remaining to reconsider every place where you ever were which led me to this last circumstance in which I was currently entangled, where I was not was anywhere but where I was, at a condition labeled as the end of one’s lifetime; this is the place where you last were, and your mind works itself backwards, instinctively and recklessly, and flashes these excruciating images, words, colors, lines and limits, gaps and speculation, theories, people, pets, regrets, media, motions, accidents, mistakes, recoveries, tastes, dreams, nightmares, mischief, games, fame, humiliation, embarrassment, acceptance, awards, rewards, faith, apathy, remorse, anxiety, true faith, true love, true sex, true blueness of the purest skies, waters, and eyes; good fortune, good graces, all those artistic creations….
The worst part, the most awful worst of all the worsts was terrible: The realization of having to contemplate how anything could be even worse than the worst realization you can contemplate. To me it was feeling that I was departing without saying goodbye; abruptly leaving the party early, sneaking out irresponsibly and silently, the one who didn’t even say, “later on,” and never came back.
I was late meeting my mother for coffee again, so I took my time driving across the city and remembered to smoke a cigarette when I pulled into a parking spot that should have been reserved for handicapped people or elderly folks, because of the proximity to the entrance. I saw her sitting near the bar and she was dressed in her usual Sunday best, perched on her chair like an extremely overzealous kleptomaniac, in love with the heart of the silver haired gentleman who sat next to her – the heart she destined to steal to remind herself why she was not a petty thief but a renacassine lady, as graceful as her eyes when they swayed into her victim’s gaze. Men watched my mother’s eyes as if they were a nice, firm ass, or a knee-buckling pair of boobs on a 21 year old supermodel. This was one of the main reasons that I never made eye contact with anyone until my fifth therapist told me she would sleep with me if I would just fucking look at her. I was fifteen and she was a knockout, but I was not interested in that challenge. I looked her in the eyes and told her no. Then I took my shirt off and I swaggered out of her office, telling her I would be back next week, and I didn’t turn to look at her as I left, but I knew she was laughing. The next six days I spent every moment I practicing and exercising my right to a dazzling use of total eye action. I spent a lot of time in the bathroom contacting my own eyes and the rest of the time on my cat. He was a not a particularly good subject because he could not see the vast universe which I was engaging him with my newfound cool stare. My oldest brother told me to watch James Dean to see how it was done, but I needed more direction. I stopped blinking for a day and ended up in the emergency room that next day. The doctors seemed to think that blinking was involuntary, but I thought that the art of making true eye contact was part of my perfection. They mentioned that my eyes would dry out if I didn’t blink. What did I do? I didn’t bat an eye.
I have wanted to tell that story since I thought of the punch line… many years ago.
During the next short phase I determined that eye contact meant that you had to come into direct contact with your opponent’s eyeball. I was back at the therapist in less than six days. She was never bored with my brothers and me when we were allowed to spend time in her office, but she was constantly trying to break us of our natural will to be independent and unusual. I knew better than to get better. I knew that there was no cure for the world I had invented and looking into someone’s eyes was a ritual that I frowned upon. Look all around you, but never gaze. When you gaze into the world, you must remember that what you see is dependent on where you look. I wanted to have reflective eyes, like my dad. He didn’t see anything – not because he was blind, but because he was always listening. He was thoughtful and reflective and insightful.
It turned out that I wasn’t. I saw a new therapist soon after I told him about her cure for my eye contact disorder. Dr. Buck was impossible for me not to make eye contact with, not only because his left eye was blue and his right eye was brown, but also he had no agenda to divert my focus. He spoke to me without suggesting there was any purpose for me to look at anything, and by doing so, he taught me to see who I was. He was the only shrink who ever read poetry to me and gave me the freedom to think in detail about what I saw, but allowed me the distance to let go of my constant anxiety. Aristotle Buck was his name. I think he was my only friend when I was a boy.
When my mother greeted me, she gave me a hug which didn’t actually touch any part of my clothing and a kiss that didn’t grace my cheek. I smiled at her friend and ordered a black coffee and a glass of ice cubes to chew on. I found that ice cube chewing soothed my will to smoke when I was around mother, and also annoyed her just as much. I was as aware of this paradox as I was ignorant, but nothing would happen if I had nothing to do.
The conversation between my mother and this stranger ignited that slow fire of tediousness in my stomach, where the coffee and ice cubes met briefly and then mutated into their separate energies; both of these substances made me have to go to the restroom quite urgently. I excused myself from their conversation and asked the cute redheaded barista where the men’s room was. She gave me the look that said, “We only have one per gender in this little restaurant, so try not to eat a bran muffin with your coffee here, sir.” I knew that look. I made more than eye contact with her – she spoke to me with her attitude. I wanted to be an omniscient character suddenly, and wished she was telling my story rather than I was, so I decided to talk to her before I went back to sit down and she wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t know. Plus, she used the word, “you” as if it were her own personal pronoun and nothing is worse than second person narrative. I asked her out for a drink and an autographed photograph of Martha Stewart that my sweet niece gave me when she was visiting me in the Catskills that last summer; she claimed I needed some decorations in my tent. That photo has been in my wallet ever since, and it is just what the women who find me interesting need for me to prove that I am not so keen. She frowned as she handed the picture back to me.
“That’s not her autograph.”
“Like hell, it is,” I replied and briskly snatched it from her fingers then carefully folded it and rattled the picture at her. “You are to blame for the trouble around you,” I said and stretched my arms over my head, letting them fall to my sides in a loud slap.
She actually turned away and farted at me, leaving my mouth agape and my heart pounding. I sat back down and ate my spinach eggs and watched my barista fall in love with some young college kid with an Ohio State sweatshirt on and watched myself the same way I watched her and everybody else. My lack of action and my impulse to act were constantly conflicting. I enjoyed my breakfast and decided that I would come back here some day and the young, gassy sass would let me love her.
I ordered myself a cake to go and was delighted to be somewhere alone, at home, with no one to tell me how things happened that day – no one to all me how the story changes when I am the narrator, and I was ready to be in my own fictional thematic park where I could write about the fiction I saw and plant my own imaginary garden in my little space at my sacred place.
“No Accidents Permitted.”
The tin sign in my mother’s guest bathroom still cracked me up whenever I read it. But I was long gone well before then; I laughed at everything those dark days.
“Your dinner is at the grocery store,” I read the sign on the mirror which sealed my agonizing fate: I was probably going to starve to death. I tore the note down and flushed it down the toilet. I giggled and remembered how this was going to be the summer of my liberation, reinvigoration, inspiration… and god dammit! I was going to make a big deal out of it.
Of course I did not know how I would execute this fluffy goal. I used my new dance technique and waltzed the hallway pretty well all the marble floor was covered with my shoes and ended up I the kitchen. I grasped a butter knife and imagined myself cutting an onion loaf, then gasping as I cut the bread while it shrieked in agony. I said softly and condescendingly, “Bread. You are food and you shalt not scream,” to which the poor loaf replied, “Take the margarine! It isn’t even real butter!” I roared madly and swayed over the cutting board dizzily contemplating my state of mind.
Man, do I need a plan.
I need a plot: A sketch, a motive, an order; a lot of rich ideas in a conscious and chronological structure to guide my inattentive idleness in a clear direction.
I tossed the fake loaf into the trash and headed out the side door for a morning stroll through the swampy, wealthy, expensive, gated neighborhood. I headed east with my pocket compass functioning – I tended to get lost with or without it – but I had it so that this way I had something to blame for my directional mishap, should the case come up.
The deep south had a strict manner of informing and reminding one how unnatural the great outdoors were when one found oneself outside in the thick of it. I sweat like the born northerner who I was while the bugs of impossible shapes and sizes collided with each other in midair trying to bite, sting, kill and who knows what else they had on their dirty little cell-sized minds when they hissed and spit at me. From the moment I had shut my mother’s screen door to when my new Converse touched the asphalt of the sidewalk, the waves of buzzing tore at my eardrums. The nagging lack of stability and my unusual equilibrium was a growing concern for me as I grew older and less balanced, but today’s disconnection I encountered in the southern heat was all too much for me – every time I staggered towards it.
Centuries later I was at the end of the driveway, I wiped the sweat off my brow with the back of my forearm and gazed at my mother’s house reconsidering my walk and other life decisions that only I could remember. Instead of going on or turning back, I stretched my arms in front of me my hands facing outward in front of my chest and I fell straightforward, down into the thick swampgrass of the lawn – a move of nonstrategic condemnation – where I expected nothing else but my mind to take inventory of my intentions.
Uh… *scratches forehead* …it’s true…
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 mischeivious 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; now, not here anyway.
If you trust anyone – make sure you are all ready to get your heart broken again.
*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