JP doesn’t know it can tell he’s not sleeping

He also doesn’t know that i have been explaining my theories of cognitive behavioral therapy for the past 20 minutes, nor does he know i can tell he is faking it. He finds my theories as captivating as anything else. for certain.

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Regret

I walked out of the place and haven’t even stopped thinking about your face but I wanted your actual presence so I walked out of that space and that place and I knew more than I wanted to reflect upon. Time is always in a hurry anyway.  Those times we drove home any place and how many years I didn’t waste then or some place.

Now we are years ahead
You have changed and put your hands on a different part and angle of your hips now
I still want to run away from you sometimes
The way these reminders are the best way to not forget the way I haven’t changed
The truth syrup astounds me as much as the last words we exchanged
You were always available to let me down
So thanks for that and I am getting back up
I will take my time and let go of the record collaboration
And the interpretation of love versus hate
Plus the regret that I regret every dayIMG_2030 (2).jpg

I’m looking past the place I filled the tank with using my last known income and you were on the phone and I knew then that the moment I was trampled – and so simply cut –  the empty pain of my every cell deflating and gasping, the air poisoning my lungs, the way someone who falls off a skyscraper may feel – the terror of this being new to me and assuring this was a space I found – not for the last time in life either.

Photo Jul 30, 1 39 55 PM.jpg

I walked over to that space but can’t stop thinking about you.

Glass Zebra

But I would like to begin again.

I wonder why I left work during the middle of lunch still.

When I realized he saw me beside the broken pieces of our clumpy jagged edges of the glass zebra, he may have been stung like a match head to the temple, that I was the one he saw there, realizing that the pieces of broken jagged clumpy were pieces of my irreparable goddamn heart.

“Shut the hell up,” Jemeriah reminded me. He wasn’t happy that my boyfriend wouldn’t drive to get my wisdom teeth out.

The dentist hadn’t taken into account that I was thin from my recent long bout with adult chicken pox, and the prescribed medication was unlike any other I had ever.
EVER. He wasn’t there when I got home nor were the pieces of the zebra.

So I nodded to acknowledge where I was now, and felt faint and slightly sick with no ease to my love, then made my way out the door. I shut the massiveleadish steele thing and tried to skip unsuccessfully down the stairway to the lot. I sitting there on the bus bench for three hours before I hailed a cab back home.

I remember the way he saw me, and I saw him suspended there in time and space and he still loved me. I drank him all the time he was around me, which was a lot, and I smelled and let him saturate my own suggestion of being near him – I enjoyed enjoying, being enjoyed, enjoying being enjoyed. he had my heart, he mythically stole it, like a slick Incubus, thief as he stole my love and man; I wonder why he didn’t skip class and just fuckin pick me up from serious wisdom tooth surgery.

Oh so earlier …. The dentist, meanwhile was apparently talking to my friends and I occasionally nodded and was probably really druggy, I told the staff I loved them and would see them soon. Then Jeremiah gave my keys to my freshly ex boyfriend and I dozed while he ordered me scripts at the store.

Chasing him down Tennessee in my old Camaro, crying “GODDDD-SSSPEEEEDDD!!!” to symbolize a moment of great length and filled with cheese, I sure as all hell was not getting the message.

I said yes to him that evening as twilight as his eyes were – I was in love, and hell, he knew it would work. He was so intelligent. I didn’t foresee his lack of thought for those years.

I saw him see me later, while I was fake knitting and fake chewing gum. he asked me which was more fun. I said it’s more fun seeing what makes you crack up more.
“What makes YOU crack up?”
“The fake gum because of the Fake TMJ?”
“Fake you!” We both laughed.
I melted. I felt cocky then said, “Fake knitting is stupid.”
“Stupid is faking- stupid faking fakers!”

I want to be more than what I faked and fucked with.

I am gonna take this opportunity to plead sanity and love for myself and psychological esteem and less panic and happiness and unconditional love and have more time to enjoy and learn from it, cheesy perhaps, believe me, I am not selling a story here.

I am just writing one for us.

Your semi-daily bog

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.

The continuum is now part of absolute zero.

The phone buzzed and I saw two new messages. One was a tangible items requiring some thought and input from certain people involved.

The second message was clearly meant to test me although a immediate result was void of reason and consequence and was disguised emptiness. Support of an broken statement that was neither  subjective or objective. 

Alright, you lost me – I am off the trail of interest; you may kindly fuck off. I can shake off the pixelated perception you painted me. A blank canvass of nothing.

This cognitive 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.

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 not is: 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 was always there: 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.
During these mangled, mingled conjunctions of deliberation, I disappeared.

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

Your Semi Daily Blhag

When I have something bothering me, causing me pain, distraction, discomfort, or anger, I tend to Another Day at the Officetake 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.

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.