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.
By Wendy Clark
I walked out of the place and haven’t even stopped thinking about your face but I wanted your presence and I walked out of that space and that place and I knew more than I wanted to anyway. After all of these years, I was sad because they were worse and I thought about those and I thought about the way I thought so much now, and those times we drove home any place and how many years I didn’t waste then realized I was only looking ahead to someplace.
We drove any direction home depending on where we lived – sometimes we should not have actually been driving and sometimes I had to pick up my pathfinder the next morning and sometimes I wish I had never known the truth, but we are all judges, eh, Mr. __________? I think they should stand up to you. Tell them – I have my reasons. They could have bought the place, but they think you could have made a better decision.
But when you are dying, they hesitate to approach you with that type of accusation.
keeping this in mind, i understand that because you do not understand me
as i don’t understand you
and you will not listen to what i have to make you understand
mainly because i have more experience than you
and am wise in this matter of subjective thought and action
i keep my eyes closed and look into the great wide open
the one you rarely get to see unless you
find yourself humming while
doing the sidestroke
amongst the doggie-paddlers who mistake
tennis for air hockey
and you remember the day that you
listened before you thought
kept your eyes open
listened before you thought
before you let yourself talk.
I love good psychological warfare with malicious intent.
New idea. A crowdfunder that is not actually online. Has it been done? Is it totally out there with my other dusty, unfinished, mangled ideas? Is it exciting?
I’m tired of thinking. I’m sick of my PC locking up – I have been trying to book festivals, shows, bands, and I am losing out on another summer and letting my band down, as well as myself. And who cares? They do, because they are under the impression I am doing this because I have the resources, but I don’t – and I have no clue how to maintain this amount of pressure when I have three machines that suck. I wish I were a tennis player. Or perhaps I could use my looper if I had time – then I would play solo and look cool and for every effort I make, I won’t have to tell three people how to do something that is wrong, and O can take my band to games and casinos and ignore my impending explosion due to being second, third, fifth-guessed and learn Spanish and karate.
You have a problem. You are the boss. This problem is not getting it. Disrespect may or may not be intended, but remarkable acts of common no-sense are shiningly obvious when you have been captain for years, and the new hire seems to have missed the boat – and asking to swim or learn how to just -find- the damn boat is a huge waste of time for everyone who is already enjoying cocktails.
That’s overboard, I know you are thinking – but the rules are basic. I’m right. If you choose to disregard my auth
ority, you chose to make something out of nothing so many times, you are my burden and even if you have all the right things to say, and you have to say them all the time and rinse and repeat, you have not made an effort to look at yourself and think — how is my behaviour affecting the big picture? Why am I feeling like I know best? What can I do to do my job better and listen. I make mistakes, so do you – and that’s so obvious that I am desperately asking you to correct them. learn, watch, listen, shut mouth, open mind, stop acting like you have a right to be here.
One more chance, and I don’t see you getting this notion. You can’t do the work, and you won’t do what you say. I believe we can do more with less. I believe I know what I am doing and if you were where you should be, I wouldn’t have to tell you to exit the scene.
It’s really hard to work with a person who has no idea how to try harder to be good at what they are supposed to do, and is oblivious to the system and the architect.
As much as I want to believe in you, you are far from comprehending the obvious of the obvious and it is clear to everyone, but my name and my time and my colleagues expect better from me. You have to expect better from yourself.
When you woke up this morning, did you you think you would have anything to say? Neither did I, so I began to speak in phrases and a sentence here and there – no interrogatives – no chances for answers or agreements to listen. For there was work to be done, so I called your cat and she sat near the blinds and blinked at me. You glared at me. I stared at the door. Now I am here, typing this – double-bolted door and shotgun in arms. Just in case.