As much as I have to admit I have a tendency towards the unconventional methods to deal with uncomfortable events and actions in my life, I have turned into an attack binge writer. Be careful not to tell me what a limitation is. I hope Brian recovers from this shady way of covering up emotions with a series of words injected painfully until the victim is too confused to ask what happened. Apologies to the others who know who they are. But I’m not sorry. Don’t be a crybaby for Christ’s sake. Not here; start a blog or watch a different time bomb.
I’ll be on streaming youtube now while I fix websites and play some songs to get even with my lack of practice by showing how much no one cares.
Get off FaceBook. Go outside and steal some hubcaps. Streak down Broadway. Write or play music or build a bad reputation.
GET BEAT UP. Trust me – that is the way to learn how to unlearn how stupid you thought you were.
I can’t stop writing. This is a real issue. I’m going to WordPress. My phone is off and I don’t want to talk about it. I want to make sure nothing changes enough to succumb to boredom and retweets of Trump. I want to start something and then run.
Yes, I won’t know until I do the analytics so if you think you don’t care, you would have figured out how to tell me that and stop asking me to think positively and MAYBE you would get out of the way and do something intelligent.
I will not make apologies for my stupid mistakes again.
“Okay,” I said. “I can take a joke.” I began to shuffle down the opposite direction of the atrium corridor and I began to focus on a new plot, but I needed a new persona first, then the intangible and it’s obscurities would be a natural consequence.
In an effort to prove the power of the meaning of words, I will launch my latest metaphysical awareness campaign: Speaking in one-word sentences. And as I waited for my mom to pick me up from school I was reading an essay written by a Hawaiian clown who used to teach French Revolutionary Architecture but decided to write in order to teach and he wrote well for a clown I suppose – as I waited the notion struck me between the lines that this constant quest to transcend the shallow traditional surface of society and judgment, I was not operating inside the function of my mission to master world domination.
The second time I was administered mouth-to-mouth resuscitation was he second time it wasn’t necessary, and was the event that spurred me to embark immediately to see a specialist.
I always thought of myself as the dangerous type – mentally, obviously.
Hmmm. Life is inconsistent. I picked myself up and put myself down. I was as much a part of the problem as I was the solution as I was to the apathy.
What you expect of someone
is what you’ll get.
Yeah, WHAT ever. Thanks for explaining THAT one to me, you self-actualized f**king genious, you. ARE YOU LISTENING TO YOURSELF? ….I wish I needed to regurgitate all the selfish-help book epiphanies that I read by a pragmatic spiritually elevated “writer” connect my (thus yours and the -universe-) dots.
When conversations turn into mud and I am being sabotaged by the tactless talkers, I used to terrorize them. Now I am older and I have a fifty-fifty chance that I am going to care anyway; I just sigh and quietly say, “Based on the information you have provided, explain what specific impact you have just made on my life.”
“What are you implying?” is also a fabulous conversation-stopper. My brother and I began to compile a list. Then friends added to it. Someday I will publish it under the self-absorbed section at Barnes and Noble. Soon I will care enough to get angry again.
“That’s an interesting perspective,” my friend C.A. would say when she was confronted by the psychologically stunted.
Self-fulfilling prophecy is determining the meantime what will concern very largely your past and present meantimes.
So my NEXT entry will be My Thoughts on “Nothingness.”
So… how are you going to be noticed when you’re not here?
Writing was never a form of aphormism, but somewhere on the way down, I changed my mind. I didn’t know what I was expecting to happen and I am not sure I have ever felt the desire to entertain the thought, but life looks different from the side of the living.
I surely wrote furiously, went to work, paraphrased, back-ached, and happily repeated the words to my new song, the same one that would make me a millionare, the same one that made you cry, the same one that was full of all the lies I wrote to cover up what was really going on – I was done reasoning with everyone and this was not the time to question me about my inspiration. When you finally stop to think about it, no one is safe and the innocent are all gone and there is no good idea that won’t fade away, and expectations are varied morsels of hope which we crawl on the floor and the dirt on our hands proves how hard it is to look for our prey.
I stepped out of the warm shower sweating and wishing I was anywhere but here. I dripped dry and stared into my eyes in the mirror for almost an hour, enjoying every random thought of a seasoned nihilistic vigilante, but a skeptical optimist, a self-informant of a blind alley, and I was sweating for days.
You never look in the mirror and you barely stand up. What have you got to lose? Come on, baby, what could possibly go wrong? Eh?
Dust yourself off. Look in the barrel of cliches she keeps by the bamboo tree – or plant – whatever; if you sift though the obvious, you could find one that resembles how you feel about me – it’s not a cliche at all – I wrote it for you to find and quietly wait for you to find the meaning of the words. The combination of a destination and and a journey, and you know where you are and where you are going. Nothing changes without a push: no exceptions. No expectations.
I will stop sweating it.
THE CUCKOO CLOCK
The last point I made before the clock struck midnight and the stupid cuckoo popped out and reminded me yet again that I was doing the right thing breaking up with you because you had no sense of class and you would always be a person who thought nothing of it to display a cuckoo clock in the living room and minded not that this type of ornament was – at the least – tacky, but especially a reflection of the demise of a psychological connection between a couple.
The cuckoo was not the problem so much as the problem was the words we exchanged while it cuckooed.
The last point I tried to make was for you. It was going to happen this time. In four days, we would get the news and the news would be what we want it to be and would change our lives and we would be happy again. The point was to make you believe that the streets we walked through tonight would be paved with gold and honey in four days. The pavement on which we strode this evening was smooth and familiar, but we would not miss it when it turned to gold. I felt myself smile as I thought of your disbelief. I handed you a shovel and asked you to bury that cuckoo clock yourself and the phone didn’t ring for four days.
The Space You Left Behind by Wendy Clark Hudson is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
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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.”
Eight rules for writing fiction:
1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
4. Every sentence must do one of two things — reveal character or advance the action.
5. Start as close to the end as possible.
6. Be a sadist. Now matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them — in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.
— Vonnegut, Kurt Vonnegut, Bagombo Snuff Box: Uncollected Short Fiction (New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons 1999), 9-10.
Kurt Vonnegut: How to Write with Style