Showing Up

The scuba shop was about to close and I couldn’t parallel park my
step-dad’s Rolls, so I had to switch up to strategic thinking in
overdrive. My cell was twitching in my pocket;  I tossed it out the window: no regret. That next minute I was in a parking spot and later I found that I locked the keys inside in addition to leaving them in the ignition and thus leaving the engine on, and even better,
I guess I overlooked the parking break. This combination of mistakes
made me slightly certain that this was not going forward.

Breaking down the barriers of what is absolutely absurd
in the last possible shocking sketches of the impacts of the sentence(s)
spoken, written, or delivered,

education is obviously an enormous influence
etiquette
manners
responsibility

so as i sit here, not at my PC but at my life

which must release this laptop from it’s own demons
i remain in a continuous state
aside from some laps of hysteria (euphoric happy behavior [EHB) and unrequited love and delusional regret

i have been squinting at the results of a genetic portrayal that of which has been bothering me enormously as of late.
i do not like to be angry with myself.

i pulse in my own presence; i am  outraged and rigid from the muscles of my ass through the infrastructure of my brain synapses and the risidual effects of their miscalculated commands from some solitary elitest-like osingle-celled assholes who could not find the right neuron to bling on, and therefore, i shall seek solace in the arms of my perception: “Sure, dude. I’m cool.”

– oh, let’s see here… – the most useless meanderings in my misfiring molecular structure:
the little gene 5 card which simply was mutated (velocity and temperature and depth times your mom and divided by the percent of speed of your dad – just as an example) can really fuck a person up.

Go ahead. Look it up. I dare you.

and love for the respect of your own education, perception and experience, etiquette and manners will comfort you while you sketch your sentences, stories and paragraphs; but yes, also may give your present company an idea of who you portray and may determine barriers which see worth breaking, bending, or leaving the hell alone as a roll of the eyes permits.

“unbroken non-influences”

be specific and be careful
who do you think you are, anyway
answers are only consumed by those
who are bewildered
and want to find
nore questions
within every answer

What do YOU THINK it takes to say goodbye?”

Well, all you gotta do is
Open up your eyes
Don’t fall
for that shit again
again.

Notice a mahogany scent, pleasant and pleasing, and I remind myself to
assert my energy forth behind the shades of the autumn semi-sunlight.
The evening falls and twilight breaks even, dealing me that ambiguous
forgetfulness of my inadvertent existence; how often the blur of
fantasy and judgment of my own character ultimately punctures all
possibilities.

I am and I shall be a page torn out of a wordless textbook, unstudied
by the least unfortunate, avoided by the flying electric eels in your
moat, beyond the sweet smelling vineyards you dwell so far away.

I haunt you.

Yes, you finally say to me, you are haunting.
)But this is not one of those times.)

If we are to maintain hope in the wake of our individual personal and
philosophic crises, perhaps we must consider the fortresses of
conscious choice that we build to protect ourselves from hopelessness
may need to be surrendered. Every belief holds a mystery and devotion,
but deliverance from faith is simplicity and creative surrender.

Hope and desire are self-preserving energies which protect us; we long
for something to heal us in the darkness of our self-deprecation and
the burdens of hopelessness. We defend our small territory of sanity
and we trust that our steadfast faith will conquer all. But the
spiritual straight-jacket of this quest for absolute hope dangerously
distances us from the dimension of personal creativity. We cannot
shove hope down other’s throats, we can, however, realize unique
freedom of love and creativity, and we can find a balance and act with
our heart as much as we can move with our mind.

But I didn’t get much work done for as long and hard as my brain
TRIED so hard to take control of matters and break
through to the other side
But I didn’t really feel like working today

But I did anyway.

Now I can’t think if anything
But how happy I am that my brother and I are together
And my stupid gay band is happy and recording and we are happy and gay
and in love again
(or at least I am)
And I can express the fact that I am
ACTUALLY NOT CONCERNED
about my family getting along
in fact, this is the most psychologically inspiring thrill
that I have had a chance to experience and theorize
in months if not years
(it was an inch if was a mile, er sumethin’)

i sure hope I don’t have to say
“boy, that was just a terrible idea”
-at all-
while they are here
and I am conscious of this
and I am laughing all the way
to the front row.

I hope you’ll join me – and vice-versa.

other people
are on their way but they will show up later
or not at all

I was finally a poet. Last October was another time, I flipped through
the pages of your diary and smiled, despite myself.

“What else?”

The question is important to you, but I was a rookie poet, so I was
still torn between rhyming and free verse, and so I was metaphysically
flabbergasted, I asked for the check, I tipped my invisible hat at
you, and I hoped you were wondering to yourself in a shocked manner,
what in the name of god is that “person” thinking? But in a good way
and said with love, respect, and trust.

Love is respect is trust.

I unbuckled my seatbelt on the way home, but not obviously, because
this would just produce nothing, but secretively so that you would not
know something that I knew, thus I would be very sneaky and risky and
not afraid of death, hence I was very above you and yours, and I
lifted my head up when we pulled back into the driveway of Sonoran
Mental Ranchito; I waved at myself in the rearview mirror.

THE
worst thing in the world
didn’t happen to me today.
i keep forgetting to be thankful for the things
that didn’t happen to me;

and keep remembering what i should forget
not to be thankful for
that did happen to me.

the best thing in the world
also didn’t happen to me today.

meantime, i struggle existentially.
or I had something to do with
my need for approval
my seeking approval from others who don’t have it to give….
“We may look for approval from people who have none to give.”
and i don’t know why this little excerpt is making me
which i had known not to do this for so long
DSCN0213
what if i can’t or don’t have the approval to give myself within myself?

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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

The Space You Left Behind

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.'”

“What?”

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)

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