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.
W Clark


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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

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

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

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
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.

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
what if i can’t or don’t have the approval to give myself within myself?

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


Thought Disorder Awareness Campaign – The art of recovering from a high IQ

Surprise AZ
Surprise AZ

Thought Disorder Awareness Campaign – The art of recovering from a high IQ

“Thought Disorder” Awareness Campaign! (Be a part of the solution, not the other part!)

An abstract concerning the alarming disorder which is wrecking humanity/civilization/economy/aliens.

Ah, the discomforts of the last of the true spirits; the lack of triumph surrounding the bus pulling out of the San Francisco Mental-Plex, the sounds of the hysteria fading and the scent of damp dirt and dank cigars feel like sunlight in your ears; you fold your letter you wrote to your mother, the one you didn’t send to her because she wouldn’t have taken the news of your early release as a good thing, you rip up the yellow legal paper she will never see and you think about eating it, even though it wouldn’t taste as good as the garlic chicken and powdered toast you were still digesting from supper that evening, but you decide to go ahead and you slowly chew all sixteen pages of it, you hope you will digest these words and then salvation shall surface.

I stopped before I started to think about it again and I made myself a big bowl of spagetti and tried to locate the remote control so I could watch the new episode of “House” and I didn’t find it. So I started to think about it again. I made of list of what could happen if and when I couldn’t stop thinking about it. For an instance I recognized that nothing was ever the same and this kept happening over and over and over and over and over and under and over and the thoughts would never actually stop until my brain lost it’s energy and I died – though even that was a theory because many religious people would argue that there is life after death, which made me think that, damn! I needed to get some sleep. My eyes were dry and saw the dreary droplets of hope and love and then I thought about steam and vapor, solids, liquids, gas, wash, rinse, repent. My eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the bored… I laughed out loud and wondered why I was standing in a shallow pool of mud rather than a deep one, metaphysically corrupt and meta contained in this slingshot I called my sanity. I was not as deprived of intellect as most everyone who got in my narrow passageway to getting through the day, but I couldn’t grasp if I was better off or not. Then I decided not to decide.

I stood in that spot, undecided and undeciding until I had to make a decision or something. I blinked hard, I slammed my eyes down and it hurt, and I decided to cry.

Everything I say comes back to taunt me. It doesn’t -haunt- me; haunting would be the verb I would use if I intended to say that there was another force behind it; meaning that one cannot haunt oneself but may surely taunt oneself – in word, thought, and deed; everything I say (if even in my own internal monologue – “Internal monologue?! She is crazy!” dialogue taken in context from “Scrubs”) is everything I imagine I am, and everything I think is impossible to say, which leads me to actually blame my old college roommate whom I shall call “Justin Tochber” for his own protection – but one night while we were being clever geniuses in his dorm room, two short doors from mine at the notorious Cash Hall at FSU, JT told me of an amazing way he had learned to become so darn smart (and he was just that); he told me that a mentor of his had asked him to try an exercise to increase his awareness and become a master of all that is brilliant – and this I will share with you, reader, but I must warn you that I may:
A. Be unable to explain it enough for you to actually be a student of this meta-mind play
B. Find something cooler to metagrobolize about while I get bored trying to explain it without actually being in human contact with you
C. Taunt myself for thinking that this was something I needed to write about and thus involve other people – shaming and humiliating my self
D. Laugh at you for being stupid enough to try this for several days and forget that you had a choice to ignore this exercise
E. Laugh at you for thinking that this is a stupid exercise
F. Forget what I was going to say here. Damn it.

Here is your mission if you choose to accept it, grasshoppers of the cyber world:
It’s simple: close your eyes (or leave them open and blink naturally, I don’t really care), then do this with your mind – Think about three separate phenomena at the same time. Then keep doing that all the time, for as long as you can; change ideas if one has run its course, but trade it with another one of equal or better value. Continue doing this while you are conversating, working, studying, driving, flying a helicopter, getting eaten by a shark or a panther, having intimate relations, sleeping, and especially when you are trying not to think about three ideas subsequently.

So I beg the question, does this mean I have thought disorder? Where did I put the receipt and how am I going to find it when I get home? What can I do to get these students I teach to pass the CSAP?

How where do butterflies sleep at night?

Choices are all in your imagination. As Ellis so weirdly wrecked another part of my and many other tender highly intelligent college kids lives when we read both past as well as the end of “American Psycho,” the words that finally proved that nothing was anything that it seemed except to oneself – This is not an exit.

But seriously, please do not exercise reading that book. If you already have, I would rather not discuss it.

(The author is mildly concerned about you. Please practice safe thinking and encourage others to do the same. The author would also like to make sure you know that this is an exercise in writing random thoughts as a release and as a target for the bullies and the readers who don’t understand abstract thinking and see it as something to shake their fat ugly head at. The author would recommend that some individuals can’t enjoy another’s love of stream of consiousness and asks that they please go read something they can relate to, berate, and blow smoke in the grass. The author is smiling at you right now. You know who you are…. or do you? Hmph.)