Tag Archives: Writing

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

Another Time, Another Place*

*Another Time, Another Place*
By Wendy Clark

“If there was an answer, he’d find it there.” My father was a man of few
words, ambiguous and insinuating, of metaphysical poetic statements that
were never open for discussion.

But I suspected my father thought I had the right answers; mostly, I was
only offered broken questions.

I suspected my father knew, as did I; nothing would ever be the same.

I was often suspicious during those wild childhood days; without a doubt,
that suspiciousness had a direct psychological connection: frequently,
when trouble surfaced, I consistently proved myself to be a suspect.

No one had to tell us where we were headed, because there was no one else anymore, anyway. My brother sat next to me and never spoke as we all
watched the present transform into this future we were living in – fading
sunlight, golden against the spinning clouds, our little boxcar clicking
consistently over the tracks; moments suspended into a timeless sensation that roused
a sense of apathetic optimism – while we chased the sun as it plummeted
into the vague horizon; the dark would be upon us soon; we just had to stay on
the right track.

I had fallen outside myself that evening; my wandering mind guided my
eyes to trace the image of my epitaph on the beautiful canvas of the cloudy
sky.

Whispering my last rites, I abruptly stumbled over my words when I was
nearly finished, because I could not, for the love of Pete, recall my own
name! I theorized that I existed somehow; slightly, I knew I was thinking and slightly I was amused; I wanted to speak to my companions, just to verify that I was concrete in this abstract story. I weighed my
conversational options, and but rather wanting to explain to them my
philosophical meanderings – that not everything in life had meaning or
sense to it; life was a mere dream: got to “row, row, row your boat gently,”
and my mind went to another place, another time. I was lost in the chaos of
nothing to lose but my mind yet genuinely as well surprised that I could
sit and handle the sail of our boxcar so coolly.

Out of left field, my grandmother turned to me and inquired, “What is
going
to be there?”

I repeated her question back to her, but slowly and in the form of a
sentence, not a question. I didn’t look at her for a while. I wasn’t sure
if
she was messing with me. As smart as I was, I knew that she knew she was
smarter. I was quiet.

She waited, though, and I finally angled an eyebrow in her direction –
suspiciously – and we locked vacant stares.

I sighed, and finally responded, “Nothing is going to be there until you
have found some good in something, I guess, amidst all the nothing
good.…..
the light, maybe,” I paused because I wasn’t finding the words that
connected to build that symbolism, then I wandered back to her eyes,
“sometimes, if you let yourself go, completely and profoundly, you can
find
some sort of meaning, grandma; the light may only be there – in how you
look
at it just right.”

“Then what happens?”

I shrugged and replied, “Well, maybe we will know when we get there.”

“No plot?” She blinked hard. “That’s not a plot.”

“You see,” I said, “if you don’t have a plot, you can make your own way.”

She softened her gaze and turned to face the distance and beautiful
elasticity before us, surreal as the steamy splashes of the bluest water
on
either side of our car.

“Good story,” she whispered. She smiled at the last of the day. I
proceeded
silently into the night toward a destination unknown.

I was a writer.

I made the story as I went along. I was recharged – my mind was mad with the infinite spectacular phenomenon which engaged my beingness, a gleam in my young eyes, I was on my way there.

by wendy clark hudson

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