What's the 411?

Welcome back to our regularly scheduled programming. Sorry for the lack of posts last week. My imaginary sponsors alerted me to last month's ratings and heavily suggested I find a way to improve them. So obviously I'm just going to talk about myself while attempting not to reveal too much. You know like normal people and vloggers filming update videos do.

Depressing bit out of the way first, I've been thinking about my family a lot recently. Well, my dead relatives mostly. My mother suggested I write them letters since I still haven't properly grieved them because emotions are hard and scary and constantly feeling like you can't breathe is oddly exhilarating. I've written letters to my grandparents briefly telling them how they affected me and how I miss them, but mostly venting about my problems hoping they'll visit me in a dream and guide me. I still haven't written to my father, so my chakras have been completely out of wack for a week. I thought rewatching the Last Airbender would help, but it's more of a nice distraction than anything else. I hope to bring myself to the task by tomorrow.

Speaking of writing, I finished the outlines for the second and third episode of my biographical TV show two months ago during an unexpected "maniac" week. Hopefully I'll stop waiting for another episode and just produce content again. I'm long overdue on writing something for my friends to star in, too. It's time I become the content creator I've always dreamed of becoming.

Speaking of webseries written by and about gay people, my favorite one is back. It's called The Outs. It only took them three years to come back. Honestly, the first season is probably the best webseries of all time, and that's not just my opinion. I'm not gonna give you a synopsis; instead here's a link to watch the first season for free. LINK! Unfortunately, Vimeo saw their worth and picked up their second season as a show you have to pay for, but it's worth it. If you don't wanna do that, you can just listen to their totally awesome soundtrack on soundcloud. 

In other news, two potential big changes coming up before the year's midway mark that I obviously can't talk about until they're actually confirmed. But once they are, I feel like I'll be happier and more fulfilled. Perhaps I shouldn't allow them to be the sole source of hope, but whatever, I'll wing it. 

Lastly, thanks to the help of my actual "sponsors" I've been able to cook new things again. Much like writing, cooking for more than two hours and producing something incredible is unbelievably satisfying. If you're my friend on any social media, you saw I made my first pizzas from scratch, and I am absurdly proud of myself. At this rate, my cooking challenge could be the first thing I complete on my 102 Tasks list. 

I suppose that's enough updates for one post. Thanks for reading my rant. Check back in Thursday when I'll be teaching you the importance of always having a drifter bundle on deck and how to survive in the concrete jungle with a rotten tomato.* 

Word. 

*Thursday's post has yet to be determined. Probably something gender related, though. 

I Want to Read Again

I've always been more of a writer than a reader. Call it my everlasting yearn to be more of a creator than a consumer. Ignore my seemingly never-ending consumption of television, music, and food; we all have our journeys in life. But if I find no problem making time for these enjoyments, why don't I read more? Do I loathe books? No, of course not. I want to write books and have everyone discuss my complex character developments and plot twists.

Perhaps it's an ego problem, then. I do recall a younger, cockier version of myself insisting that the more I allowed established authors to poison my mind, the more likely my chances of unintentionally copying someone and losing my individuality would become. Of course, I've learned the error of my ways thanks to my love/hate relationship with a few college courses.

Required reading be damned, after I graduated, I dedicated myself to rekindling my love of novels that inspired my love for storytelling from a young age. I purchased a short stack of books, posted a picture of them on instagram to hold myself accountable, and attempted to comprehend a book a week. For three weeks, this plan worked. I digested novels that weren't daunting. I set midweek goals. I returned to Instagram to update my progress. All was well.... until I attempted to defeat Infinite Jest.

In the spirit of my college's senior seminar, a book a week! ...maybe Great Gatsby and Infinite Jest combined for a 2 week span. #newyearsresolution #novelinspiration #bookclubmaybe

A photo posted by Charles G Clark (@cgwacko) on Jan 20, 2014 at 1:09pm PST

Infinite Jest - if you don't know - is an 1,079 page book. [I read Chesapeake in high school; this should have been a breeze.] What it's about, I honestly couldn't tell you. My bouts with it started with me glossing over the back cover, weighing the paperback in my hands, and putting it back down. This lasted a month before I decided to move on to my next novel, but by that point, my engine had run out of steam. It might as well have been covered in rust and moss.

Around the same time, I found most reading tedious. Interesting articles online would become skimmed, at best. Comic books I purchased wouldn't be opened until my next trip to the comic book shop for fear of falling too far behind. Creative work friends passed along to me to look over wouldn't receive an opinion until months later. I've managed a few memoirs and collections of essays during the past two years, but those aside, stimulus has been slow for the right side of my brain.

If I could pinpoint the problem, I'd try to remedy it. For now, my best guesses are an undiagnosed cases of ADD, constant FOMO, and enjoyment-depriving depression - none of which I'm ready to admit to myself, probably just making matters worse.

Have no fear, there's hope yet. My friend and I have started a book club! ...however our first meeting has been postponed due to lack of readership, myself included. It's comforting to know I'm not the only one that struggles to turn pages but it's also harrowing. I'm hoping that we can come together soon to accomplish the main goal of this book club: to not let Levar Burton down. Watch the Reading Rainbow on Netflix!*

Until then, I'll make my own strides towards self-recovery. Is this what it feels like for Division I athletes to break a collarbone and try to push through it for love of the game? If so, my condolences to you all. We're finally in the same gang. Now, please excuse me as I struggle to proofread my own work.

Word


*Not a paid advertisement... yet.
**My book club is currently reading The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. Possible book report to come upon our completion.

Mental Health and Me

If you're a social media fiend like I am, you've probably noticed Buzzfeed instituted a Mental Health Week. The official Mental Health Awareness "Week" is October 2-10, but I understand. Mental illnesses are still occasionally dismissed as something you can just shake off, and the more opportunities we have to educate others the better.

I wouldn't say I'm without a doubt a "person suffering from depression," but I was prescribed medication to treat it for a while. So, if you don't mind being bummed out for a few minutes, I'd like to tell you about my first battle with depression. Maybe my second as well, but that one's a doozy and I might wanna save it for my memoir someday. We'll see if I can get through the first one without getting upset.

My senior year of college, I took my second psychology course. I withdrew from my first, so this was 101. I already felt bad enough being in a class of freshmen, but I wasn't the only senior who waited to fulfill all of their core class requirements. For this course, we were allowed extra credit in the form of participating in studies conducted by graduate students. I found psychology interesting, but I wasn't going allow my inability to focus during studying to prohibit me from passing.

I signed up for a graduate student's mental health questionnaire. I was assured the results would remain private, so I answered honestly. I had being keeping plenty of things pent up after losing two best friends over squabbles. I admitted to possibly feeling depressed and having thoughts of suicide. At the time I thought, hey, who doesn't think of climbing to the roof of the student center and jumping off so they don't have to deal with the stress of what to do after college.

Two or three weeks went by as I continued my secret life of unworthiness. The second Thursday of November I was called into the Counseling Center. I didn't even know where it was. After realizing it was located under the Writing Major Lounge, I met with a woman who told me the grad student I met with reported me as a possible threat to myself. I was upset but not by much. It was kind of a relief to have my thoughts out in the open. The dread came when she suggested I leave to seek treatment at a mental ward. Ok, she probably called it a psychiatric hospital, but toddlers don't hear "nap," they hear "no more fun for you."

I'm not sure why, but after three minutes of talking, I agreed to go to [hospital name redacted] for a weekend. I called my mother; I could hear her trying to restrain her shock through supportive words. My roommate retrieved my laptop, ipod, and a change of clothes and I was off.

Of course, I wasn't allowed to use my laptop or ipod while in treatment. "No outside contact or stress allowed," they told me. I didn't have the energy to tell them writing and music are how I stay sane. Luckily, I wrote a log of my stay in a tiny notebook. That information is definitely for the memoir. However, I will tell you an overview of my experience:

• The food sucked. 
• The other patients were varying levels of crazy. 
• Not being able to be goofy, as I am prone to be, for fear of being labeled crazier made me more depressed. 
• Everything seemed grayscale or sepia depending on the day. 
• My parents came and made me feel better, even my father who had never been overtly emotionally available in the past. 
• I met a kid who allowed me to forget about myself as I helped with what I assumed was an overdose, though I never bothered to ask.
• I stayed way longer than I planned because self-admitting yourself doesn't actually mean you leave whenever you want.

Apparently you had to submit a request 48 hours in advance and be deemed fit enough by the doctor(s). I didn't want to deal with the stress. Eventually, I was let out on Wednesday to discover I was missed by everyone. My roommate hadn't told anyone where I was. I don't remember if I told anyone either. I do remember I gave up drinking at the request of the school - much to my 21 year old dismay - and disguised it as a challenge I already set up for myself on this blog. ....it's right (here) if you want to read it.

I readjusted well enough for the first two months, though I refused to take my meds because I could already tell what feeling nothing - no high, no low - felt like, and I hated it. Then I started drinking again, because screw them I was finally 21. Then my second major depressive episode happened. This is the good one.

It was Spring Break. I stayed on campus to work because it was still technically winter and going home was my least favorite activity. One day on the job, I was asked to disassemble a desk we had to move, but I didn't know how to competently work a power tool. I tried for what couldn't have actually been ten minutes before my boss yelled at me and gave the task to someone else. Because I was depressed and alone, I drank way too much that night. I laid in bed the next morning not hungover but feeling utterly worthless. I had already shown up late earlier in the week and been warned that I was close to being fired. So I wrote a text to my supervisor requesting that he fire me because I was a piece of trash. I remained in bed until I heard a knock at the door. It was only then that I realized the school must have informed him back in November of my status. 

I opened the door and already knew that were going to tell me to take time off from school. They recommended it after the first episode, but I told them all I was graduating on time. It turned out I was putting too much pressure on myself; I crumbled. I left the same day realizing that mental illness was real.

To this day, I have moments when getting out of bed is a struggle. As I've alluded to before, even writing - an activity that brings me joy and relief - became a chore I'd rather ignore. Luckily, I'm much more vocal, so my stress isn't as bad. But everyday is a new struggle. I get by. I'm fortunate enough to have supportive friends and family. I don't need coddling. That usually makes me feel worse, as if I'm really sick. Which I am, but I don't need to be reminded. 

Mental Health isn't textbook. I believe everyone has something that works for them; it's important to recognize that. After keeping quiet about my illness for five years, I'm just doing my part to make life a little less taboo and a bit more manageable. Every little bit helps.

Word.

Repurposing Failed Work

It's no secret I've been missing in action from the creative writing world besides the few periodical moments my blog came back to life. I want to thank you all for baring with me these past few years. Sometimes your confidence just takes an unexpected hit, and it takes longer to bounce back than you could have ever expected. But after a while you find a way to reproach situations in your life.

During this time in my creative life I shall henceforth refer to as the Dark Ages, I saw a number of my peers furthering their careers and brands, both professionally and recreationally. While they inspired me, it also depressed me that I couldn't find the same self-starting initiative they had. I felt broken with no cheap mechanic to tune me up, because we all know psychologists cost an arm, leg, and a brain. Am I right? You've never seen one? Well, moving back to what a sad sack I was.

It wasn't until I noticed an old friend asking for writers to produce articles for his website that I felt I could successfully hop back into the double-dutch game. In all honestly, my Best Albums of the Year posts that have graced this page were mostly attempts at getting his staff's attention. (I also like bragging about my taste in music, so it really wasn't a stretch for me.) Even digitally, I can still be a bit too shy to say what I want. Given some of my past posts, I'm sure that's surprising.

When I reached out to him, he seemed excited to have me on board. All I had to do was prove I was actually committed and write a review or opinion piece. Figuring any nobody could write a review [see: Yelp, Facebook, my Twitter feed], I decided to voice my opinion on a matter I felt of the utmost importance: that the Guardians of the Galaxy soundtrack paled in comparison to those of Running With Scissors and Watchmen. That's right. I wanted to start off my opinion piece career with an unpopular opinion. So daring. Much opinion. OPINION!*

Let me spoil the end of this story for you: my piece never saw the light of day. I never even bothered to tell my friend that I didn't have anything for him because I, in fact, am the worst. But it's not as if I didn't try to write something. I got three paragraphs deep before I realized I was writing garbage. My argument was a year late and weak, so weak I even started to doubt it. I hid under my desk because it was bombing. Ok, it wasn't that bad, but it felt like it. I still wouldn't say I love the GotG soundtrack, but I can see the mass appeal it has.

That was seven months ago. It wasn't until last month that I was able to pull myself together and realized I could have written an entirely different piece on the relation between soundtracks and their movies and how they strengthen each other.

What I'm saying is, don't be me. Don't give up, especially on yourself. If you fail at something, try it from a different angle because you probably approached it wrong the first time. Turn those flops into hits. Sometimes you're more clever than you think.

Does this mean I'm going to rewrite that article? Maybe in the future, but I wouldn't hold my breath. I'll be too busy turning this ghost ship back into the Titanic. ...meaning, it'll probably die once it gets too cold out. Or maybe it won't! I'm trying to rebrand myself. Which is why you may have noticed this isn't in the typical Wacko Monologues stanza format you've grown to accept. I want to try something new and long form this time around, because change can be good, right?

As of now, I'll be posting three times a week: Mondays, Tuesdays/Wednesdays, and Thursdays. I figured having the Tuesday/Wednesday flex spot could be useful for when I anticipate Humpday being too much for you all [aka when Tuesday is too much for me]. I hope you're all excited to have me back. Because without your applause I just fade away. ...and that's my court mandated gay joke for the week. Til my next post, my dear friends and associates.

Word.


*Occasionally I have to call myself out for using the same word too many time and being too lazy to synonym it up. I like to think it adds to the humor of my writing if I'm self-aware.

I'm Afraid To Leave My House

I am afraid to leave my house.

Unless it is for necessity or to drink and forget my woes,

there are seldom times you will see me out and about.

The short story: I'm afraid for my life.

Before the death of Trayvon Martin,

I was very aware that police were prejudice.

I heard the tale of Rodney King.

I heard the whispers of Emmett Till.

I had never seen police brutality as a child, but I was as cautious of it as gang violence.

As a child, even though my father allowed me freedom and let me play with friends outside, my mother didn't trust our neighborhood and sheltered me.

[I should mention they were divorced to avoid confusion.]

Eventually she tried to get me to explore,

but she had spooked me enough without realizing it. 

Or at least she realized it too late.

I don't know how,

but by the time I reached high school 

I knew to separate myself from what I considered "niggerdom."

You don't have an exact idea for it either, 

but everyone reading this knows exactly what I mean. 

That's how ingrained racism is in our society.

Even though I still associated with all races in college,

I think I yearned to belong amongst my white classmates.

I knew better than to Uncle Tom it,

yet I felt safer around them.

I thought - perhaps I still do think -

if I'm around white people I can blend in.

I can secretly retain my black identity

but act like and interact with "them."

Then I'll be accepted.

Then I won't be targeted.

I've known for too long being black in "America" was dangerous.

For the past two years, 

it seems like the number of black lives taken by cops has tripled.

Or perhaps the number was always this grim

and the light is finally being shed upon it.

However, the light being shed became over-saturation.

It's kind of like late at night you see the commercials 

to feed starving children in Africa or battered animals. 

You're aware of the tragedy, but because you keep seeing it, 

you just accept it as "what can I do?" 

even though the number is right in front of you.

[As an aside, if you feel the urge to help the animals 

more than other human beings... Yeah, I judge you. 

I understand your reasoning, but I still judge you.]

Over-saturation aside, the reality is still very real.

Black people are dying unnecessarily.

Police are responding radically to non-life threatening events.

I have been afraid of this for far too long.

Receiving the news that Freddie Gray was murdered in Baltimore,

a city I have learned to call home, does not help ease me.

The past week, I have refused to look into the case.

Lightning had struck to close to me, and I refused to look at the damage.

It was only after the protest that turned riot two days ago that I decided to look into it.

And by the way, from the mouths of my friends who were there:

the rioters were not the protesters; yes, two group of people they look the same

can exist in the same area. How bizarre is that?

But when I found out about the spinal injuries.

When I learned that he was born the same year as me.

It doesn't make me not want to leave my house any less.

My name is Charles G Clark.

I am a writer fortunate enough to make a living of freelance writing.

But I am scared shitless to walk out my door at any given moment

because I am a black man living in a dystopian world.

I hear there's another protest this coming weekend in Baltimore.

Who knows, if I can put my own issues aside, I'll go.

And if I do, I hope to see as many of you as possible

for a peaceful protest that can influence change.

Please.

Word.

Where Have You Been?

With June dead and gone,
that makes two months that my blog has gone completely silent.

Last you heard from me my grandfather passed.
It doesn't even feel like a month honestly,
feels like I just saw him sealed inside a wall two weeks ago.

But he's not the reason I stopped writing.
Honestly it was a mix of lack of motivation and work.
Those who have followed my blog for some time now are aware that June is the busiest month for Event Services at Loyola.
This is actually my last summer with them, so hopefully my favorite month becomes more enjoyable next year.

While I did return home most days completely drained from work,
I could have mustered a few brain cells to post a blog or two.
As usual, there's a long list of topics I wanted to talk about.
However, graduating from college (which I'll finally talk about this week) is what really did my writing career in.
Being a Writing major, you're assigned what you write;
sure you'll occasionally write a few things on your own -
which is what this blog was for me three years and running -
but after a while writing became somewhat of a chore.
Obviously I still enjoy it, otherwise this would be a farewell post
and I would be completely directionless in life.

I suppose what I'm saying is that I needed a break,
and a break I took.

I promised you all posts before I graduated.
Those are coming.
There's a lot that happened in May that I have lined up to discuss.
My adventures with job hunting is sure to rear its head eventually as well.

I would say expect a post tomorrow,
but I think it's best if we just continue to play it by ear for now.
Who knows, maybe I'll even post something later tonight.
Until then, read on my dear friends (and associates).
Word.

The Origin of "Word"

From the conception of this blog -
even before it was officially a blog -
I've ended almost every post with "word."
It's become my signature, a trademark,
as simple as it may be.
If I ever forget to end with it,
I'm sure someone would feel odd
as if they were a child going to sleep
without his favorite toy dragon,
as if they finished a sundae
only to remember there was no cherry on top.

So, where did it come from?
If memory serves right,
it was my text messenger signature
as a way of bringing back phrases popular in the 90s.
When I didn't feel like typing anything
it served as a simple reply.
"You ready to go?" "->Word."
"Aight I'll see you there." "->Word."
"Where you at, son?" "->Word."
I'm lying, I was never that much of a jerk
to reply to the last one like that.
When I did send an actual reply,
most people who received a text from me
said it seemed like I was agreeing with myself.
"Ok. I'll see you there. ->Word"
For some reason, I liked the idea of agreeing with myself.
After deciding to dub my online jottings The Wacko Monologues,
"word" seemed like an appropriate end for a guy talking to himself.

There was a period of time from mid 09 til early 2010
where I used "trust" as an alternate.
When I ended a post with "trust,"
it meant that I was attempting to be sincere through my sarcasm.
Eventually I found this technique crippling as a writer
and decided to establish my sincerity with the proper language.

Somewhere down the line "word" ceases being an occasional practice
and became the standard end to all my blog post.
There was a time I had grown tried of it,
wanted something more unique that reflect my blog's title,
even asked you guys for suggestions.
But none of you older readers provided any suggestions.
You guys have been awfully crappy at audience particaption
since I stopped posting directly Facebook two years ago,
but it's okay. I forgive you.

"Word" has become tired and true for me, though.
It has evolved into a deeper meaning,
embodying every noun, verb, adjective, and adverb I write.
Shoot, it even embraces the articles and conjunctions.
It has become one of my favorite words in the English language [behind copacetic].
I figured it was only right to finally dedicate a post to it.
Here's to you, word.
May we dominate the literary world someday.

Word.