The Simplicity: The Maryland Prize

By Richard Wesley Clough

THE SIMPLICITY


From the simplicity to the complexity back to the simplicity about adequately explains the
Weird rationale necessary to deal with the mysterious aspects of the black holes dynamics.
In this see saw manner which I first broached in some meanderings concerning the fat
People that was discarded but not forgotten, one can get an insightful glimpse into the
Origins of human beings in their most meaningful components that stretches into infinity
As the complexity relates. It isn’t I postulate as the Good Schooling says is so fallacious,
but, instead, simple reasoning that evolved from the at first too simple reasoning. This by
dint of meeting the exigencies of the light that basically had to decompress in order to
meet the lights demands on this soul who writes the ode. It’s this freshness that shows in
my three books in this new genre of slices of life interlinked to joyfully rise above what
is painfully contemplated and wrote in prediction of this simplistic remedy. A remedy
that like all things in science was wrought by some extraordinary means.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 9, 2009
• ISBN: 9781669856320

Richard Wesley Clough

N/A

Book preview

COPYRIGHT © 2008 BY RICHARD WESLEY CLOUGH.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL NUMBER:  2009908466

ISBN:  HARDCOVER  978-1-4415-6580-8

SOFTCOVER  978-1-4415-6579-2

EBOOK  978-1-6698-5632-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Rev. date: 12/06/2022

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As the Sun Rises . . .

the Answers Come . . .

for Yesterday’s Crisis . . .

CONTENTS

The Simplicity

For The Love

Richard’s Vortex

Poet

Dear Soul Woman

August

The Last Survivors #2

The Grand Buffoon

Freedom Lost and Freedom Gained

The People of Armageddon

The Last Self-made Man

To Cure the World

A Weather Story

The Death Of The Dark Stars

God Works in Mysterious Ways

Life’s Achievements

Unethereal And Accepted

A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words

History Of Richard Clough

The Speed Of Light

The Maryland Prize

Sexuality

Technique

A History Of The Country

What Little Complexity

The Vampire’s Song

Meteorology

An Infinite Science

Professor Emeritus

The Natives Are Restless

Still the One

Skewered

The Unseen Face

Energy Changes

One Small Perspicuous Part

The Law Of Reason

The Girls

Frustration

A Changing Scale

My Disposition

The Present State Of Existence

Endings

Irresistible Impulse

Finis

Conclusion

POEMS

For Beast and Man

Pretoria’s Party

The Storm Veered Away

Carrie my baby

The Fleet Of Gallilee

PROSE

The Closer To Death

The Sporting Unknown

The Lonely Streets

Capeheart

Forewarned

In The Halls Of Darkness

My Longevity

Custers Last Stand

Where It Really Began

The Secret Code

The Presents Last Thoughts

The Good Schooling #2

Come To Papa

My Gun

The Last Days Of Never, Never Land

An Adjunct To The Last Days

Rock With You

Facts

Lines

Insight

November

Growing Up

The Black Hole Agent

Wrap

Mothers Boy

Kings Of The Night

Clouds

Land Of My Grandfather

Gold Finger

In The Beginning

THE SIMPLICITY

From the simplicity to the complexity back to the simplicity about adequately explains the weird rationale necessary to deal with the mysterious aspects of the black holes dynamics. In this see saw manner which I first broached in some meanderings concerning the fat people that was discarded but not forgotten, one can get an insightful glimpse into the origins of human beings in their most meaningful components that stretches into infinity as the complexity relates. It isn’t I postulate as the Good Schooling says is so fallacious, but, instead, simple reasoning that evolved from the at first too simple reasoning. This by dint of meeting the exigencies of the light that basically had to decompress in order to meet the lights demands on this soul who writes the ode. It’s this freshness that shows in my three books in this new genre of slices of life interlinked to joyfully rise above what is painfully contemplated and wrote in prediction of this simplistic remedy. A remedy that like all things in science was wrought by some extraordinary means.

FOR THE LOVE

I would always be with her in the end, no matter how much emotion, from ecstasy to pain, including turning ecstasy into pain if necessary in order to be with her, Laurie Boxer. She had black hair and eyes, while her physique was the kind that would be poisonous for the likes of me, a southern poet, if I were to achieve the pinnacle of elitism without in some way showing her my passion, a truth in the driving force of my literary life that would always make me a success or else unable to find out for once in my turbulent life the fulfillment of my possession of her. Sometimes I feel I lost her just to concoct some terrible revenge. At other times I’ve had her, and the lust wasn’t pleasing, but something that would make me reject her in the future until that terrible hunger again inflamed me. I really believe she had something to do with my end results regarding her. Take, for instance, the fact that she only wants me when I’m an idiot or when I’m being the most stupid; then she appears after a couple of decades of futility with the proverbial sword in hand, the Angel of Death’s only true love. At the time of this writing, I feel it is the latter, but things are still fermenting in this, my quest.

Novels are very tedious things, and the modern novel suffers from an overabundance of erotically inclined writers with the same egotistical propensity. For myself I have been on the rock pile of literary sweat for what seems aeons, since my talent, so great, has always inspired me. The result is a style that can be both condensed into a microcosm in comparison to the words written in leading up to it and a final book form of representation that is dwarfed by the likes of Michener, who wishes for just one good book to enlighten the famished readers who are too busy in the world’s spiral to know any better. The gist of this is that instead of a long-winded plot that leaves one gasping for the next episode or plethora of egomaniacal words, I shall simply reveal it for you and your enjoyment.

The story has already begun, and the thread or theme of the story revolves around the southern poet’s somehow finding that physical and emotional path to Laurie Boxer. There will be girls and dangerous experiences, even common things, but all with a psychological twist that somehow must be evenly balanced or else bad luck befall her, Laurie Boxer. Richard does not know the golden combination but constantly strives in the direction he senses from the other efforts in this, his personal hell, or Gehenna, or heaven.

RICHARD’S VORTEX

There is nothing funny about a young being’s entrance into the world called Earth. In some ways there are any number of things that can afflict an individual. Most are bad, but for Richard the bad existed in the embryonic form of misunderstanding. As long as he went along with the misunderstanding, it acted like a talisman leading to her whose radiance was especially prized by him. Of course the infidels, who were those without the great love of a woman, would ad their complexity to Richard with their astute observations, which ranged in ignorance from the best to the worst incisions of insight. These Richard would reject even if good because oftentimes good led to bad, and bad was some colossal weight that, once dispelled, sometimes became good. The only things about being bad, like juvenile delinquency, is that it usually never happened, because Richard was so acute in drawing the heat of hot romance, something hot enough to really hurt him, unlike the way he had previously avoided everything else. It was sort of like having a mountain of refuse fall down on him. The mountain has a gravity or physics behind it that sort of impels its development against all else; hence, nothing bad ever results unless there is some defect in the tapestry of this exceptional being. When the mountain is strongest, Richard even conveys it at some adolescent age to his own regret because it marks Richard’s entrance into the scalding world of intense regimen. Richard cannot deviate, and his total dedication is what causes the conflict. It, the conflict, can be mimicked in all its twists and turns as another offshoot of the mountain-style reflection of the rapidly coiling, twister-like spirit. Like a tidal wave it looms on the near horizon, and Richard sits there waiting for it to hit as it has hit everywhere else. Then the religious faithful ask, Do you believe? And all Richard sees is their hatred for the God they seem to love. To him they are the crucifiers of Christ, for only as they tussle with this seeming Antichrist do they freely admit the sins condensing through the effects of Richard’s vortex.

POET

I was sitting there on the cliffs of Santa Monica beholding the unfolding vista of the vast Pacific. From the distant shore I would hear the hollow drone of the ocean swell lapping up on the beach where I once had jogged. I could no longer jog there, as I was a wanted man. I could sense some power of society lurking somewhere all around me, and those halcyon days when I loved the spirit of the onrushing storm seemed to have tragically led me to this final spiritual impasse. Now the storm had a body enforced by law and people who I never knew before, even during all those days when I surfed the waves or eluded the traffic on my bike. Now I was their victim worse than if they had got me, which, if they had, might have saved me. Instead of being the simple soul, I was the hunted soul, possibly set aside for some special treatment that at first might appear to be Laurie Boxer but in all aspects seemed to be something else entirely. Richard, indeed, felt like some inner spirit was forewarning him of all things good and bad, but Laurie, like the poetic line, seemed lost to one who reaped the mother lode. Her everlasting spirit, though, wouldn’t leave Richard, as if she had left a part of herself in some memory that perpetually both tormented and goaded him to war with the worldly lore possessing his soul. Like the future’s greatest, Richard was bound to explode, since the very offspring of his love—the weather—was eroding every person of the real earth.

The real earth for Richard hadn’t yet set Richard into the calcified stone, and Richard was so fortuitous—or was he?—in his escape from the clutches of social perdition that the true story was able to be revealed at the final moment of dissolution.

Back in time they went to the time of the great black cloud over Los Angeles, where young Ricky asked, Why does life seem to be absolute when it’s known or thought to be finite? The answer, he knew, was It has always been this way, and instead of falling prey to the road of crime and eventual boxing champion, Richard was going to be a poet, because this would be the only logical way to offset the former grandeur that he espoused and which he had grown unaccustomed to because the nature of pressure is such that a vacuum, once filled, leaves only another vacuum, and that new role was poet.

DEAR SOUL WOMAN

January 14, 1994

As it began with a letter similar to this, now it ends with a new, more sober revelation. It’s true I love you. I believe in reincarnation and throughout my sojourn I have been struck down to the point when I finally reached this plateau I find myself barren and aloof, with but one recourse: to commit the crime of the century. I didn’t plan it, but as insanity works in conjunction with frustrated but cool genius, I propagated what attracted you to me. It seems you want to kill me, but just a few moments ago, as I knew I prospered, I had my longing for you and expected reciprocation. The force between you and me is inexorable, and with other females I similarly backed off for fear of the consequences. Perhaps my surreal attitude contrasted with your earthiness is what causes the friction of lightning and thunder, but I’m determined to bridge the gap. From it all I can only say all I wanted was to walk down those corroded streets of Culver City with someone like you. You and your long legs, shapely buttocks, and overall sensual comportment that defies my inner awe. Many a time I tore myself apart in jealous rage wanting you, but seeing you with someone else. I am your passionate lover and hope your insanity can reconcile with mine. I hope to be with you in the pit for eternity more than just my lifeless spirit haunting those of the living.

Your lover,

Richard Clough

AUGUST

I failed the basic August history course at UCLA whose content was more about all history other than just August. Its just in the meaningful way we are presented as leading our lives so that any motions in the galactic sphere seem stupendous like the history course in August being August in nature supposedly this meaning existed. Of course its one of the main tenets of my writing that meaning doesn’t exist and ifit does it meets November. Partially what sustained me, or their evidence of my being delusional, was I kept finding a sustaining meaning to my life in all things despite what the first realization of hopelessness told me to the contrary. Like my basketball meeting a thorough repudiation when everything in life suggested basketball was a probable outlet of surviving and existing. No, instead it was a illusion in the way I’d discover most things created by men and women who needed them to fill their lives devoid of true worth. It couldn’t happen for me to be running with some french girl by the internal mechanics that instinctively understands the drawbacks of doing so. Because it is essentially mortal and therefore temporary when my whole instinct is aimed at something higher which is why I cringe at some of their idiosyncratically ingrained vices that they keep hid for the most part.

Women might have seemed to offer me a glimmer of something but the truth was intercourse just meant the death ofmy further growth in ideation. For the most part women were just the counter movement of the present existence. A existence any normal person would believe might exist if the ship wasn’t sinking.

If, in the few words of concentrated expression that generally capture the girth of life in the almost small amount of time they were written in relation to how long it actually took, decades of pain and work, then one might see how the last few paragraphs were so intense that it makes one see a greatness in August that others might have seen in August just as much as any thing else. Well if I once thought they did see it and knew they saw it as well as other glimmers of my history of light its just its essence disappeared and became the ephemeral monarch by the dictates of the speed of time. Now, through the course of deadening time , those acknowledgements those sentient beings might have made by certain references were just small reflections of the fact they were silenced the same way certain great stories and movies were watered down by the evil doers who resented and didn’t understand the vagaries incumbent with the truth. The truth being the light they despised by their zombie traits of living. In the same vein they interfered and gorged on my nascent Omaha marathon in 1977.

But if they were blocking my path in personal and impersonal ways like movies and facts, there were other things I could do and watch in relation to my past unknown lives where, in accord , with their irreligion made them label my glow from such sustenance mentally ill. A process that was increased the more I survived their anger. The question is what were they afraid of? The truth which they maligned and based their existence on? Possibly.

Any way in the beginning my August history course was rejected because it mocked how life could no longer be predictably lived to create a rational meaning the way we evolved from concepts of meteorology to more complex ones like death, survival, and whatever that highlight the kind of living tapestry that would make the one dimensional real tapestry made in the southwest by Indians seem good.

By following this internal voice of reason is the reason I survived in the first place even if! failed to make the mistake most pedants ofUCLA are forced into.

As this intuition is so stupendous in figuring out all the venues of life and connecting them meaningfully, it can be a crazy process in finally doing so that it completely contradicts the conventional wisdom used to create it which is what I meant by my first weather story. But