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Tim Clark

Tim Clark is a writer, blogger, novice political activist, husband and father, from Columbus, Ohio. He has proudly written for The Ugly Writers, Street Speech, a local homeless advocacy newspaper and Lefty Pop

Art and Generosity. Oddly Enough

the ugly writers
They were immigrants, and dressed neatly, but the man’s right shoe had tape wrapped around the toe. And the little girl’s dress was spotless and neat but worn at the elbows.

The Basements I’ve Haunted

the ugly writers
There is a mannequin in the basement at work. It moves around, it used to startle me. Now I pretend I don’t notice. And it pretends it doesn’t see me. There are ghosts there, and we both pretend not to notice each other. We have reached an uncomfortable impasse.

Hope Springs Eternal

the ugly writers
He looked a sad, stooped over, carrying a small, compact parcel of disappointment. Gravity was a little more efficient where his feet fell. He seemed to get shorter with each step.

An Empire in Decline

the ugly writers
It probably seemed like a good idea at the time. Even today, when most of our history as a nation was much closer to oppressor than downtrodden, it makes us blush with unvarnished pride.

Loving the Lawn

It was a little more work. Actually, it was a lot more work. Really, I had to do all the work. Since I haven’t gone to the gym since the coronavirus started maybe a little more work is a good idea. I have a doctor’s appointment on Monday morning, and this will give me a little ammunition.

You Have To Look

the ugly writers
Perspective is everything. How many times do we ignore reality because it makes us uncomfortable? Sometimes we need to listen to the noise, and sometimes we need to see the obvious.

Love and Work, Yin and Yang

the ugly writers
Being in a relationship is like having a job. Good and bad meet, mix, mingle and ferment. It takes turns you never expected when you joined the “team.” There are times it seems like the best place in the world, heaven on earth. Nothing lasts forever, though.

No First Use, The Best Bad Idea

the ugly writers
No first use is an imperfect, squishy sort of half step, but it’s a start. It brings the world closer to Further it gives the opportunity for further negotiations.

We Write Together

the ugly writers
Writing is tonic, medicinal, it eases the pain. Writing can almost be antiseptic, even antibiotic, easing old infections before they can spread and worsen, drag down the spirit, darken the soul. Writing can stop and sometimes reverse the decay of life.

It Was Bound To Happen

the ugly writers
America was, in the words of Abraham Lincoln,”the last, best hope of earth.” A golden phrase, with beautiful echoes of liberty, freedom, equality for all.

Now We Know

the ugly writers
He shot three people, two of them died, one suffered such an awful wound his life will never be the same. The jury found him innocent of all charges. A lesson was learned, if you feel threatened you can shoot somebody. Even if you are someplace you shouldn’t be waving a rifle, which most people would probably find a little threatening.

What We Need To Do

the ugly writers
Isolation is a terrible thing. Being alone can do strange things to people. Everybody needs some solitude to clean out their soul, to make peace with their demons.Too much is almost unbearable.

Instant Karma

the ugly writers
Life is compromise, sacrifice, instant karma. Everything you get is tied to everything you do. It’s the religion of the living, the here and now, if you want to see a little heaven you have to earn it.

Where’s The Exit, I Want to Leave

the ugly writers
And the virus is heating up. Gathering momentum. It moves through life, one terrible headline at a time. The novel coronavirus worms its way into everything with every new, terrible record; the most new infections, the highest number of deaths.

Humanity and Me

the ugly writers
I’ve always been a little bit of an outsider. It was no different with them, but they didn’t care. They didn’t ask for anything except to be treated as an equal, even when they were working so much harder than almost everybody. And, I guess that was all I wanted too, to be considered a part of something. It didn’t happen very often.