Friday, June 22, 2018

The Daily {W}rite June 2016 wk o4

Well, another day passed by . . . almost. Still have 24 minutes left in this wk's Friday. It's raining. A hard but very silent storm. I wouldn't have noticed it at all if it was not for the electricity blinking on and off. Played hell with TV. I was just booting the Cox box up when I caught sight of  a flash of white light outside the window.

The frat boys next door are howling at the moon, which is odd since there is no moon just rain and lightning. Very little thunder. A mime storm! Anyway, frat boys' lunar-lunacy isn't caused by heavenly bodies. Their moon shimmers in the bottom of a Bud Light beer can.

Tomorrow is SoonerCon. Getting up at 10am! YES! Out the door by 11 with the hope of hitting the Midwest City hotel where the convention is held around the time that people are wondering off for lunch. That's the best way to get a parking spot. David doesn't agree, though. He's already complaining about taking too much time last year driving around the parking lot and waiting on someone give up a space! David just goes to SoonerCon because I like to go. I tell him I can get someone else to drive me down there but . . . NO! I think he thinks it's his job. {smile}

Sunday, June 24, 2o18
Yes! Yesterday was SoonerCon for me, and it was a crazy wonderful day filled with fantasy, monsters, comic book and anime characters and . . . Artists. Lots of fantasy/sci-fi/horror writers and illustrators and make-up artists. I'm tellin' ya, SoonerCon is my Disneyland, and David Slemmons is that dad who doesn't really want to go, gut is stupid kid doesn't drive so, what the hell! I think he does have a good time, especially when he runs into an old friend that he can talk to about music and the "good old days" as his freaked out kid runs from booth to booth checking out all the neat super hero drawings, the wonderful horror masks and the dazzling Cosplay costumed characters! I am in nerdvana.

Particularly fun was talking to the writer J.O. Young. She's written a dystopia novel series titled Freaks! Oh, yeah, baby. The title alone is enough to get my intellectual creep running. But checkout the book cover. Click on the picture if the cover art is to small to see. I mean to buy a copy but when we were ready to go home after 2 hours SoonerCon I forgot all about it. But no worry. I can get a copy of the first book online although I'd would have liked to buy it directly from the author.

All the authors I talked to were so young! Well, maybe not really young but at seventy they looked like ten years old. And Accomplished? J.O has  . . . okay, I don't know how many books she's written though I'm sure she told me and I'm SURE she's written a lot. Anyway, here I am at seventy STILL trying to put together and get published my first book of poetry. Am I Jealous? No. Just astounded by how much J.O. (and the many other young authors I ran into at the Con) has accomplished in such a short period of time.

And then there are the
Cosplayers! Oh, so many! AND so much variety. Lots of Star Wars of characters as well as Doctor Who, anime characters . . . and most of them I don't recognize because I don't know a lot of anime . . . and groups of people, people interested in sci-fi and fantasy and . . . there was a family there dressed as different characters from different stories, anime and movies . . . ! Okay, now I'm rambling. Anyway, if you've never gone to SoonerCon, you should! Next year's Con is going to be here in Norman -town! Yeaaaaaaaa! I told David he needs to get that bicycle he keeps saying he's going to get. He asked why. "Hey, because next SoonerCon in Norman-town we can ride I bikes to it instead of driving to it in the car." He said nothing in response. {smiles}

Saturday, June 16, 2018

The Daily {W}rite June 2018 wk o3

Politics. I try to avoid it . . . but I never seem to be able to do it. And Facebook. Full of those Alt-right buttons that I just can't resist . . . what a fish I am . . . I see the bait and CHOMP! So, I write and write and write and I try my best to NOT get nasty . . . but it's hard . . . and I write and I write and when I'm finished I'm gone off the post. And I don't look back. I don't go back to see the rebuttal comments that are sure to come. A bit cowardly on my part, don't you think? Well, yeah, I'm a bit of a coward when it comes to that. But I say exactly what I want to say and that is that . . . you can't refute it; it's not open for discussion. Why? Because I tell you the fucking truth and I KNOW from experience that you are gonna come back with some lame bullshit to disprove what is undisputable. So, I just say my piece knowing that none of it will get through to you, you'll still say you believe the same bullshit you were spouting before I typed-out my comment. So, why bother? Because I at least got to lay the truth out there for you just in case you want to hear the truth. {half-smile}

Monday, 18, 1018
I meant to write earlier . . . . but. I don't know what to write about at 1:30 in the morning. I haven't done much of anything for the last three/four days other than wake up after noon and watch TV, piddle a bit on the Facebook, play some solitaire, force myself to work on the damn blog and . . . stare out the window. God, I'm the oldest man in the universe, that ever lived on this dirt clot. I spend most of the day in my bathrobe and slippers, sipping coffee, taking lunch . . . ham sandwich on dark wheat German bread . . . a bit of kale instead of Romain Lettice, a couple of tomato slices, mayo, horseradish mustard and a wavy line of Sriracha "HOT" sauce. The trick to the hot sauce is to put it directly on the ham BEFORE the tomatoes. The kale goes first on piece of bread with the horse radish mustard. Remember, "HOT" sauce directly on top of the ham. Tastes better that way and it isn't as messy as putting on the tomatoes.

Tuesday, June 19, 2018
We went out, David and me, late at night (midnight) to get groceries. There's something unnerving about the Walmart parking lot after midnight. First thing we see is an old, bearded biker heading for his "hog", and all I could think of was  . . . . Ghost Rider. I mean, except for the large amount of gray facial hair he looked like a walking skeleton . . . in a Levi blue jean jacket, sleeves cut off, blue jeans, scarred motorcycle boots with a silver chain around the right boot. And he was carrying a bag full of groceries . . . No meat that I could see . . . just vegetables. Vegetables? What kind of bad-ass biker buys nothing but vegetables at Walmart after midnight?! No wonder why he looks like a walking boneyard.

I don't want to talk too much about politics on this blog, particularly because I just talked politics in the first entry of this weeks blog. BUT I just gotta mention this: Emperor Trump proclaim last night that he was going to create a Space Force army  to patrol the universe! Yep. He said it. And I got to thinking about a CNN headline I saw today: 1,500 Immigrant Children are Missing. No one seems to know how to find them, they've been misplaced. And now my head is reeling with possibilities. What if Trump stole those kids to be his Space Force army. I mean, it makes sense. No one knows where they are, they are just kids! KIDS! It wouldn't be hard to transform them into a killing machine, Space Force army.

Thursday, June 21, 2018
Here it is already the last blog for this wk. And it's the first day of summer! Yeah! I haven't been riding in my bike in about a month. Hell, I haven't even house much! AND it's already the first day of summer! Oh, well. Hey, I did write a new poem last might . . . early, early this morning . .  and instead of just posting it on Face, I thought I would post it here. Yeah, I'm nice that way.


We'll you fly with me,
sit and sing with me?
My eyes have forgotten
but my sense of smell
still recalls your breath.
A minty kiss on a cheek;
a smile accompanies it.
You watched me sleeping
sometimes while I dreamt
of you watching me.
A cloudy sky, a sailor
hawk adrift upon an
endless sea, uncertainty.
Will you not sing to me?
The old songs, the ones
that we loved as we
loved each other.
Woodie o6-21-18

Sunday, June 10, 2018

The Daily {W}rite June 2o18 wk o2

This last Friday was Art Walk for Norman-town, and David and I went walking the art, which for us always starts out with us moving through space in a very energetic manner, both of us wishing to see everything, every painting, every musician . . . well, after about 45 min. of running around  . . . we begin to slow down. Just two old men after all. We usually only last an hour and a half before my back and legs start aching and David's lively cane dance becomes a zombie shuffle. But this last Art walk . . . ? We didn't get home until around 10:30pm!

9:51 pm
So, there's a story to be told . . . but how to tell it? Where to start telling it? Never sure. This afternoon I sat outside on the porch waiting for my friend Vickie to pick me up so we could go see Ocean's 8 with David, of course. Anyway, I'm sitting on the porch listening to the sparrows sing . . . I mean . . . I couldn't see what kind of birds were there because the trees that line the street are so thick with leaves . . . and birds love to be heard but never seen. I wonder why that is? They are shy, I suppose, afraid maybe. Afraid of cars and cats and those hawks that sometimes come along and snatches them out of the air as easily as I swat a fly . . . But no hawk today. There is, however, a friggin' crow that makes such an awful sound that everything is still for a second . . . until I and the sparrows and cardinals realize it's just a crow.

It's warm outside and I didn't get much sleep the night before . . . maybe an hour . . . perhaps as much as three hours if I was lucky. Anyway, hot, hot, hot it was and I could barely stay awake. But I did and I thought about how little time I spend outside listening to the world, the birds, the wind that drifted freely through tree boughs . . . actually, it's the leaves being moved by the wind that makes any kind of noise NOT just the wind because wind by itself doesn't really make a noise, does it?

Monday, June 11, 2o16

NEW – 2014 Report – Veteran Suicide Statistics 20 Veterans a Day Commit Suicide.  Active Heroes’ plan is working to reduce these numbers. – Active Heroes

Talking about suicide today on Facebook. When someone famous commits suicide, you get a bunch of posts and comments from my fellow Facebookers about the grief they are feeling because this actor, this celebrity died. To me, it's normal and often touching to hear stories about what this actor, that performer, this singer, that artist means to individuals. A lot of times they are mourning their own youth, which a lot of these celebs. were a part of in some indirect way. 

So, what happened really recently was the suicide of  celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain. And a lot of people took it real hard, AND whenever someone grieves about a celebrity there's always one of those Facebook trolls that tries to belittle the mourners with some kind of ridiculous meme that says something like: "Why are you mourning this celebrity when '20 Veterans a Day Commit Suicide.'

Okay, these trolls don't give a damn about vets anymore than they care about Anthony Bourdain or any other celebrity. They just post these derisive memes to stir up trouble, get the legitimate Facebook folk to fight with each other. internet trolls are nothing but a delivery system for fake news. Ignore them.

However, if you want to do something for the vets, because suicide IS a big problem, then do something to help. Volunteer at a suicide hotline service or take a day and work with vets at the VA. Or when you meet a vet when you're out and about just take the time to talk to him or her, ask about their service. Just make that human connection with them.  That will help a lot more than writing some hateful meme. That does nothing but cause pain. 

Tuesday, June 12, 2o18

I spend a lot of time exploring the idea of the peaceful warrior. A simple concept, really. Give in without giving in, fight without fighting  . . .

There is no lack of hardship in my life . . .  radiating from both the external and internal realms. Lately, I find myself having such difficulty interacting with "other" people. I just feel such an anger when then "mess" with me my life, when they glare at me or bump against me or cut in front of me in the ticket line at the movie theatre . . . It's difficult for me NOT to be angry. My whole life seems like such an abuse. I sometimes feel that my only reason for my existence on this . . . this clump of dirt . . . is to be a target. And who knows? It may be true! And if it is . . . well, the big question I need to struggle with is . . . how do I respond to a hostile world?
Went to see Heredity today. A very old fashion horror movie but somehow . . . a very 21st century tale. Really creepy, nasty and horrifying. Glad we went to see it.

As we drove to the movies, David and I talked about our fear of getting old and . . . doing the big dirt dance. We decided that it's important that we keep living . . . keep getting out into the world, stay a part of life and maybe in the crowd death won't find us as easily. David brought the topic up and it really surprised me because I had just written about the same thing on my blog right before we left for the movie. Eerie.

So, I guess I'll get out of the house more, walk around in this world a bit more than I have, get out and do something with my existence before I no longer recognize that "I am."

Wednesday, June 13, 2018
I think someone may be living in the apartment that I share a wall with. But I'm not sure. It's been vacant for months. But I swear I heard a knock at its door. It could've originated from  the apartment just down the stairs from my apartment. But then there were voices, cheery voices that I'm pretty sure were right next to my front door! And then . . . they were gone! No other sounds coming from the hallway, and as best as I could hear no sounds coming from the apartment next to mine. Hmm. A family of vagrant ghosts, perhaps, just looking for a place to spend the day while they wait for the sun to go down.

Thursday, June 14, 2018
Well, the last day of this week's blog. "Use it or lose it." Yeah. Applies to poetry, to writing. This first two weeks of entries have been tough. I feel like I'm very slowly losing my ability to write a half way coherent sentence, a creative paragraph, a poem.  But I'll keep hacking away at it. Maybe will get better. So, I hope you enjoyed this week's posts. Forgive the typos, the spelling mistakes. Just too tired of writing tonight to proof read it. {smiles}

Saturday, June 2, 2018

The Daily {W}rite June 2018 WK o1

So, I'm back. Did you miss me? Of course  . . . I missed you lots! And LOTS! Hope you caught the poem I wrote for my 70th birthday! Yep, that's right! The big ol' seven zero. On the day of my birthday I went to a local grocery store and at the checkout stand I said to the cashier, "I'm seventy years old today." She stared at me for a minute, studied me really, and finally said, "Well, you don't look so bad." {smiles}

Saturday, 5pm, June o2, 2o18 
Another sleepless night, again. My body refuses to fall gently into that good sleep . . . it itches, aches, can't get at all comfortable enough to close its eyes and allow my mind to walkabout in the dream world. So, I stay awake, usually, until eight or so in the morning . . . sometimes even later. But finally, my fleshy frame will "melt" into a sloshy bucket of blood and muscle ( and fat), and I'll float away into unconsciousness . . . and maybe sleep for ten to 30 minutes tops . . . and I'm up again! And that's NOT good. I should be getting at least 6-8 hours sleep IF I want to remain healthy. At least, that's what the TV tells me. Monday, I'm going to the doctor's office to get my nebulizer prescription filled. I'm inhaling "Ipratropium Bromide and Albuterol Sulfate", four vials a day, everyday for my COPD. I'll ask the doctor when I go about my inability to get some proper sleep.

Sunday, June o3, 2o18
Those who are possessed by nothing possess everything
-Morihei Ueshiba

Yes, I'm back into discovering my inner-self, my spiritual self. And I know what you're thinking . . . here he goes again! Looking for something he is not ever going to find (peace of mind). Maybe I will. Maybe not. But exploring, the journey to that place, any place, physical and of the mind is the spiritual aspect of living. What do you think? The quote I started this entry with comes from a book, The Art of Peace. Morihei Ueshiba is the father of the martial art, Aikido. The word Aikido translates: The Art of Peace. Sound weird? To me, yeah. But I'm learning to attune my western ear to the philosophical sound of the "peaceful warrior" concept.

Wednesday, June o6, 2018
Changing a way of living, of believing, of reacting to the world as it "attacks" you. Learning to learn all over again. How not to control your anger, but use it. To express that anger in a different way, a positive way is a chore that may never be totally completed in this particular existence. My anger? I think I was born with it. I got a subconscious feeling that that slap on the butt I got from my mother's birthing team . . . they were probably true believers in NOT sparing the rod and spoiling the child. In fact, I have a strange feeling that ALL of them in that room, on my birthing day (was it my first)  took at least one good whack  at my tiny pink ass just to make sure I got the point that "this world hates you."

Anyway, I had a doctor's appointment on Monday to get my inhaler prescription renewed. The lady at the front desk told me that I had an overdue bill and that I had to pay it right then and there or I couldn't see a P.A. And . . . yes, I got upset. I tried to tell her  that her information was wrong because I just paid that bill . . . Doesn't matter. It doesn't appear on her screen, therefore no doctor for me until I paid the outstanding bill. So, I paid it. But I was so mad, so angry . . . all that day into the next I couldn't think of anything else but revenge and that clinic. You know, something like calling the clinic's boss and getting everybody fired . . . yeah, like that would happen. Anyway, I've been evil mad ever since, and ever since that incident I've thought about every off hand comment thrown at me by some drunken scumbag,  I remember the time my stepfather shoved a loaded shotgun in my gut . . . You see? One slight by a minimum wage earner at a health clinic and I'm reliving my whole sad, violent life. {no smile this time}

Thursday, June o7, 2o18
Heck of a rain storm traveled through all of Oklahoma today. Came in fast and hard. The poor student in the animation got caught up in it. Her umbrella was much help. But we needed rain. Not much more to write about this week. I think I spent enough time showing my manic side . . . at least for now. So, see you next week.

Tuesday, March 20, 2018

The Dailiy {W}rite March 20, 2018 wk o4

According to the calendar March 20th is the first day of spring. But don't take the calendar's word for it. My Facebook friends have been sending me HAPPY SPRING DAY! messages all day long. Unfortunately, my sinuses are telling me it's still winter there. And mother nature is agreeing with my nose, sending  razor sharp winds cutting right through the window glass, the walls of my apartment, forcing me into a hoodie and thick socks because the wall heater too thinks it's spring and refuses to turn on!

Wednesday, March 21, 2018
Yesterday was International Poetry Day. I tried to write something specifically for it in celebration, but I couldn't get a writing groove going. My muse has been out of town for about a year and she's not returning any of my calls.  Writing poetry is getting more difficult. Age, I guess. I know. I'm not suppose to mention anything negative about getting old . . . er, but I just can't "feel" the words much anymore. I can rewrite some of the old poetry from 2005-10 pretty well. But the new stuff just doesn't want to formulate in my mind. It's a bit of a bummer.

Even writing the blog is becoming a chore that I really don't want to  do much anymore. But I keep trying. I feel like I need to do something creative. Something.

Thursday, March 22, 2018
Okay, so . . . Damn! The flickering pick drives my eyes crazy. I think I better trade it in for something else. yeah, that's better.

We wen to Cheddar's for David has with his kids. Met a waitress there, Alissa. And as always I joked with the waitperson and she laughed and I laughed at my joke about how I want my ices tea . . . "Unsweetened, no straw, no spoon, no piece of lemon on the lip of the glass . . . just a cup, ice and unsweetened inside!"  My friends always roll their eyes every time I do this little tradition.

After dinner, I started a conversation with Alissa . . . or maybe she started one with me. I'm not sure which way it went. Anyway I found out she was from Sulfur, Oklahoma. She was at OU studying . . . deafness? She said some other word  for it and I can't remember what it was.  Anyway, I found out her older sister (23) is deaf and that was why she was studying . . . whatever it was she was studying. She was very interesting to talk to, and it seems that she was interested in what I had to say though I didn't say much, I just listened.

Friday, March 24, 2018
So, this morning . . . yes, I said this morning  . . . David and I was out our respective doors and on the road to Vintage Stock with a box full of old DVDs that I wanted to sell. Yeah, cash is a little hard to get these days. I need a real job. But until then I thought I'd pick up a few bucks by selling some old movies that I bought over the years and barely if ever watch anymore. Had about fifty or so and was looking forward having maybe $80 in my pocket . . . but no. Turned out that $30 was all I could get. Okay, better than nothing.

After that, got frozen yogurt with LOTS of fresh fruit in it. What a treat that is! mmm. After that off to Yuyu's for very over priced coffee ($6 for never empty cup, but I couldn't even get through one!). Ran into some old friends of David's, I knew a few of them. And everybody's talking about the good old days . . . And this friend of ours sees my Captain America t-shirt and says, "I really don't appreciate t-shirts that advertise male aggression." The t-shirt had a Captain America logo on it similar to the picture on the right. Anyway, I didn't just bite her head off like I might have done on a bad day. "So, what do you think of Wonder Woman?" I asked her. "Oh, I really liked the movie!" "Oh?" I had her now! "Even with all the 'female aggression' in it?" And the subject just changed to a discussion of the new Wonder Woman movie. Just like that. No anger on either of our parts. Just talking about the lack of positive role model images in the movie. I was so happy with myself for not getting all huffy about male aggression line, but not caving in to personal prejudice about men and patriotism. Yeah, I said it. I'm a patriot. But not in the conservative bastardization of the term, which isn't patriotism but an excuse for doing evil things to American citizens who don't agree with the conservative point of view.

Sunday, March 25, 2018
Yesterday was a day of "revolution" in good ol' America by the most unlikely of revolutionaries high school and middle school children. They came into Washington, D.C. 800,000 strong and not just students from Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida, students from everywhere and not just victims of mass murder.  It was glorious to watch these young heroes stand-up and say, No more." The battle was won yesterday, but the war has just started. The conservatives were out in full tilt spin mode on the cable news stations very kindly (yeah, right)  denouncing the movement these kids started up from scratch, trying as best as they could to shrug off the even as if it were nothing. What is nothing is the conservative gun lovers who put their AR-15s ahead of the life of children.

Thursday, March 8, 2018

The Daily {W}rite March 2018 wk o3

Last night was our friend Jim Ong's memorial service. No, I didn't go. My friend from Tulsa IM'd me to say she would drive down and pick me up for the service in Guthrie . . . but still, I declined. It could go into the reason why but . . . I really don't want to. There are just people who would have been there that I would rather not see let alone have to talk to . . . and they would feel the same way, I'm sure. Anyway, After trying to get around not going, with Kimm doing her best to be a good friend to me I finally just typed, "I'm going to stay home." She IM'd back, "Alright . . . take care." I got the feeling I was pretty nasty. My friend took it a bit personal . . . so, just now I IM'd her and gave her a "partial" explanation why I didn't want to go.

They have on Spotify Radio an album titled Psychedelic that I'm getting my "head" around to night. Jefferson Airplane, Led Zeppelin, Cream, The Doors and a few songs and bands I never heard before. How could I miss any of the music of the late, ACID 60's? Oh,  I know how. Never mind. {smiles}

Okay, I'm driving into that dark, depression tunnel that I carry inside my head for nights like Missing my friend's memorial is guilt-pounding my conscience. Yes, I have one. My
depression is a series of dominos lined up next to each other. Hit one and they all fall down . . . I didn't go because I didn't want to see certain people that I have problems with. So, what did I do? Sat around the dirty apartment thinking about those "assholes" and how badly I think they've treated me in the past. It's painful.

I'm chasing words to say. Casting my tattered net wide across the gray skies of my limited vocabulary. If I were a dog, I would imagine myself a mailman and I'd bite down hard on his ankles. Dots of bright red blood rising . . . matching the wounds Jesus sported on his last breathes of earthly air.

If I were more birdlike driving my wingless heart through the storm, I would sing to you even though you are less likely to hear me from beneath the crackle of cold lightning filling this late even thought. Where's a weatherman when you need him? Somewhere else in Oklahoma is my guess . . .  chasing tornado dreams.

I would walk away from you, walk  away right now. But broken legs keep me stranded in your shadow. Chase you out, you shout out of my apartment, watching the neighbors crack open their doors to see if the insane tenant in apartment #4 has finally murdered himself. Now only the ghost remains. Here, he's only here to torment our ears with its bubbling shouts of profanity. Out, out, damn idiot ghost. Find your grave and sleep well. If you can remember how to sleep without dreaming as your alibi.

I have less than 15 minutes to finish this post before today turns into tomorrow and I will have to write more than my fingers are willing to suffer through. So, goodnight. I say goodnight now because the day will soon start kicking its feet and screaming for acknowledgement if I don't at least pretend to sleep.

Sunday, March 11, 2018
As is usual with it comes to my writer's work ethic . . . I'm behind. Four days into the 2nd week at this will be only the second entry. But to be fair . . to me . . . the first entry was LOOOOOOOOOONG!

Last Friday was the 2nd Friday Art Walk in Norman-town. Got there at 6:30pm, had dinner at Sergio's, the supreme pizza for me and David . . . well, David doesn't eat dinner in a restaurant. Well, okay, he sometimes eats a bit but he usually has most of it "to go."  Don't know why. It's a David thing. Then after dinner we walked the art and I took a ton of pics! 139 to be precise. And for what ever reason, I got really focused on red heads! Yes! No, NOT that way . . . I got home afterwards and looked at the pics and noticed there were a LOT of pics of women with red hair, different shades of red ranging from tinted rust colors to raging fire! Really lovely and sort of weird in a way. My camera seemed to have had a "thing" for red heads tonight and I had no idea it felt that way.

So, we walked the Walk and talked to folks. Well, mostly David talked to people. I tend not to. I don't know why. I feel a bit  . . . intimidated by strangers. I've been that way for always, I think. I don't know. When I'm forced to talk to people (particularly women) who I don't know, I feel like I become another person, A sort of Dr. Jekyll and Mister Hyde thing happens any time I have to talk. I stammer a lot, my voice gets real loud . . . I always try to be funny, say something funny, and I always wind-up feeling uncomfortable, AND I'm pretty sure whomever I'm talking is feeling uncomfortable too. Strange. I can't seem to be myself around other people. Hell, I don't know if I've ever even been myself with MYSELF. I am a product of my environment . . . there is no me except that which my life experiences have made me . . . what other people have made me. Sometimes I try to really look at myself . . . it's like holding a mirror up to my inner thoughts and all I can see is a thick fog. I try wiping it away, I try to get to that core of self . . . but all I can accomplish, all I can see is a blur, a stain, a shadow . . . that's me. That's the real me. A blurry shadow.

Monday, March 12, 2o18
As you might be able to tell if you read my posts, I'm most prolific when I'm wrestling with my depression. I suppose it's just that my treatment for "the blues" is writing, writing, writing  all that nasty negativity out of my head and body. Just in case you were wondering if I'm sane or insane . . . mostly I'm insane, which isn't all that bad. I choose sometimes to fight it off, try not to feel angry or sad and that always makes it worse. It's better for me to write and get it all out on the page, and most times when I read over it, it's even incoherent to me let alone to my readers . . . if I have any readers, that is. I could, I suppose, go on antidepressants  but I'm so against it. This may sound weird but depression is a part of me . . . I don't want to lose it. Besides, my ex head duster (shrink) always said that it's better for my spirit to learn to deal with depression than to strap it into a drug induced straightjacket. Hey! Here's a poem (which you probably have already read) which describes the feelings  I have when I let my "illness" take control.

The Nothingness

Extraordinary to see yourself outside your . . . self;
looking back into those eyes that you've never
really seen before. Counting each wrinkle on that
alien face, each scar that you never were aware of.
You look and you stare and you analyze and criticize
every nook, every cranny every blemish that time created.
where nothing lives, where nothing feels like home, like all
that you are is that nothingness and that nothingness
is more real, more solid, much more than what they've told
you, all your life they told you, what reality is supposed to be.
A bare existence that glares at you through that self you've
never known. You have never known. It feels like butterflies
fluttering around the fire’s light, like the deepest end of the pool
where panicky legs keep searching for the bottom and find
nothing more than . . . than . . . and there's that word again . . .
nothingness. All there is, all there’ll ever be . . . nothingness.

Not even a splinter of a shadow left.
Woodie o4-28-17
(rewrites o3-o9-18)

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

Well, the last entry for the week. Something wonderful happened today. Students in 3,000 + high schools walked out of class to protest gun violence in schools. Dude, my heart throbbed with their courage, their strength, their since of pride. The warrior's spirit, the power to stand up against the insanity that is gun violence in schools. There were are few folks scoffing  them, that idiot Ted Cruz was laughing, LAUGHING at them these kids who are willing to stand up for what's right! Cruz said something like, "Well, if the police had done their job and got to the school in time, there wouldn't have been any fatalities! Yeah, you know, Mr. Cruz, if you Congress guys would pass the gun reform bills, you be doing your job!

Sunday, February 18, 2018

The Daily {W}rite February wk o3

God! I'm having a hell of a time trying to write today. This is the third time I started this damn entry! Okay, let me try again. I talk about a lot because a lot has happened this week that is mostly just damn annoying to deadly. Racism is running around the Facebook club, and the right and the left are at each others throat over the latest school massacre. I could go on and all about this fucked up country I was born to . . . but I don't want to today.

What I do want to talk about is Tony Maffucci. My friend Tony died a few weeks back. Maybe longer than a few weeks. Today is the day we all get together and think about Tony. And what a turnout it was! There had to be at least 90+ people there in this big room in side a church. And most of them I had served at one time or another at the Tavern . . . and I couldn't remember one name. But I could remember faces, and though most were old and wrinkled, I found the 18-21 year old that used to be in each of their eyes.  And people ate! Good food, finger sandwiches mostly . . . but so good! And there was music by one of the bands that used to play the Tavern all the time. And speeches! No too many or too long but all beautiful tributes to a man we all loved and admired. Rest in peace, Tony Maffucci, you dear, dear man.

Wednesday, February 21, 2018
End of the third week and what a day it has been. The kids and parents from

Parkland, Florida pounced on Washington DC along with students from the DC area and the parents of the slain from Columbine High School, and Sandy Hook Elementary to give testament to the horrors associated with the mass murders that took place in their respective home towns. It was painful to listen to the stories of grieving students and parents . . . and it was also uplifting. These kids, these parents showed great passion, restraint, heroes all of them fighting as hard as the could to stop the senseless murders that has plagued our country 20 years. And , giving the devil his due, President Trump listened silently to every story. And after 70 minutes of listening, Trump went back to being Trump and discarded everything he just heard and told the crowd exactly what he would do about ending gun violence in schools from the crib-notes he had already wrote out before the meeting had begun. The kids, the parents they weren't at all fooled. They knew as soon as he opened his mouth that Donnie Boy didn't give a damn about them or any of the dead. President Trump is a punk. He needs to go. There is no room in America for this guy. That's all I'm going to say this week. If I sound rather pessimistic about the outcome today, don't worry. Yes, I'm pissed but I have not given up hope. These kids are going to make it happen. There is not a doubt in my mind. {smile}