Tuesday, June 20, 2017

The Daily {W}Rite June 2o17 WK o4



Friday, June 23
A month since my 69th birthday. Guess it's time to get back to work on my blog. I need to, really. I mean, I'm just wasting away doing nothing that even resembles being creative. All day long I sit and watch TV, sleep until 2 pm every day and basically watch myself go down into those deep, soggy depths of just not giving a fuck about anything. Yeah, I know, "snap out of it! Get a job! DO something." I can hear you saying it before you actually read this entry. And I've taken steps to get myself out of this "I don't give a damn" loop I've created for myself. I get up earlier, go out for a ride on the bicycle and . . . started writing again on this blog.

Friend of mine from Las Vegas, New Mexico sent me a short video of him playing and singing one of my songs. Here're the lyrics:

DOWN (Down chords: dm, DM, G, F, dm, DM)

You say the world's unkind, you know it's true.
How can you be so blind to all the love that surrounds you?
Oh, you're turning round. Oh, you're coming down.
You look into my eyes but you don't see
Beyond the drunken lies that pick at your festered memory.
Oh, you're fallen down. Oh, you’re turning round.
When will you leave the past behind?
Stop chasing shadows through the wall.
Just look around and you may find
That there's something worthwhile after all.
The time has come for you to turn away
From all the pain you cause
Through all the hurtful things you say
They screw you round. Oh, they bring you down.

I need a piano. I want to get the chords down for all the songs I've written before I lose the ability to remember them. But a full size piano won't fit in my apartment. Oh, it might if I rearranged things a bit more, but it would still make my little hovel even  . . . littler. Maybe I can find a small electric keyboard somewhere. Hell, I may even have another song in me.







Monday, May 22, 2017

TDW Birthday Poem May 23rd 2o17

So, here it is. Another notched on the old door jam, another candle adding its fragile flame to the heat of the day. Everything that you do in this life gets easier as you get more practice. Spend enough time on this planet, work hard at learning how to do this or that and more than likely you'll become an expert at any and everything you apply yourself to . . . except getting old. You can't learn how to deal with age until you're too tired out, to set in your ways to learn the skills of being an elderly . . . thing. And don't ask friends for suggestion on how to live life as an old fart. They don't know themselves. And do yourself a big favor and never complain to your friends about getting old. "Well, getting old beats the alternative!" or they'll say something even less comforting, "Old? You're not old!  Wait 'til you get to my age!" Anyway, here's the yearly poem(s) for this most wonderful of days, my birthday.

69 = LXIX
580,262,400 breaths taken
103,500 miles walked (average)

1
I Discovered a rash on my left leg this morning,
a rather large rash the size of a softball mitt that
decorated the kneecap with thick, scarlet flowers which
quickly mutated into violent blooms of yellow puss.
And I thought to myself, “Fuck! That’s definitely
gonna leave a scar.”

2
And the next morning, yes the very next morning
I woke up with a start to find time was already busy
torqueing my joints from ankle to wrist, delivering
a incapacitating  knotted highway through my entire
body. Slowly and thoroughly I’m being transformed
into an aging flesh-pretzel.

3
The House Sparrows hop about on the wet lawn,
their tiny heads jerk about  searching out shelter,
a bush, a porch. Some flutter up onto the roof
seeking an open vent, a stove pipe, anything,
any tiny crack in the eaves, any passage that might
lead  to the warm, dusty crawl space where
the angry winds can’t find them. I have friends
that are a lot like  those House Sparrows.

4
My Facebook buddy raises my spirits with an
empathetic. “You’re only as old as you feel.”
Which if true means I’ll be celebrating

my three hundred sixty-third birthday.

5
Last night it rained; I mean, I meant to say,
early this morning it rained. No, I mean, I meant
to say . . . What the hell the hell does it matter?
When it’s dark, its night not morning, right?

6
Anyway, it rained last night and I slept through
most of it, I dreamed through it (or is it I dreamt
through it? Fucking grammar.), until a subtle
roll of thunder opened my eyes.
I ran to the window, threw back the blinds . . .
the rain had already stormed passed leaving only
a saggy, soggy world for me to admire.
So fast things come and go these days. I barely
had time to close my bathrobe in respect
for Mother Nature’s moist gifts and the few
passersby who might not appreciate being exposed
to my almost sixty-nine year old naked body.

7
The problem with living alone?
There's no one here to wake me
if I dream too loud.

8
Yes, I’ll be sixty-nine years old in May.
Not sure how I should feel about that.
I confess that often enough I get up

in the middle of the night  wondering
if I should be frightened by the fact
that everybody seems to be dying
around my body or pleased that it’s not me.
Some die old, some younger, some
linger longer than they should, while others
rumble through this existence so fast
It’s hard to tell if they were ever here at all.

9
Sixty-nine looks to be an annoying year.
Not that sixty-nine as a birth-age
is less remarkable as any other age.
It’s more about the sexual connotation
associated with the number 69.
“Woodie, how old will you be in May?”
“I’ll be exactly sixty-nine years old.”
“Sixty-nine!” they’ll say with a
Beavis and Butt-head chortle,
“Heh-heh! He said sixty-nine!
Heh-heh, heh-heh, heh!”


10 Raincoat
April, nineteen sixty-nine, flying out of Okinawa
a pit stop in Guam to refuel. I light up a cigarette with
the Zippo the guys gave me right before I escaped ‘Nam.
Inscription on the lighter’s silver body:
“From the Boys in the Nasty”
A faded map of Guam on a wall in the airport.
Next to the map there’s a picture (piss-yellowed by age)
of a local jungle hilltop. I look closer at the battered
photograph and see something buried inside,
deep behind all that thick, green jungle foliage . . .
a dark-brick building, weathered, crumbling,
a monastery, a church, maybe? In between drags
off my Marlboro light, I make a solemn vow:
someday I’ll come back to Gaum, find that hilltop
and explore that monastery or church or whatever
the fuck it is. But why, I mean, I just got the fuck
out of a jungle! I wanna crawl back into another one?
It makes no sense but I promise anyway and,
of course, I never go back.

Two years later, out of the Corps, sitting in a bar.
“Hey, man?” A voice from behind my barstool,
“You Woodie, right?”  I turn ‘round . . . a young guy
‘bout my age, a face full of shrapnel scars.
“Yeah?” I’ve no idea who this Frankenstein
looking motherfucker is, but he seems to know me.
“Come over and sit with us.” He leads me
to a corner in the back by the pool tables where
two other dudes sit. Under the pool table lights
they look more like ghosts than men.  One guy,
burr cut, his left hand’s missing the pinky and ring finger.
The other guy looks squirrely, twitchy, unable to sit still,
never looks me right in the eye.  As I sit down I remember
something. Four years ago, my belov├Ęd Corps
had this enlistment program. Enlist on a certain day
and you’ll go through boot camp with dudes
from your home town. These three, Frankenstein,
Half-hand and Squirrely-butt, where guys I went through
boot camp with. But damn if I remember ‘em.
Anyway, we start talking, drinking beer after beer,
and suddenly Squirrely-butt starts babbling about . . .
“Hey, remember that DI, that Gunnery Sergeant from
Porta Rico?” we all nod and smile. “He mustered us onto
the parade grounds the day of our graduation, Remember?
‘Men, most of you are heading for Vietnam. Some of you
won’t make it back . . . alive. So, I got some advice for you . . .
When you have sex with them women over there in Vietnam,
always wear a condom. I know, I know. What’s the point
of takin’ a shower if you’re gonna wear a raincoat, right?
Well, if you choose to go bareback on them girls,
your dick will fall off!  Men, don’t come home
without your dick!’”

That was the best life advice I’d ever gotten.
And to this day, I never leave the house
without a raincoat.
Written by Woodie
for his 69th B-day o5-23-17

Saturday, April 1, 2017

The Daily {W}rite April 2o27 wk 01

Saturday,
As you may see I'm in a shadow mood tonight. A pale shadow falling through the black empty. Alone but not alone. More shadow to me than substance. Water in a glass half full or half . . . I'm not that much on mind puzzles.  Really is enough for me to misunderstand. I don't have to create fantasy to keep my conscious mind busy. Just tying my tennis shoes can turn into a theory for living: Shoestring Theory if you will.

Thursday, February 2, 2017

The Daily {W}rite February 2o17 WKo1

Thursday,
Politics thrown in my face, politicians shouting out the demagoguery. A mess our American life has become. Australia, Great Brittan, countries that are our friends, our best friends have been bashed by this new President we got. This clown threatens Iran with war and pretty much everybody in the world if he doesn't get his way. He scares me.
I've been writing quite a bit of poetry the last week or so. Maybe I'll gear up my poetry page and start showing those a bit.

I'm confined to the REAL world today, incarcerated by myself for my own good, I'm supposing because how would I, could I possibly do something harmful to my own fleshy existence. No, please, don't bring up my suicide. It was a long time ago. I was doing a lot of speed and alcohol at the time, I wasn't eating right . . . besides, I did die and having done so once, I'm not interested in doing it again.  The afterlife? Well, I did see something on my trip through oblivion: that static you see on the TV when the station goes "off air." That's what I saw. Pretty much, eternity seems to be even less comprehensive than this REAL REALITY we appear to be stuck in. So it is. The REAL world is like a muddied wading that we must all trudge through together or totally alone. A benefit would be to have as many friends as you can to help slog through the muck. Or if you are satisfied with the notion of traveling existence on your own, perhaps you could wish yourself a bit taller than everyone else. Less of the mud could hit you in the eye then.




Monday, January 16, 2017

The Daily {W}rite january 2o16 WK 03


Monday,
Well, no ice storm. People are pissed. The local weathermen on all the local channels promised an apocalyptic strength storm with plenty of icy roads and downed powerlines, and people were afraid. They ran to the grocery stores and bought up all the food and candles, and other things necessary to survive what was suppose to be the "Storm of the Century!" We should be glad that all we got was rain. Again, pissed. The overzealous meteorologists decided it was good day for a panic.

9:30 p.m.
Energy. Life is draining me of my natural born energy.  There was no expiration date, Nature didn't send me an evection notice, no "You Have Twenty-Five Days To Pay Up" post on Facebook. One day I just woke up and felt like not doing so.   Aging sucks. I know, I should look on the "bright side." I can't. Being tired all the time, getting sick way too many times a year, losing the ability, the desire to create art . . . there's no upside to any of that.

Tuesday, January 17, 2o17
My mind will not cooperate with my fingers' desire to type something, anything onto this blog. Focus. Finding it hard to focus. Ah! The TV news is shouting at me. That must be the problem. I'll get up and turn it off! That's better. I can hear myself trying to think. But the brain just keeps shooing away, scaring away any reasonable thoughts that try to get themselves to my fingertips and on to the blog's page. The other thing that stops me writing on this blog is an avalanche of cold, brutal memories. Today, I accidently ran into an ex's Facebook page. Okay, it wasn't an accident. One of my other Facebook friends had found her Facebook page, and me being the total idiot I have always been decided to look it up and . . . there it was. A bad picture of her with a guy . . . of course, there is always a guy . . . with their faces stuck together to fit on the profile pic. And yes, when I let one of those very life changing moments in my life show itself, the rest of those "life changing" experiences want equal time. Every memory that I can remember comes crashing into my consciousness. I can't do anything be relive them all. Bad memories are pushy bitches.

Wednesday, January 18, 2o17
A constant battle, a war between insanity and sanity. The Crow versus the Sparrow. The Crow has the wing span and a fierce, black beak which is capable of splitting a small skull in half with one mighty blow. But the Sparrow has the numbers. Two thousand wings batting away their adversary, a thousand beaks hammering away at whatever stands before them.

And the war is always bloody, unnerving, severing the spirit from the flesh in a bloody rain of feathers and sweat.  The screams, the cries, the scattered chatter filling the sky with dreadful sounds.

And the war never ends. A constant in this life. The sane against the insane, emotions against reason, fact and fiction, religion and philosophy . . . it never stops and no one, not Sparrow or Crow ever wins. But something inside is crippled. Something dies. Something goes missing in action, never to be found again.

10:41 P.M.

At Bison Witches Bar & Deli 
I'm just sitting down at a booth when the very tall waitress drops by to take our order. If I stood up, she would still be tall. David's not eating. I'm beyond hungry. Wound-up sleeping until noon. Didn't get to bed 'til eight in the morning. Damn. I call this inability to sleep Slemmonila because it's all David's fault.

Earlier, Andrews Park.
David strolls through the winter grass. I'm busy getting pics of the lone skateboarder running the obstacle course. He keeps trying to "ride the rail" from one platform to another. He falls a lot enough to finally quit and just ride the ramps back and forth, back and forth . . .

The Tai Chi people working out on the amphitheatre stage capture my attention. I keep trying to get a pic of them but they keep disappearing behind a hedge. They too keep doing the same thing over and over again. Watching other people exercise is boring as hell.

Thursday, January 19, 2o17
My world, my America where have you gone? I saw you in the living room right before I passed out. I woke up expecting to see your smiling face staring down at me, but you weren't there. No goodbye? You could have given me a nudge or a poke in the consciousness. You could have slammed the door real loud on your way out. That would've gotten my attention. But no. You just left living a big hole in the middle of my patriotic heart. How am I to live without you? I asked God for advice, I prayed until my closed eyes began to cry, and my fingers dug bloody trenches into the back of my hands. He did not answer. No word from God. My America? How am I to live without you, without God?

Friday, January 2o, 2o17
It's Inauguration Day and the Trumpsters are celebrating while the rest of America grieves  with angery posts and comments on Facebook. The Bernie people are the most vocal. They still blame Hilary for everything. If Hillary hadn't cheated, they think, it would be Bernie in the White House. I'm not buying it. I don't think anyone could have beaten Trump not even Obama. Yeah, I'm upset too, to be honest. I gripe a bit. But I'm a little more subtle with my defiance. This is my profile pic on Facebook. It's going to remain there for . . . well, a very long time. For as long as Trump is POTUS, I'm thinking. But I don't know. It may be too subtle. People may not understand how upset I am about Trump being my president. So I went ahead and wrote a bit of a poem that I hope will make it clear how unhappy I am for my America today.

Inauguration Day

Howling trains make the ghosts fear,
the next four years will make
the living quake. Finally dead, we rejoice.

There was no choice anymore.
People continued to speak darkness
until all the light was gone
then all those  buttoned down devils
crawled out of their safes.
The earless, eyeless creatures that we were
didn't heed the warnings, we didn't do
a goddamn thing to save ourselves.

So beautiful this fallen Eden would become,
when the dove was drowned,
when Moses wandered back into the desert
lost forever in the Sinai. That's his just dessert.

And the leftovers, we with stooped backs
and broken hearts slowly shriveled up
until there was nothing left of us but dust,
dust enough to keep the rust and cobwebs company.
Woodie o1-2o-17

Saturday, January 21, 2o17
It was a glorious day, my friends. Hundreds of thousands of people marching in the streets of America, for America! 500,000 in Washington D.C., 200 in Tulsa (I need to check the numbers on that) and an estimated 600,000 in OKC! And the people were happy, they were singing and dancing and standing up to the Commander and Thief who just took over the Oval Office last night. And it was peaceful, no riots, no violence, hell, even FOX NEWS couldn't say anything bad except they thought some folks had painted "bad words" on their posters. There was some controversy. Some people complained that it wasn't inclusive enough because Pro-Choice people weren't allowed to attend, but I'm not sure that happened. And of course Facebook had a few Trumpsters that just wanted us Liberals to stop whining because "YOU LOST THE ELECTION!" That's just par for the course. CONservatives are all about civil rights as long as it's their civil rights. Anyway, today was a good day, and this is the last entry for this week!


Monday, January 9, 2017

The Daily {W}rite January, 2o17 WK o2


Sunday,
I can hear nothing tonight except for the hissing of the wall heater and the sound of Neil Young's Harvest album. I've been swallowing pain killers (over the counter, nothing strong, and I'm following the usage recommendation on the package), trying to "kill this knotted spasm in my lower back muscles. Not doing a lot of good, really. But Neil's squeaky, nasal, country voice seems to be more powerful than the drugs I'm taking. My back must like Neil Young.

There's something else I'm hearing. The echo of Meryl Streep's acceptance speech for her life time achievement award that she received at the Golden Globe Awards show just ended about two hours ago. I'm not going to print it here because it's easy enough to find because the internet will be a buzz with it by the time morning comes around. And, I'm pretty, sure the news shows morning, noon and night will be talking about it for at least two days. I know I'm not going to forget it. I also know that I sometimes just can't find the words to express myself on a lot of subjects. But America? I've always found something to say about her, about my love for her. Totally honest? I'm a patriot at heart. I love this country more than I am able or willing to say. Meryl's not. She said it better, what we need to be doing in order to actually call ourselves "true" Americans. And I'm planning to live by her words, and by words that just found after hearing her speak.

Monday, January o9, 2o17
The Actor Factory: Sign in on the laptop. Took me about five tries just to get my name into the computer. I hate other people's computers. None of them work right. Stand at the blue line and wait for someone to come get you. I can hear David saying something about a script? He comes out and the little A.D. calls me in. Shows me a script. I glance at it. Only two lines. I'm sure I can remember them.  Chris Freihofer (Freihofer Casting) sits at a long table staring into a laptop screen. He looks up and smiles at me. The A.D. walks me over to the camera. "I'll be reading with you," she says. "Let me know when you're ready." I nod. "Are you ready?" I nod again. "Yeah, well you have the first line." "Oh," I say. "Bless you." That's really the only line I remembered, damn. I make up the other one. "Really mean that you are thankful to her, " Chris says. I do it over, the A.D. responds with her line and I paraphrase what I think my line is and . . . "Yeah," Chris says, "I can use that. Thank you." The A.D. shows me to the door, and I go back to the front desk to sign-in on two hard copy sign in sheets. A lot of signing in. I think I left my stainless steel coffee cup in the audition room. Damn.

Tuesday, January 1o, 2o17 2:30 a.m.
The darkness won't let me go. Jealous, I think. She doesn't like watching me dream, alive in other places,  with other creatures.  The light. Yes, I'm sure it is the light that drives her to keep me awake until the dawn arrives and drives her into the corners of my small apartment, into the closet to hide until the sun passes by and she can live again. She fears her death as much as we fleshy things fear our own deaths.

Hell, we fear everything, we fleshy beasts, we two legged, mouth breathers.  The day, the night, the dreams that we may dream, the coming dawn, the sparrows that bring the light into the world in their tiny birdie mouths. Our fear, our panic. We are more like the night than even the night knows. 

Day will come, I know it will, it will arrive, I know it will, and I will rise, drink coffee until noon, maybe eat a sandwich, maybe write more about the black hole I feel growing inside me. There's a darkness for you to think about. The one inside yourself.

3:22 P.M.
Warmer today, 50°. Not long ago it was 7°. Oklahoma is its own kind of hell. But we are a rugged race of adventures, we Oklahomans. You appreciate 50° when its been 7°. I rolled open the passenger window in David's car. My arm extended out, reaching out to feel the cool wind. I smiled at its pleasant touch. I think my arm smiled too.

Doctor appointments on Thursday, me to the heart guy and David to get his prescription sunglasses. My appointment is at 1:15 and David's at 2:22. With luck, we'll neither one have to wait on the other. But I'm taking a book just in case I have to sit around for a long time. Look at us! The dilemmas that face us old things. Friday is Art Walk and the weathergirl is threatening an ice storm for all of Oklahoma. Do we dare go out in it? We might fall down! I long for the old days when my body and mind were young enough to say, "Fuck the weather. If I fall down, I'll get back up all by myself!"

Wednesday, January 11, 2o17
76° on what is traditionally the coldest day in Oklahoma? Walking into Walmart with a very pleasant southern breeze at our backs. But no smile on my face, and not a hint of a grin from David either because we hear that by Friday Norman-town will be one giant-ass icicle! Even the words "Ice Storm" is . . . chilling. My bones are already aching with antici . . . SAY IT! . . . pation. Well, I'm hoping that if it really turns into a frozen hell, nature will at least be artistic about it because even though it's friggin' cold as hell, an ice storm can be the most beautiful hell you'll ever see.

Didn't see Sis at the Walmart where she works. I wonder what she's up to? Anyway, got me a heating pad for the back at the Walmart and got it home, plugged it in strapped it on and . . .  Oh, man, does that feel good. I know, I'm older than lint. Where a cute lookin' babe smiling at me would make me smile back, back in the day . . . now it's a warm breeze in the middle of winter and a heating pad strapped to my backside that does the trick.

Back in 2oo9, I wrote a poem about Walmart. Somebody online was complaining about standing in the checkout lane in Walmart with some crazy woman bumping into her over and over again. made me think of this poem and so I looked for it and . . . I FOUND IT! How do you like that? I can't remember where I put my keys but I can find a poem I wrote eight years ago on one try.

Waiting On Heaven

And here, here I am! Too impatient,
my callused feet screaming in defeat,
dreaming dry, white socks and sandals.
Here I stand, checkout lane 15, Walmart
where the older couple sorts the pocket lent
from sweat-stained change.

Quite hopeful are they that there will be
at least twenty dollars left over after—
My! My! All those groceries yet to be checked!

Behind me, mother of three— improperly dressed
in a medium, AC/DC t-shirt and jeans— she yells
at her obnoxious brat that’s putting
something foreign in her tiny, little mouth.

“You don’t know where that’s been!
Spit it out, SPIT . . . it . . . OUT!”

Me? Yes, me, that other old man, the one
in the wooly Spider-Man cap,
brand new, dull-blue Chucks, yes, that one,
squinting at the magazine rack,
reading the dirt on sweet Angie and Brad.

“Look at their new baby! Sooo cuuuuuute!”

Yes, I stand here waiting, sadly wondering,
will it take this long to get to heaven?
Woodie o4-o99-o9 (rewrites o1-11-17)

Thursday, January 12, 2o17
Icy roads, power lines down, possibility of power grid wipe out . . . Damn, this weekend may be a new kind of artic hell! But I took  the initiative and forced David to take  me to the Walmart for a nicotine gum and  food run. Okay, IF I can't get out tomorrow, I'm set up for a cozy cave day. Just hope the power doesn't go out in Norman-town.

Heart doctor today. First off, weigh in. 203.3 pounds! DAMN! But heart is working, BAD cholesterol down into the lower 90s, GOOD cholesterol a bit under what would be acceptable. But no worries. Need to just get in the exercise and look up what foods have the good cholesterol and incorporate them into my diet. Life is good!

I dreamed last night! Okay, I know, we always dream but we don't always remember the dream. But I did last night. I dreamt I was in this line to get the newest iPhone and I was in front of everybody else and got the first one which was shaped like one of my inhalers AND I got it for free because I was first in line! Everybody applauded AND . . . I woke up. Yes, yes, not much of a dream, U grant you, BUT I DID remember it!

Saturday, January 14, 2o17
What the bleeding hell just happened? I just spent the last hour writing the last entry for this week's blog and the son-of-a-gun site wiped it all out before I could save it! Maybe it's my hacker that's doing this. Oh, I'm sure I have one, some faceless hacker who loves nothing more than messing up my time on the internet with typos, deletes and just all kinds of nasty, evil doings! Well, IF I do have a hacker, I hope that he is a she and looks like Lisbeth Salander and NOT Plague. Okay, I shouldn't say that about Plague. Plague is cool, just lose a bit of that weight, okay? Yeah, I know! I need to drop about fifty pounds of Hitchcock myself.

Anyway, I congratulate myself for writing more this week than last week. But I think 'I'll stop now. I got a few things on my mind that I want to talk about, but I'll save them for the next
set of blog  entries. So, enjoy this, I hope, and I'll be back next week! AND sorry for the personal slam, Plague.































Sunday, January 1, 2017

The Daily {W}rite January, 2o17 WK o1

A whole year gone by in what seemed to be a single breath! A new beginning started today on this first day of the first month of a new, a brand new year! The end to all the sufferings of 2o16!

It takes 365.25 days to go around the Sun and wind-up exactly where we started.  A solar or tropical year is 365 days, 5 hours, 48 minutes, and 46 seconds. The Tropical Year  is used for most astronomical calculations.

The rate at which the Earth spins: An object on the Earth's equator travels once around the Earth's circumference. This is about 24,901 miles per day. To calculate speed, divide that distance by 23hr, 56m, 4sec to reach the figure of 1,040 mph.

So, in about 365.25 days, I'll be wishing you a Happy New Year that will not be much different than the one I'm wishing you now. That may be either a pessimistic or optimistic prediction. We'll see for sure . . . next time around. :)

A musician friend of mine asked me to write her some lyrics and she, in turn, would put them to music. I slammed this out pretty fast having recently OD'd on the new Rolling Stones album and feeling a bit despondent during this first day of the . . . but I'm already repeating myself and we've barely started 2017! Oh, well.
2017 Blues (The First Poem of 2017)

Another night killing me
the darkness dark as it can be.
There are no dreams for comforting

these deadly thoughts surrounding me.

Gun to my head, knife to my throat
a goodbye note that’s all she wrote
no tears, no sounds of regret
forgotten long before I can forget.

light a candle to the night
turn the darkness into light.
Find a simple sort of fantasy
to help me through this insanity.

Word to paper, paper and pen
uppers and downers, adrenaline
pumping like gas through my veins
is there a chance I’ll see her again?

Burnt and broken, sad as sin.
Begin again, begin again.
No stranger to this loneliness
but no heart left to begin again.
Woodie o1-o1-17

Monday, January o2, 2o17
Went to lunch with David's kids. Talked movies a bit with Brendan, and watched my tongue for the most part. Brendan and me don't share the same opinions on movies and we both tend to be pretty fiery about our personal opinions. So, I tried NOT to get to "feverish" about my own.  After that, David and I went to a local car dealer to see if David could purchase  a new ride. Proved to be a bust so it looks like we ARE headed to Midwest City to another car dealer tomorrow.

On the way home from having lunch with his kids and looking at cars we had this conversation:
David: How come you didn't eat lunch? I would have bought you lunch.
Woodie: I got money.
David: Then why didn't you eat?
Woodie just wanted some tea . . .
David: No, what's the real reason?
Woodie: Well . . .
David: Yeah . . . ?
Woodie: You said we were going to go to Popeye's today and . . .
David: Oh, damn! I thought I told you that we weren't going today.
Woodie: Not until we were on the road to go have lunch with your kids.

And David apologized over and over again and I kept saying, "Don't worry about it. it's no big deal," and it wasn't but the apologies kept coming. I got home and the phone rings and it's David and he's still apologizing!

David: I'm horrible friend.
Woodie: No, you're a great friend. You're just a lousy father."
And we laughed and the world was made whole again, righted on its axis and we made plans to go to Midwest City tomorrow to find him a car and . . . stop by POPEYE'S!

Saturday, January o7-17
So, didn't write as much as I wanted to this first week of the first month of 2o17. I've been a little sick. Bad backache  from sleeping on a short couch for the last six years! I'm guessing at that. But found me some good over the counter pain killers, and I'm feeling better.

Big thought jump to:
But my mind is all numbed out by sixty-eight years of existence. I believe that a person is the total sum of his biology and the effect of the environment he or she grew up in. Aging and memory. Those two things together lock us up in a
psychological and physical looping of everything that ever happened to us. And I hate it. I don't want to be the sum total of my experiences. I don't want my past to determine how I respond to the world here and now and in the future  . . . if there is one for me. Been studying the philosophy of String Theory and I've come to my own conclusions about it, which I'm sure will piss off the purists who believe human behavior and Quantum Mechanics have nothing in common. My little theory is that the string that binds our minds are made of memories. What we are in the present is mostly based on what we have experienced in the past. The past defines us, cripples us in some ways to always react to our present the same way we learned to respond to it in the past. But this is enough for tonight. I'll start the second week of the first month of the new year tomorrow and hope NOT to procrastinate anymore. See ya!