Thursday, February 2, 2017

The Daily {W}rite February 2o17 WKo1

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

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

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!


Thursday, December 22, 2016

The Daily {W}rite December 2o16 wk o3, o4

Well the last nine days of the year 2o16. I plan to get as much writing accomplished as I can before I'm into a new year. This life is worth taking the time to write about it. Actually, all lives, every single life on this ball of dirt should have it's own autobiography. Each person should celebrate their individual existence by expressing his/her life in some artistic way, writing, drawing, painting, etc. Doesn't matter which medium ( or combination of mediums) you use just express what it is, what it means to have lived your life.

I'm still feeling tense in both mind and body. When the Werewolf shows his face, and it's difficult to herd him back into the mind closet. A few more days and he'll tire of howling at the world that lives inside  my apartment. I'm sure the neighbors are tired too listening to him rage and slam doors and closed and pound the walls with his angry fists at all hours of the early morning. Well, maybe not the next door neighbor who can be heard yelling at something almost day and night. A bunch of crazy bananas live in this building.
Friday, December 23, 2o16
Sitting in the dark. I do a lot of that. Sitting in the dark. Christmas is soon. People are still out buying presents, I suppose. I was always waiting until the last moment to go Christmas shopping. Not so much because I'm a procrastinator, mostly I like to go and watch all the people who are terminal procrastinators go mad trying to find a parking space in an already full parking lot. The Sooner Fashion Mall. Wonderful place to watch folks go crazy, searching from one store to the next for that perfect present that they had forgotten to buy earlier. I like watching the pushing and shoving that goes on. But believe it or not, not much of that goes go on. Most people in this frenzy to buy the forgotten gift are well aware that everybody else at the mall are in the same predicament as they. So, they smile a lot and say "I'm sorry" a lot as they run from one small shop to the next. The true meaning of Christmas lost on them.

I need to work on my poetry chops. You know, find myself as a writer, create more metaphors and similes, images, word usage, rhythm and tempo . . . a lot of work. I need to do it, though. I need to start acting more like a poet if you know what I mean.

Saturday, December 24, 2o16 5:45a.m.
Well, I got maybe twenty minutes of sleep before my eyes popped open and I was wide awake. I read somewhere that if you have insomnia you should get up and do something. Not productive to just lay in bed staring at the shadow cluttered ceiling. Actively doing something physical will get you back to sleepy mode faster than doing nothing. So, Here I am in the dark writing on the blog and listening to the Stone's Let It Bleed album. Honkytonk Women is playing right now. Not the rock version but the bluegrass version that's on the above mentioned album appropriately titles Country Honk.

The picture on the left? Yeah, that's me back around 2oo6 when I was teaching theatre at New Mexico Highlands University. I was the front man for a geriatric blues band, Still Kickin'! The band was made up of a bunch of real musicians . . . and me. I really wasn't good. Not anywhere near the professional level of my fellow geriatric band members. But I did okay . . . sometimes. Never was much of a singer but every now and then I could hit a note or two just right. During my band days I got into writing songs. Here's the first one I wrote for the band:

When I was a younger man I tore it up,
D                                                      A            (d)
Just a rockin’ through the night until the sun come up
Now that I’m older everybody say, “Hey!
D                                     A           (d)
Man you gotta end your Rockin’ Ways.”
C                                    G
I may be older than the Rolling Stones
What little hair I got’s turnin’ gray
C                                                  G
But’cha can’t stop the rhythm in these old bones
B                                                             (or D to B)
Never gonna stop my Rockin’ Ways
(Rockin’ Ways), Rockin’ Ways (Rockin’ Ways) Rockin’ Ways
D                                             A
I got that rockin’ knockin’ at my soul
(Rockin’ Ways), Rockin’ Ways (Rockin’ Ways) Rockin’ Ways
D                                    A
I’ll keep on rockin’ till I can’t no more
Rockin’ Ways
Hey, Little Sweetie, ain’t you lookin’ fine
D                                        A            (d)
Let me introduce you to a friend of mine
Wrinkled as Methuselah, ugly as a frog
D                                              A                          (d)
But he can turn you lonely nights into a sweet love song
C                                 G
A little loving goes a long, long ways
To make an old man feel like a boy
C                                                G
“Let sleepin’ dogs lay,” I heard people say
B                                                                            (or d to b)
But grappa’s gonna shock ya with his Rockin’ Ways
(Rockin’ Ways), Rockin’ Ways (Rockin’ Ways) Rockin’ Ways
D                                        A
I feel that music thumpin’ in my head
(Rockin’ Ways), Rockin’ Ways (Rockin’ Ways) Rockin’ Ways
D                                   A
I’ll  keep on rockin’ till the day I’m dead
Rockin’ Ways
(Solo)So if some little punk tells ya you’re way too old
To be shakin’ your stuff to the Rock ‘n’ Roll
Look him in the eye and set the record straight
“Ain’t no business of yours what I do,
anywayI been a rockin’ long before you were born
And I’ll be dancin’ on your grave
Remind the little sucker what the good book said:
“Thou shalt keep a rockin’ till your dying day!”
(Rockin’ Ways), Rockin’ Ways (Rockin’ Ways) Rockin’ Ways
D                                             A
I got that rockin’ knockin’ at my soul
(Rockin’ Ways), Rockin’ Ways (Rockin’ Ways) Rockin’ Ways
D                                    A
I’ll keep on rockin’ till I can’t no more
Rockin’ Ways

Sunday, December 25, 2o16 12:45a.m.
Well officially it's Christmas Day. However, I don't count the next day to be the next until I go to sleep for a brief amount of time and wake-up!

Suppose to go to David's daughter's house this morning and spend a few hours with her and her husband and David's son, Michael Khoo. The we are off to see Fences! I've been looking forward to this movie more than any of the other flicks we've seen. First August Wilson play to be made into a movie-movie. There's been at least one of his plays, The Piano Lesson, that had a TV movie developed from it. There hasn't been a theatrical release of any of his plays until now.

Monday, December 26, 2o16
Christmas day came and then went away. 363 days from now it will return. I hope there will be some of us still alive in Trumps America to celebrate it{no smiles this time}.

Christmas this year was nice enough. spent it with David and his kids and Brendan and his family and some teenage girl who barely talked to anybody let alone the old fart with the camera. I got presents, a stocking (filled with goofy little gifts and candy) and a Kung Fu movie series, IP Man, which I thought was I-P-MAN. IP was the main character's first name and Man his last name.  I felt odd because I didn't get anyone anything. Did take a lot of pictures of everybody so I guess that is something I contributed.

For some reason I woke up this morning wanting to go right back to bed. But I promised David that I would call at 11:30a.m.:
David: (answering phone) Grgggklaghbdrt!
Woodie: Time to get up man.
David: Can't call me in an hour and a half.

An hour and a half later.

Woodie: Dude, it's 2p.m.
David: Give me another hour and a half.

Seems like the both of us had too much Christmas to get up before 3:30.

Thursday, December 8, 2016

The Daily {W}rite December 2o16 wk o2

I've been thinking . . . that's not true. I rarely think at all. Again, not true. I'm constantly thinking, my spiritual being (if there is such a thing)  focused inside my head where all the miseries live. A regular Treasure Island, a godless cove where  for all the years that I can remember my memories, from the day I was born, have shipwrecked, crashed against the rocky reef that reality has built up between the open seas of life and the sandy shores where truth speaks in tongues so wicked that language refuses to supply it words to express its blasphemies. Condemned, a castaway, a pale ghost forever haunting itself, haunting itself into nonexistence. That is what thinking gets you. A nonexistent existence . . . if there is such a thing. I'm no more human than I am dead. Whispers echo through the coffin I built for myself.

Wednesday, 14, 2o16

Anyway. The gossip that Russia may have "fixed" the election in favor of Trump was too much "not enough information for me" to handle without at least listening to one news program, and so I chose to watch Rachel Maddow because I trust her more than any of the other news pundits, And I  started to get all freaking out over Trump and his merry band of Nazi wannabes, and ALL the Liberals caving in and saying, "Ya know? A Trump presidency may not be all that bad . . . " WHAT? Yes, freaked out that President Trump will get us nuked and sent into concentration camps and . . . Okay. I finally stopped myself. I again stopped watching the news and decided to just create art. And get back to writing this blog!

And yes! I'm feeling physically and mentally well today. And yes! This feeling of well being may not last for very long. And yes, yes, yes! I plan to take advantage of it and write away on my blog for as long as my "Body and Minds" allow me to feast at this creative smorgasbord. A few interesting observations I have made in the last week AND even more interesting observations I'm making as I write this blog entre:

1. The Army football team has a wide receiver Named Edgar Allan Poe.
2. David hates it when you say, "I'm sorry, I can't hear you." He yells at me whatever it was he said that I didn't hear.
3. Some of my "friends" on Facebook are clinically insane. I'd unfriend them, but I'm afraid some of them might seek psychotic retribution against me, they all know where I live. 😰
4. The Christmas decorations around town are psychedelic-trippy this year. Or was that fuzz on the banana I just ate actually mold?
5. The hawk that drifted above us as we drove to Kohl's looked more like a kite than a hawk.
6. I'm listening to Howlin' Wolf and wish I had seen him play. But when he was alive, I didn't even know he existed. All, I had as a kid to listen to was Elvis and Pat Boone. My parents abused me . . . musically.
7. Without my goatee I look like a 68 year old  Charlie Brown.
8. I talk to much when I'm in a public place. Especially when I wind-up talking to some girl. If she gives me an in, I just start talking loud and as shrill as an overweight Chihuahua. Please, some one put me down. And she does with a sharp, "Well, good bye now." Believe me, it's the most humane treatment I've gotten from a women in a long, long time.
9.  Alan Thicke died yesterday. He was 69 years old. Six months older than me. Sigh.
10. I'm jealous. An ex-student of mine is up for an two Academy Awards, one for Best Actor and one for best Actress this year. A bunch of my actor friends are acting in  plays here in Norman-town and OKC and I do nothing but sit at this computer and  write this stupid-ass blog. And now I'm feeling like a shit because I'm envious of the success of others. Sigh. No, I'm actually NOT jealous of other's success. I guess it's more like I never accomplished anything artistically . . . Okay, that's not right either. I have created a few things that I'm very proud of, but proud in the sense that a couple times I'd really created art that seemed to work for the audience. What I'm feeling right now is a sadness that I can't seem to do that anymore, create art that people can really get into.

Thursday, December 15, 2o16
A strange thinking pattern developed in my mind the other day. Driving along with David, I started thinking about one of the storylines for The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo novels. All of a sudden I realize, it's not a storyline from the series. And then I think, well, it must be the storyline from one of the books.
Maybe it's from The Girl that Kicked the Hornets' Nest . . . but no, that's not right. This was something else. I couldn't figure it out. I knew there were three books in the series and none of them had this storyline! And then I thought, "maybe I made it up?' Bullshit, no way. And around and around my thinking went, looking to fill the blank spot in my memory. It was on my mind all yesterday and today. I mean I knew I had read this story but I couldn't remember reading it. Finally, after thinking it over awhile (a very LONG while), I realized that there had been a fourth book in the series! DAMN. My brain really threw me a curve. And JUST as I realized I had read The Girl In the Spider's Web written by David Lagercrantz (not the original author), a commercial for Alzheimer's Disease came on the TV and . . . that freaked me out a bit. It's been happening a lot lately, little glitches in memory, holes, gaps, blind spots. It's scary to think you might be losing your ability to remember.

Friday, December 16, 2o16, 5:20 a.m.
Another restless night for my body. I try sleeping but too many aches and pains forces me to get up off the couch and write until my body finally passes out. Here's something I started tonight:

God, Apes and Ripe Bananas
Something or some things are pulling at me tonight. Not sure what or who it is, is it real or imaginary? The fingers of God, perhaps, pulling at my existence, that other invisible thing that I call me. I know some don't believe that God exists. Nor do they acknowledge the soul. But that's okay with me I'm not offended like some folk are offended when our fellow apes dismiss the spiritual life for the solid, predictable reality of a ripe banana, but back to my point. Something or some things are tearing the metaphysical energy out of my body. I fight against it, this numbness growing inside my head.
They are clever thieves, though. They keep leaving bits of a blacker than black void in those hidden places in my brain where I, the I of I, resides. But they (or it) can't fool me because I remember that I once remembered things, experiences and emotions, that in this now, this present state of drifting time, I can't remember one moment of humanness. Yes, and though I believe I have loved another I don’t remember another ever loving me. Anger, however, remains constant reminder that once I smiled at another being, another creature of the flesh not unlike myself. But what it was that made me smile, I can’t recall.

Sunday, December 18, 2o16

I thought I'd take the day and just write. Not much else to do, nowhere to go, all my friends are either sick or working or . . . it doesn't matter. I'm on my own today and it's just too damn cold to go outside, ride the bike around. I mean, if there had been a heavy enough snow storm, if the weather had blessed (or cursed) us with a thick ice storm, then yeah, I might have decided to sling on the winter coat, grab the camera and shoot away! But it's just cold out there. Nothing to write home about. "Nothing to write home about." I've used that phrase a lot through out my life . . . don't know where I picked it up.

I did write a decent poem last night . . . or was it this morning? Yeah, I'm still staying up until 6 in the morning or more. Probably too much coffee late at night is keeping me awake. But I don't plan to stop doing that. Fuck it. I mean, I've given up every vice that I so much enjoyed when I was young . . . er. I don't smoke or drink anymore and I sure loved to do both. Okay, I admit, I chew nicotine gum and that still isn't good for me but it's not as bad as smoking. Besides that, coffee is my only other vice and I sure as hell ain't gonna give that up, so . . . GET OFF MY BACK! {smiles}


Easy enough to close my eyes
dreaming in circles until the dawn
comes along and shakes me
from my feathered grave.

Easy enough to close my ears
and listen to each soft beat
that makes up my heart
that chases me through the dark.

My fingers find it easy, far too easy
to wrap themselves into boney knots
and pound the darkness into light,
the cat cries beat to silence.

Yes, it's simple, simple as snow
curled up on the window ledge,
as easy as sleeping through
a whole day of consciousness.

Mostly life is made up as we go along
mostly made up of breaths and sighs
and wonders of why and why not and
where will we go when it all goes away?
Woodie 12-18-16

My mind feels somewhat . . . frail. Thoughts drifting away on some cosmic wave. Time is slowing down, winding down, the end of a party where the guests linger longer than they should saying goodbye and kisses goodnight and plans for lunch tomorrow with so and so who I have totally ignored the whole night. They're stalling. They don't want to go out into the dark, find the car and drive home. Why not? Because it's dark?
There's no reasoning connected with fear. Fear, a lack of knowledge, that's all. But even education can't supplant millions of years of instinctive training. Man invented fire because he feared the dark. Maybe that's it, maybe that's why I  don't like to sleep because my dreams are just too damn dark a place for me to go. Eyes closed, lying on the back. Maybe that's what troubles me. Sleeping is just too close to death, the dark is death, the murder of light, of consciousness, of existence. And when I close my eyes it gets even darker. No stars, no moon, no reflection from the streetlamp on the corner. Not a splinter of light to be found, just shadows inside of shadows inside of shadows for all eternity. But if I'm honest, the death I describe isn't much different than the life I live. Maybe that's what I, what mankind truly fears, not death but life.

Wednesday, December 21, 2o16
I don't know. I could talk about my "anger issues" in detail. Lay it all out for you. Maybe I will some day but it's still a part of me, you know? I keep trying to fight it, keep it in check. But sometimes it just takes control of me when I'm feeling threatened in some way. Once it's going, it stays with me for days, sometimes weeks . . . months sometimes but not often anymore, not months. You see, I know it's all bullshit. Yeah, it's bull but this anger has been with me for such a long time. And when someone catches me off guard, attacks me in some threatening way, it gets loose. It happened a few times this past week and I'm still dealing with it. Once it's out, it's out and running through my memory bank like wildfire, stirring up every moment in my life when someone, somewhere did me wrong. It takes a lot of energy out of me. And when it's drained me of all my energy and self-esteem, it walks back into its cage of its own freewill. This thing, this monster, my own private werewolf. {smiles}

Birthday Party Massacre

I only came for the cake but you can't just go
to a birthday party, eat the birthday cake and leave.
So, I chatted a bit, laughed a bit and was enjoying
the company of the "other" beings gathered around
the large, round table at Othello's. Very enjoyable, yes,
until the shriveled up drunk dude to my right screamed
in my ear, "Hey, are you a fake vet or a real vet?"
He was commenting on the Vietnam Veteran's cap
I was wearing that my sister had just bought me. I admit,
I got angry. "What the fuck kind of question is that?"

"Well . . ." he squealed in a voice that sounded
not unlike like a baby pig being slaughtered,
"I could wear a hat saying I'm Security, but
that doesn't mean I am one!"

which made even less sense than the question
he’d asked before, before he decided to piss me off.
I should thank him, though. As of late I had started
thinking,  "Maybe humans aren't really all that bad!"
Sorry, but no. They’re definitely brain dead idiots.
Woodie 12-21-16