Wednesday, August 8, 2018

The Daily {W}rite August 2018 wk o2

Sometimes you have to shake hands with the monster. Unnerving? A bit. A tiny bit because you're never quite sure how he will react to your open hand moving towards him. I mean, He is a monster after all. I mean, I was told that, mother and father always told that that in the  rhyme my parents and I  uttered every night as we knelt beside my bed:
Now I lay me down to sleep / I pray the Lord my soul to keep / If I should die before I 'wake / I pray the Lord my soul to take . . . Amen.
Mom would tuck me in, and secretly whisper in my ear a final warning, "Be wary of him . . . of it. That thing that exists inside your head." The thing inside my head. Not in the closet or under the bed, not hiding beneath the neatly folded socks in my underwear drawer . . . but inside myself.

THURsday, August o9, 2o18
Today . . . It snuck up on me while I slept. I don't like that. I've suspicious of the sun. I mean, what is doing when I'm asleep? Plotting is my guess. The sun is the perfect politician . . . always smiling at you while all the time killing you with its radiation, turning human skin to leather.  A murderous fiend that we worship.
 "The America we know and love doesn't exist anymore. Massive demographic changes have been foisted on the American people, and they are changes that none of us ever voted for, and most of us don't like ... this is related to both illegal and legal immigration.
Laura Ingraham (Fox News)

Sunday, August 12, 2o18
MSNBC had the quote above plastered across the TV screen. When I woke up, this was the first thing I saw BEFORE coffee! "The America we know and love doesn't exist anymore." Weeeeeeeeeeell, yeah, it still exists. We still have racism, gender bias, homophobia, anti-immigration . . . THAT really hasn't change. As my friend, David Slemmons, keeps pointing out to me, The Constitution to the United States was written by landowning "White Men" and the Bill of Rights was written for them and no one else." Okay, I buy into that. Yes, written by "White Men" FOR "White Men." BUT  it no longer refers to only the "White Man", it applies to ALL American citizens. And that's what's bothering Ingraham. The "White Man" is losing his power over other American citizens and he don't like that one bit.

Thursday, August 2, 2018

The Daily {W}rite August 2018 wk o1

WHEN YOUR EYES engage those of another person,
great him or her with a smile and they will smile back.
this is one of the essential techniques of
the ART of PEACE. -Morihei Ueshiba

The doctor's office called early Wednesday morning: "Is Robert Woods in?" "This is he." "Can you give me your birthdate?"  "May 23rd . . ."  "That's enough. The biopsy on the growth . . ." "Yes . . .?" "was benign." I still had to go into the office today just to let the doctor look at the wound. I smiled at both of the receptionist, the two I had gotten a bit angry at the last time I was in over being double-billed. They smiled back. Life was back to a more study, gentle flow. But it didn't last for long. I got pissy about the new restaurant that David took me to because they didn't have hamburgers on the menu. I snapped a the waitress a bit. It's hard for me not to get angry with the world when it doesn't turn in the direction I tell it to.

SATurday, August o4, 2o18
I wake up too late. Groggily up and about (well, at least as close to the coffee pot as I can get) after 12pm. Totally honest, it's 5:30pm right now and I feel like I'm just fully awake. Something has to give. I either got to just give up on life and live out what human time I have left or . . . or get out of the house, do something, make something happen for me.

I did get some interesting news today. A poet/publisher friend is doing some kind of story about herself as a publisher, AND she's mentioning me as one of the poets she likes(?). Something like that. I'm going to be mentioned in the same article as renowned poet  Maya Angelou! Maybe this will help get me published. Something I've been putting off forever.

I didn't mention before that David bought me a copy of the movie The Crawling Eye (1958). And you know what? It's just as I remember it when I saw it at this little movie theatre in Victorville, CA. I was 10 years old at the time! That's rare, man. I mean, most of the horror movies that scared me as a kid look pretty stupid when you see them again as an adult. But not the Eye! Still creepy to me. So, I got on a Crawling Eye freak out for the last couple of days . . . and . . . I even wrote a poem about it . . . sort of.

The Crawling Eye (1958)

My eye crawled out of my dreams,
the rest of me followed begrudgingly.
In real life a gnat keeps tapping 
a Morse code message on my left nostril:
-.-- . .--. .--. . . -....- -.- ..  -.-- .- ....  
-- --- - .... . .-. ..-. ..- -.-. -.- . .-. .-.-.-
Cold cup of coffee, a fresh piece 
of nicotine gum,
a small sigh from my opened mouth 
slowly transforms into a Christlike moan . . . 
Does heaven hear me?
Bob Dylan, Slim Pickens and I
and the faceless thing in the corner, he 
waits none too patiently 
for the rest of us to follow him 
out of the grey morning light.
But I'm too lazy to dress my own death,
the rouge, the make up that makes me “Look
just like himself” back when I sucked air.
I couldn’t bear the mourners in their mourning wear,
rivers of digital tears 
that they purchased online:
And then there’s the fiery furnace . . . 
no, not for me, not at this time. 
I'm too much a slave to this 
air-conditioned existence. 
Besides, I’d look awful in ash,
in a jar, sitting on a shelf, in a closet dark
next to the panties, the  wool socks
of some unknown relative who 
while I lived never called.
Woodie o8-o4-18

SUNday August o5, 2o18
Grabbing at me, the sun. My right shoulder doing its best to ignore the assault of late afternoon light bolting through the gaps between the plastic slats of the window blinds. The air-conditioner behind me, mounted in the second widow if the living room hums a cold metallic tune.  Soon, I'll finish this bit of blog, shut the computer down, make dinner for myself.

It's August. The newborn leaves on the neighbor's giant elm are just beginning their lives. Five months old most of them. They crowd each other; each of them battling to get enough sunlight. Greedy little bastards. But how much more self-serving would they be if they realized that in October they will feel the ending of their existence approaching. They won't know what it is. But they will feel it. That cold that just seems to get colder with every day.

MONday, August o6, 2o18
I'm wondering if I have enough nicotine gum to get through the day. I hope so. I planned to jump on the bus to Walmart this morning and pick up a pack along with some bread and such . . . but I got up too late. So, I got to cut back on the gum I got left until tomorrow. I need to give up this damn addiction to nicotine gum . . . but if I did, would I ever leave the house again?  I need good reasons to force myself out of the house and into the world . . . other reasons than just nicotine gum and food.

Monday, July 23, 2018

The Daily {W}rite July 2018 wk o4

I swam out of the great depths of a dark sleep. Opening my eyes, I found myself on the sandy shores of consciousness. My face enjoyed it. A smile rose up, blossomed into a glowing flesh flower. My taste buds loved the sweet and sour taste a grin bestows upon them. And coffee  in the morning? Nothing new there. Always a the warm taste of coffee on my lips . . . even when I'm dreaming.

Doctor's appointment made for Thursday at 10:10am. Yeah, David is gonna love getting up at 9:00am to drive me cross town to the doctor's. Why an appointment so early? Well, I have to see THE doctor this time, not a PA, because . . . well lets just say it's a bit embarrassing to talk about. Not serious (I hope) but definitely embarrassing.

My only Sia album playing on the DVD player. My depression is flowing gently around and around inside my head . . . my thoughts . . . a soft tenderness to them today. My body relaxed . . . a sparrow calm after the storm has tired itself out . . . becoming a gentle rain. Yep. Rare to feel this way anymore . . . so forgive me for wallowing in it for the rest of this post.

I wrote a whole poem from scratch last night . . . okay, very early this morning BEFORE today's sunlight stretched its light across my windowsill:

Mime Train . . . All Aboard!

Late night . . . actually, early morning/. . . but it only counts as morning/when you wake up, and you can't/wake up until you go to sleep. However,/some people sleep with eyes wide open/while their minds drift through life/as if they were sleeping, dreaming./Their words if ever they speak at all/sounds more like a Gregorian chant,/a dog growling at its own dreams/of finally catching that damn cat/that always encroaches on his/backyard territory,/or that sound my drunken  father/ would make when passed out/on the front room couch/while watching the Sunday/stock car races. He snored/like thunder, like a train/moaning through the midnight./You remember when trains/sang through Norman town?/I miss that sound, which always/made more since than people/constantly screaming nonsense/in my already too burdened ears./My quality of life would improve/if people would stop talking just/long enough to hear a leaf fall. -Woodie

Tuesday, July 24, 2o18 
I woke-up. A little disappointed. Grogginess, head full of empty space, flattened out a bit during the moments of deliberate unconsciousness . . . sleep. but the day picked up as it droned on. That gentle anxiety that stumbled through my veins yesterday transformed itself into a pleasurable feeling inside my head. The day kept tripping over itself, its big feet, and my voice just giggled a bit at it. Depression turned into a sideshow filled with my monsters dancing and singing, entertaining me for a change.

Warm. The window facing west is warm. Like . . . like a piece of buttered toast. I should've gone to the laundromat today. I haven't washed clothes in . . . what? A year? Maybe a bit less . . . but a year sounds right, well rounded, believable. Anyway, tomorrow I promise my . . . self, tomorrow laundry. Clothes are all ready crammed into the new backpack . . . ready to go to dirty laundry confession . . . cleanse the souls of cotton blends. Yes, tomorrow I redeem myself.

THURsday, July 26, 2o18
So, into the Classen Family Clinic. The outside, red bricks the color of dried blood. Inside that stale smell, that old people smell . . . you know, like a graveyard, something rotting. Your nose wants to run off your face . .. find a disinfected corner (white, white, white walls) to crawl up into and hide. Nothing like walking into a doctor's office to make you feel like you're a five year old kid terrified by the thought of a needle puncturing your skin. What if Nurse Ratchet breaks that long, skinny piece of metal off  in my arm?

Last month I went to the same clinic. And they told me I owed them x amount of dollars for my last visit, which I had paid already. The woman up front didn't care . . . it didn't show up on her screen, and no payment in full, no doctor's appointment. So, after a heated discussion I paid the bill, and two days later I received the check I HAD sent to the billing company with the letters "VOID" across it's green face. And guess what happened when I went to the doctor's the same doctor's office that hassled me over a bill not being paid? Yeah, you know.

SATurday, o7-28-18
Sometimes It Just Rains
I wake up each morning with a very thick, heavy head attached to my neck. Not sure where the weight, the dead weight inside my skull, came from. Perhaps too many fat-ass dreams squatted on my cerebellum just to catch their breathe. Too large sighs from my dry mouth and the weight is gone . . . the most terrible things are always the most fragile. So, coffee, always coffee, first.  My coffeemaker  had died yesterday, just up and died. Maybe by its own handle, or suicide by coffee filter. We will never know for sure. There was no note, no hint of dark-roasted depression. He always seemed happy enough . . . as happy as a coffee pot could be. Everyone liked him especially me. So, improvisation. Simmered some water in my popcorn pan, transferred the hot (but not too hot) liquid into a cup and filtered it through the coffee I had put in the coffee filter I placed in the dead carcass of my Mr. Coffee coffeemaker and  . . . hot coffee. Well, warm coffee at least. If I wanted it HOT, I'd have to reheat it in the popcorn pan. Lukewarm coffee suits me just fine, compliments my life, my life as it has always been. 

      TUEsday, o7-31-18
The Universe Inside
Well, here it is, July saying a warm goodbye as we enter the last day of sun for this particular month.

Yeah, I'm having a difficult time writing this last day, putting the days before in some . . . some . . . way that sounds . . . poetic?

Large clouds hanged in the sky by the hangman crows that just flew by. Sad clouds, lifeless clouds just laying there turning white to gray as the day licks them dry. I wonder why nature is so cruel.

Went to see the new Mission Impossible movie last night. Note to producers: If your movie franchise is failing to draw an audience, immediately hire the actor Simon Pegg. Revenues will at the least triple.

Big deal on Facebook, they plan to "protect us" from Russian trollers. I'm much obliged . . . but do I really need protection from trolls? Don't I recognize them when I see them? Yeah, now that I know they exist I just don't answer back at their dribble. Okay, sometimes I do, but I only answer back with my homemade Meme.
See you, dear reader, next month. {smiles}

Sunday, July 15, 2018

The Daily {W}rite July 2018 wk o3

It's more difficult to forget than to remember
Alone, singular in the apartment as well as in life. A stranger to everyone, to myself a mystery, a puzzle that I can never figure out. The saddest thing about my existence in this moment  . . . I am satisfied. The saddest and happiest I remember ever being. A cup of coffee asleep on my left. City of Bones acts as a pad for my mouse . . . we all know what I'm talking about, right? Pad and mouse to my right . . . the laptop, the center of my universe. So hypnotized by my keyboard and my fingers making love together, creating a technological child together . . . I shall call their prodigy  . . . Blog. Its proper name, its name in public, The Daily {W}rite. But here, I'm  its . . . grandfather? Oh, don't particularly like that label . . . Blog's older brother . . . Woodie.

Last night for the last two months I have had three different dreams where I'm attacked by an intruder. And each attack has brought my out of my dream kicking and punching at . . . well, the open air. I'm not much on dream analysis but I was curious. Why am I having dreams in which I'm being attack?

Dreams about being beaten or being attacked often relate to issues of control in your life, and your own vulnerability.  Even if you feel you are in complete control of your life, you may still have an attacking dream, because deep down, you could be waging a war to stay in control, and fear what would happen if you lost control.  Being attacked in a dream is not usually about wanting to hurt yourself or others but can be about your own unresolved internal conflict.  They can disturb with their violence, but attacking dreams often show a way to peaceful resolution.

As I said above, I don't believe in dream analysis per se but considering my personal feelings about myself . . . it makes sense. 

MONday, July 16, 2o18 4:30am
Yes, still up. Wide-eyed awake. Well, not exactly wide awake . . . Sleepiness is creeping up behind me. I can feel it's warm breath on the back of my neck. Maybe I'll get something worth reading written down before my eyes give up their desire to keep consciousness alive.
But don't count on it. This late at night, or should I have said, this early in the morning my body feels weightless almost, like I'm floating. Tumbling through the darkness, a shadow in the void searching for just a bit of pale  light to guide it's way onto the couch and then, hopefully, to just fall all the way into the warm arms of a nice dream. Yeah, I want to be lost for a few hours in a fantasy that won't wake me up before the sun arrives.


   Those who are possessed by nothing possess everything

Memory. I go over and over this . . . from the afternoon when I wake up until late, late into the next morning when I finally go to sleep . . . again. It's my prison . . . my memory. Planning a breakout. It'll be a long process . . . like boring through  Mount Fairweather with a thunder storm . . . but with the force of one raindrop at a time. Change is impossible. You can rearrange the furniture in your apartment, buy new clothes and throw out the old . . . far easier to change your look than you mind, your thoughts.

TUEsday, July 17, 2o18
The sun through my front room's window . . . even with the blinds half closed it warms to an uncomfortable degree the right side of my body. And gnats playing kamikaze games, my face their Pearl Harbor. I want to write a new poem. I'm hesitant. What if it's a bad poem, what if someone reads it, what if it really sucks? Okay, I'll go with an older one.

There are too many doors inside my head.
Big doors, thick in varnished mahogany,
shiny doors with gold inlay knobs,
and knockers the size of a gardener’s fist.

Shy doors too, cracked and muddied,
bloody handprints dripping from the frames,
their hinges browned in rust, decay.
For far too long have those doors been closed,
and yet, I always try the handle, listen to the rattle
of their locks . . . they never let me in.

And the creature dressed in black,
a heavy collar (boney white) around
its turkey neck, he tells me tales
of a magical place where the door is always ajar,
always inviting, holy and just as white and stiff
as that cardboard noose that chokes his throat.
Woodie 11-24-14 (rewrites 11-19-17)

July 21, 2o18
Long night last night ending at eight this morning after a hungry run to the local IHOP for burgers and fries . . . a run to Walmart for nicotine gum. Been a couple years or so since I quit cigarettes. Now I gotta figure out how to leave the nicotine behind too.

Early morning yesterday on our way back from Walmart . . . I had a thought. Yes, not many of those around, are there? I shard this one with David. I'd like to go somewhere, somewhere that I haven't been before. Japan maybe. Or Scotland, Ireland . . . somewhere that I've put off for this reason or that. One place before the final curtain call. Didn't write everything I wanted to but . . . {smiles}

Sunday, July 8, 2018

The Daily {W}rite July, 2018 wk o2


   The beginning of a blog's week is always the easiest due primarily from the guilt the writer feels for not writing an entry for each day in the week before on a blog that is titled: The Daily {W}rite. That may well be the "writer's" most powerful muse, guilt.

I dream you up inside a paper cup/drowning in the kitchen sink./Days are swollen but she walks about,/a crippled pilgrim heading south.A sparrow from her pocket,/lets him stroll around the grassy knoll./It never flies away, scared of heights/and though she sanctifies the morning skies/never budges more than a foot or so from home./And we all wonder as we wander pass/this Lady Spirit of the past who refuses/the comforting hand a stranger may offer./And we’re left alone, standing there alone/ upon that grassy knoll with nothing,/with nothing but the thought of coffins.

   Above, is a poem I'm just beginning to work on. Well, that's not exactly precise. The above "rough idea" was typed out, and then abandoned when I had know idea what to do with it. It just sat on my hard drive until last night when I accidently found it while searching for the missing New Poems 2018 file. If you don't know what I'm talking about, then you didn't read the last entry in last weeks blog post. Shame on you. {smiles} Anyway, I can't remember what frame of mind I was in when I jotted down this peculiar (what seems to me as peculiar now because I have no idea what I was thinking when I wrote it) thought. {shit eating grin}

MONday, o7-o9-18
Yes, I did nothing today. But maybe . . . tomorrow? The big plan is to get up at 9:30, out the door by no later that 11:30 AND bike myself over to the Regal to see Ant-Man and The Wasp. Will I? I don't know. It's gonna be 89 degrees tomorrow. That's not hot, really. But not sure I can bike that far (4 miles up, 4 miles back) although I did it all the time when I was younger. But I gotta at least try to get out on my own.
Here's what happened to get me to this decision: I was suppose to go see A&W with my friends David and Vickie. Got the times sent to everyone . . . and then David said he wasn't feeling well so he bailed. No, worries because Vickie would be interested in going . . . I thought. But she IM'd me saying she wanted ALL of us to see it at the same time. We should wait until David is well enough. Okay,  but then David IM's us back and says me and Vickie should go anyway . . . "Look," I typed, "let's just wait until you're well, David." So, okay no movie. No big thing. Well, after I thought about it for a while . . . it was a very big thing to me. I wanted to go see the fucking movie (sorry Timothy)! But I couldn't go because I don't own a car and I don't have a driver's license. It got me to thinking: I don't do shit (sorry Timothy) without my friends. I need to be a bit more independent. So, tomorrow I go to the movies by myself. Power to the Woodie!

THURsday, June 12, 2o18
So, I know what you've been waiting to find out . . . did I go to see Ant-Man and the Wasp? The answer is . . . YES! . . . NO! "What the HELL kind of answer is that!" I'll explain if you watch your profanity for the sake of reader Timothy Croom who hates "bad" language.

Actually, I got up Tuesday morning with the confidence of my convictions that I WOULD ride the bike over to the Regal  . . . but . . . two cups of coffee later, I really decided . . . it was too damn hot out there for me to take the chance that I could ride the bike to and back from the Regal without suffering heat stroke. So, I did not keep my solemn promise to the reader and myself that I would see A&W. And I was ashamed. And in the middle of my chastisement of myself, the phone rang:
David: (on phone) You up?
Me: (on phone)Yep.
David: Want to go see the bug movie?
Me: Oh, heck yep!
So, I did go with David and, yes, I witnessed "the bug movie" and it was wonderful!

Spent a lot of the morning watching the hearings concerning Peter Strzok bias towards "That White Guy Who  is NOT a women But Living in the White House". What a fiery day of back and forth insults and insinuations!  I can never go be questioned in front of  a senate committee. Man, I'd be cussin' up a storm and kickin' some ass on those bullshit senators. Hell, I'd be in jail before five minutes of sitting in that chair facing those bastards!

I'm sipping mildly warm coffee as I type this blog entry. Chewing nicotine gum too, which I need to give hard thought time to quitting for good. But that thought lasted as long as I would in a senate hearing.

SATurday, July 14, 2o18
Just siting here listening to Fever Ray and working on finishing up this week's blog entries. Guess what yesterday was . . .?

Yep! Friday the 13th! Or if you like:  Friggatriskaidekaphobia Day.

I know! How the hell do you say that word?! To tell you the truth, I haven't quite got my tongue around it yet. But if you Google, friggatriskaidekaphobia pronounce, you'll get a verbal tutorial on how to say it. Anyway, I was rather shocked to find out there IS an actual phobia connected to Friday the 13th. Yes, some folks are so afraid of bad luck, something bad happening to them that they won't even go out of the house on Friday the 13th. But not me. These days Friday the 13th is more of a mini Halloween, a day to celebrate the supernatural, the bogeyman and all those things that go bump in the night . . . and during the day. All this change from fear of the day to the celebration of the day is due to one thing, the movie Friday the 13th. Yep. Friday the 13th added the monster to a day of just "bad luck."

1:20am SUNday
I just wanted to write one more little bit of an entry before I put this to sleep and post it. I'm failing myself, giving myself an F for living. I was okay for the C- I was receiving since the first term of my life . . . but a fucking F (sorry Timothy) when I've got 70 years of experience under my consciousness belt? This is NOT acceptable. I must try harder to live . . . well . . . and change that grade to an A++++ [smiles} P.S. The picture I took this last Art Walk. I'm not sure what these ladies were doing but they were having fun taking selfies while posing in front of paintings and statues or just walking around Main St. Okay, that's it, that's all I got 'cause I gots no more! 

Monday, July 2, 2018

The Daily {W}rite July 2o18 wk. o1

I'm drinking my semi-warm coffee as I type the first entry for this July blog, and I'm thinking . . . it doesn't feel like the beginning of July. Summer? Of course it feels like summer . . . just not July. I mean, where's all the American anticipation for the Fourth of July, our countries date of birth? There's not been one advertisement for the holiday on TV, radio or Facebook that I've seen. I haven't heard one pop or BOOM from a pre-ejaculated firecracker. "Hey, Woodie! Boy the Fourth of July is almost  here, I can't wait!" Well, it appears that everybody CAN wait because no one is already celebrating. I heard that a few towns in Oklahoma have had their firework shows just this last Saturday. I don't care for that either. IF you are going to celebrate the birth of some THING, do it on the designated day . . . except, of course, for MY birthday. I celebrate the whole month I was born as if the whole month was my birthday . . . but that's only because I'm that important to this world. 

I argue too much with my friends. Someone will say something and I'll disagree, which forces said friend to say something else, which I react to, which  . . . which they in turn react and . . . before you know it, we're in an atomic war of words. I always wind-up losing an argument with a friend. I should shut the fuck up and never respond negatively  to anything a friend says. Nod my head and say "yeah, I hear what you're saying." At least that way I don't have to admit to him/her that I disagree. I don't have to admit to him/her that I'm right, either. There's always something lost during an argument that can never be replaced. Innocent lives are lost, friendships dissolved. No one wins.

Settling in for the night. All my breathing exercises done, into the robe already. Nothing left to do but brush my teeth take my prescriptions (doc told me to take the cholesterol meds. right before bedtime) and brush my teethes (sorry, I turn into Gollum when I get tired). And  yes, I floss! I'm going to try and get to bed earlier than usual. Much earlier if I can. Anyway, I did a bit if writing on the blog and that's something. Maybe tomorrow I'll get a bike ride in. Sleep like angels, you all. Night. {smiles}

TUEsday, July o3, 2o18
The air-conditioner is my best friend today, and the window that my computer is near is receiving nasty thoughts from me as it burns my right arm and make it too hot to sit here without letting down the blinds. I'll do that right now . . . Aaaah. That's better. But I' still taking off the Captain America shirt and jacking up the conditioner to: HIGH and COLD!

I wanted to get one little piece of writing in before I stop for the night. I'm reading this book, you know the one, The Art of Peace, and it's making me think about things, you know, in a different way than I've thought before. But it's difficult to just "change my ways." There's a lot of ideas in this book that I'm learning, but it gets to be so much that I just feel my mind shutting down. One of my biggest mind crap problems is thinking about the past. Yeah, I've mentioned this before. And that is what I'm talking about. I know I shouldn't think about the past so much because it really depresses me, and then I get angry and then . . . well, I take it out on a friend who had nothing to do with whatever it was I went through. So, I've struggled with this "living in the past" nonsense forever and finally today . . . a little breakthrough. I stopped myself from thinking about the past . . . not a lot . . . but a little. A little light, a little weight taken off my shoulders. I felt for the first time in a very long time a sense of well being and peace. {smiles}

THURsday, July o5, 2o18
Went to see the fireworks last night . . . by myself. David was sick. Man, a bit of a jolt because since I got back in 2o12 me and David always went the Duck Pond to see the colorful explosions! It was weird walking around out there all solo and such . . . weird people in the dark. Even little kids tend look like little demons . . . in the dark. There was the shadow of a guy on the little hill right where the stone bridge's sidewalk begins. The shadow turned out to be a dude in his thirties giving his children individual bike rides up and down the hill. Oh, well, no drama there. No revolution there. No mad bomber gonna blow us all up. Which is a good thing . . . I guess. They finally got around to fixing the stone bridge I love so much. Best place to take pictures of the aerial fireworks at Reeves Park. But sadly, the Duck Pond is all but dried up. No more do the ducks swim around their little island causing these wonderful shadows from the light of the fireworks. They just walk around in the mud, the water level barely covering their little web feet! Not the Duck Pond anymore . . . more like the Duck Puddle.

Today was a most wonderfully beautiful day! a sunny day filled with huge clouds that scraped the top of the Energy Building as a tender breeze sailed them across the sky. Okay, I didn't go out side. That last part was made up. I did however watch the clouds from the security of my apartment. Even got a few shots through its dirty window. Why not wash the windows? Because my apartment is on the second floor and I have no access to the A-frame rooftop.

SATurday, July o7, 2o18
Last day in the first week of July. A billion or more years from now . . . Earth will cease to exist in its contemporary shape. It may explode, dissolve into the stardust it once was back way back before it claimed its life, its name . . . "I shall call myself . . . Earth." I'd love to see the transformation. Earth getting a quantum makeover. I wonder who will do her hair?  Yes, I'd like to be there for mother Earth's coming out party as her new self. But more than likely? I'll already in the latter moments of my own . . . evolution.

How about a poem? Would you like that, Reader?

Lighter Than Gravity
I’m sure you understand
how unnerving it is to . . . change,
to feel your body, your thoughts,
your already oddly shaped being
transforming into some . . . thing!
Some unmentionable . . . thing!
Something you never, ever
dreamed of becoming, some . . . thing
you never wished to be.

My friends (those very few that I still have)
keep telling me not to worry,
CHANGE is inevitable, we CHANGE
everyday, from the day we’re born
we CHANGE, we all CHANGE
we must  CHANGE and . . .

Okay, if I MUST . . . convert, I hope it’s not to dirt.
I hate dirt. Pushed around the whole day on
by any clumsy breeze that comes along,
or stuck for all eternity to the endless
bottom of a shoe. What kind of existence
is that? And when it rains? You become . . .  MUD!
And I hate mud… even more than dirt!

But if I must, IF you say my resurrection . . . MUST
be akin to earth let me become dust.
No, STARdust . . . YES, glittery bits of cosmic grit
which wander gypsy like between
barrooms, streetlamps and . . . GALAXIES! 
Yes, STARdust! That’s what I’ll be.
That some . . . thing that’s ever so
lighter and kinder than gravity
has ever been to me.
Woodie 4-24-12 (rewrites 
o3-26-13, o7-2o-16, o7, o7-o7-18)

So, I Have just under an hour to finish this week up. Went to put a new poem I found into the  New Poem 2018 file and . . . the file was gone! Just gone! I couldn't believe it. I looked for it in my computer in ALL the flash-drives, and in all the files I have on my 8 flash-drives . . . and I could find it. Gone! All new poems I wrote since January . . . gone. All the old poems I rewrote for "the book" and stashed in New Poems 2018 . . . GONE!

But not to worry. I finely found it. No, it wasn't my evil computer pulling a trick on me . . . though I'm pretty sure it is evil and wishes me emotional turmoil. It was me. I HAD accidently moved New Poetry 2018 into the folder marked My Songs. You see I write my poetry late at night, and I do get extremely tired so . . . well, I messed up. But I'm sure glad I found that folder.

Friday, June 22, 2018

The Daily {W}rite June 2o18 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}

MONday, June 25, 2o18 . . . 4:00am
It's raining. A pretty hard rain at times. there's thunder to. Rolling thunder, far off. When I was a kid, I saw this cartoon about angels in heaven having a bowling day. The bowling ball would roll down the heavenly lane and when they hit the pins there's be a flash of lightning and a big boom of thunder! I don't know how old I was when I saw this cartoon . . . but I always remembered it when as a kid a thunderstorm would roll in. I never feared thunderstorms as a kid because I knew they couldn't hurt me because . . . hey, it was only angels bowling.

"Thunder is the sound caused by lightning. Depending on the distance and nature of the lightning, it can range from a sharp, loud crack to a long, low rumble (brontide). The sudden increase in pressure and temperature from lightning produces rapid expansion of the air surrounding and within a bolt of lightning." -Wikipedia 

When I became an adult (or a reasonable facsimile of one), I learned that thunder and lightning didn't erupt in the sky from  angels were bowling. No, I learned the definition of thunder and lightning that was more . . . scientific . . . more realistic. Yeah, you learn a lot of things when you grow up, no Santa Claus, no dang Easter bunny, and hey, life isn't fair . . . all that correct knowledge. Rather boring and uninteresting. So, I tend to believe . . . no, I choose to believe science is wrong . . . sometimes, at least when it comes to thunderstorms. Far more interesting to believe that it IS caused by enthusiastic angels drinking beer and bowling.  

yawned my way out of a pleasant dream (I say it was pleasant though I don't remember it at all) around 10am. Greeted the TV news with a fond click, click, click of the remote, warmed up last nights coffee . . . closed my eyes and thought about . . . I fell back into sleep, into some other dream (I think it was another dream) and woke up finally at 11am. 

I should do something, you know, with my life. Something so profound for society that when I'm dead they will set aside one day in the year to celebrate my contribution to existence. I'll get on that . . . maybe tomorrow. 

As a child in grade school I had the most difficult time trying to remember how to spell tomorrow. I don't know why but my write hand kept writing it as t-o-m-m-o-r-o-w. Isn't that something? I still do it every now and then . . .  t-o-m-m-o-r-o-w. Maybe this spelling mishap is due to my love of the elongated m sound. Mmm. The yummy sound, the sound a shy person utter during the love making process. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . . 

THursday, June 28, 2o18
My friend is so upset about what's going on in American politics that he's seriously thinking about moving to another country. That would be a bad idea. I mean, he would still have to take me to Walmart and the movies every week . . . or more . . . The commute from Norway to Norman, OK? Yikes! Though I joke, sort of, the fear the depression that many of my friends are feeling about "That Guy in the White House" and that he got his travel ban on Muslims okayed by a predominately conservative Supreme Court bummed a lot of us out. AND just yesterday Justice Anthony Kennedy decided to retire,
WHICH means there will be another opening on the Supreme Bench and . . .  well, TGWH is already grinnin' like a hound in the chicken coop . . . he plans to put a hardcore conservative in that spot . . . a YOUNG hardcore conservative so he can have the Constitution rewritten to serve the need and greed of the far right conservative. And people are scared shitless. I got lots of friends who have already "got out of Dodge" for the politically greener pastures of other countries. One guy just left for England swearing that he'll NEVER step foot in America again; I few other had headed out for Canada a long time ago. But you know what I think? Bullshit to that. Your responsibility as an America is to stand up and fight for America not run off to some foreign country, FIGHT for America against its enemies both foreign AND domestic. 

FRIday, June 29, 2o18
"Iron is full of impurities that weaken it; through forging, it becomes steel and is transformed into a razor-sharp sword. Human beings develop in the same way." -Morihei Ueshiba 

The line at the movie theatre's concession stand is not long, but there's only on person at the counter and the grandmother he is waiting on have 5 kids with her ranging from 6-12 years old. And they really don't need any  more sugar. And the grand mother is buying them all snacks for the movie (probably The Incredibles 2) and she asks them individually, one at a time what each wants. "I want nachos and a coke," says the 6 year old that can't help but swing around on the pole that separates one concession line from the other . . . and guy goes to get the nachos and the coke (which the kid doesn't need) and I'm counting the number of kids she has and I think I'm gonna be stuck in this purgatory of snackeries forever. Ah, but another employee opens an other register . . . GOOD! I can go over . . . but as soon as they see the cashier, the long line of people behind me run over to the other line leaving me like the cowards that they were. "John! Get over here!" Grandma yells at the bigger boy. And he takes his time looking at the menu board and I want to scream, "You little fuck! Pick something and get on with it!

And then I remember the saying I placed at the top of this Friday post. I had just read it, right before David picked me up to go Sicario. And I realized that this was my moment in the forge. Facing not being in control of a moment. So, I start to look at things around the theatre, studying the posters, the people next to me in the other line who aren't going to let me in their line even though I've been standing here in Granma's line before they even walked into the theat . . . Okay, NO! that's not what I'm suppose to be doing. I'm suppose to be learning how to curb my anger . . . rid myself of the impurities that I've picked up a long the way. 

SATurday, June 3o, 2o18

It's difficult to change "your ways." The thoughts inside your memory were carved into the gelatin, that soft, gray tissue that we call the brain, and re-forged by every experience that laid a boot on ya. Good memories are there too, but more ghostlike, like air, you can feel them occasionally but they don't carry the weight of a bad memory so they become inconsequential, more dreamy as if they'd never existed. The bad memories . . . nightmare created . . . they run the show. Backstage. In the dark, behind the black curtain legs. You know the term ghost light? It's an incandescent floor lamp placed in the middle of the stage so you can walk about, in the dark and see just enough so you don't fall off the stage into the orchestra pit. My conscious self is that ghost light, and when it goes out . . . 

Just the other day an old joke popped into my consciousness. There once was a blind carpenter who picked up his hammer and . . . saw. Maybe that's it. Maybe that's the trick. Maybe the only way to find peace is to be blind to everything, to all those memories and dreams. If I could stop visualizing the past, it wouldn't have such a profound hold on me. Be blind and see. 

I once looked inside of my skull.
It was nothing like what I thought;
it wasn't grey and mushy, I must say,
it was more sand colored like rain
left over from this morning's storm,
muddy thought-prints around the edges,
its rocky edges, and silently faceless
clouds swam through the breeze.
Yes, there was a steady, snoring
breeze, and I am sure, so sure
this must be heaven.