Monday, July 15, 2019

The Daily {W}rite July 2019 wk o3

So, I was online, one of the pages about movies, and this guy posted a comment about the original Die Hard movie, and he really liked it. He called it the " . . . best action movie ever!" And a lot of others agreed . . . except this one guy who wrote, "I know you're going to hate me, But I think Die Hard is stupid and clichéd." And that got me a little ticked . . . " Hey, shouldn't you trolling  the White House or something?" And I finished with w meme I made saying I Hate Trolls." Then bam! Posted the comment, smiled and went off to Braum's to buy some groceries.

So, I had lunch at Braum's ( Pepper Jack & jalapeño hamburger with fries!), and I started thinking about what I had done with the troll meme and . . . fuck. Why did I answer that guy in that way? I was being just as nasty as I thought he was being. You see? That's the trouble with trying to change . . . you can't actually change right away . . .  But the good news is that what I did actually got to me. Did I go back to the site and delete the mean meme I posted? No. Still working on that part . . . saying I'm sorry to everyone I do "bad" things to.

Going to a rally against immigration abuses by our government at U.S. Representative Tom Cole's office tomorrow . . . I'm fed up with these anti-American conservatives that are ruining our country. I need to show some support for the people tomorrow. 

Wednesday, July 10, 2019

The Daily {W}rite July, 2019 wk. o2

Wednesday, July 1o, 2o19
I'm not writing what's on my mind today. I'm in a different mood. I want to explore other options when it comes to communicating with others. Ha! Foolin'! Not sorry! Reese's. But seriously, There's a lot of anger in me and I am trying not deal with it differently when I can. But sometimes . . . I just breakout of the "Be Nice, Don't Fight" prison and go on a bit of a rampage. But it's not gelling with my best friend . . . what to do? Well, I'll think on it a while.

So, concentrating on something other than the bad stuff of life. The new poem for the "Ninja Poet Project" is ready to go to the printers. I've been working on the project all week and finally got something that seems to work as well as I can make it. So, tomorrow we're out and about pulling off the NINJA POET PROJECT!

Friday, July 12, 2o19
Well, this is a big disappointment. Wrote in the blog (on the blog?)  on Wednesday . . . And NOT writing another thing until Friday!

David and I drove his daughter (actually, David drove, I sat in the back taking a picture . . . or two) to a job interview out by Thunderbird Lake. She went and had her interview and
David and I drove out to one of the lake's coves. When we got back and I started processing the pics I took . . . I dubbed the short trip (her interview didn't take that long) David Gotta Speeding Ticket Massacre . . . because . . . can you guess? That's right! David gotta speeding ticket on the way out to the lake. HE was PISSED! "Well," I said, "if you wanted to avoid a ticket you should've cut your hair, got rid of the peace sign you always wear . . . and let Mabry drive."

Saturday, July 13, 2o19
Insight into one's personal life dilemma is important . . . but changing the well honed and negative ways of dealing with life . . . Life
always gets in the way of living.  People . . . get in the way of living a life that makes you feel fulfilled. But maybe that is all there is to living a good life . . . live it in spite of those who feel that  necessary to their own existence an obligation to fuck with you. Food for thought, anyway.

But this is where I am . . . now. Understanding that my thinking needs to change when it comes to life . . . living. People need to not take them as enemies but being like me who are flawed and seeking to rejuvenate themselves . . . find a river to follow . . . a dream to dream on.

Sunday, July 14, 2o19
So, this is the last day in week o2 of July. I wish I had more to say . . . but I don't. Not this week. Me head is clearing . . . the "devil" thoughts are leaving . . . I hope. And never to return . . . I hope. Anyway, concentrating on my poetry more and less and the past and all those memories that used to keep me awake all night. Still not sleeping that well, but it's all getting . . . better . . . I hope. Goodnight, dear reader. {smiles}

Monday, July 1, 2019

The Daily {W} July Happy 4th 2019 wk o1

First of July  . . . the 4th near here. The celebration of America . . . my country, tis of thee . . . and so on and on.  I looked up how many American military men/women have died  . . . in all American wars? Well, No one is jumping out there to say exactly . . . one post did say it's 1.1 million. All the American wars? It's horrible . . . but it doesn't sound like a  lot . . . a lot. I mean, all the wars that America has been involved in? One site said that the government has stopped posting the list of Middle East conflict casualties. I wonder why?  So, it is a lot but I can't find a definite count.

Anyway, I rode the bike over this afternoon to sick boy's house (David) and run it over to the landlord. Took a short trip over to the  local grocery to get a few food items . . . and what I was talking about last month, about me riding the bike and all the bad memories pop into my head? Well, it happened again as I was riding . . . but this time, instead of indulging the thoughts I pushed them away and focused on riding the bike, looking at the road, glancing at the trees I passed . . . consciously refusing to not give in "bad" thoughts. It worked . . . for a while. But in the store . . . well, somebody cut in front of me in line and I'd get so angry, so mad. I didn't say or do anything but . . . I pushed it away again . . . and it kept coming back a little stronger. I put my grocery in my backpack, pushed my cart out to the cart rack and this old lady was standing there, saw me coming and said, "Oh, your cart looks better than the one I've got here . . . would you mind if I used your cart?" And I smiled and I laughed and all the bad just went away.

Tuesday, July o2, 2o19
I'm thinking that living within the moment, one moment at a time is the best way for me. Stay out of the past  . . .  the future. Stop the time traveling . . . nothing but ghosts in the past, in the future. Life is here right now as I type this "note" to the world . . . and hope that someone hears me, understands. There's an old saying my dad used to tell me . . . "Life is hard . . . and then you die." Probably right. But he left out that park of the hard-life, the biggest part of the hart life is how difficult I make life . . . for myself.

4:30 pm
Just finished women's soccer for the day. America's team won . . . by a point against England. It was barely, though. an English goal was dismissed because of an "offside" penalty . . . which I have never understand offsides in soccer. AND the American goalie saved a penalty shot from being made. You know? I enjoy women's soccer more than the men's soccer. The women's soccer seems to move faster, more energy on the part of the players . . . and not a lot of "fake" injuries going on in woman's soccer.

I'm thinking about this month's Ninja Poetry Project. I've written a lot and I'm not sure what to go with. I had several ready to be printed . . . but the more I looked at them the more I just didn't like the way they came out. And wasn't as in love with my words I wrote as I was when I chose the poems. So, scrap it all and go back to the writing block. {smiles}

Friday July o5, 2o19
Wow! Quite a few days have passed since the last entry. But a lot, a LOT going on that I got caught up in and just did not get to writing on the blog. Sorry about that. But there were some rather miraculous things going on, I mean, like Bible prophecy stuff. My best friend had been sick for over 2.5 (or more) weeks, and on Tuesday (?)  he had a resurrection . . . just like Lazarus of Bethany  . . . he rose from the grave! And we went and had coffee . . . during the day . . . which is important because my friend doesn't like to go out during the day. The other miracle  . . . he's not a vampire. THEN we went to a movie, Midsommar, and it was weird-ass movie! And then we went out on the 4th to the Duck Pond to watch the fire works . . . and today . . . we went for coffee and I complained about his driving and he got mad because he doesn't want anyone to say anything negative about his driving, and I got mad because I don't want to die in a fuckin' car accident and . . . everything was back to normal.

Sunday, July o7, 2o19
Oops. Sorry. Missed a couple of days. You know, "things to do! Hahahaha!" I was thinking about a few things. I've been having troubles with Facebook friends and friends I once knew in real life. Some of them saying this things I'm not interested in discussing with them. If I do start a conversation with them, it will just start an argument which is not something I want to do anymore. So, if they are on Facebook, these knights against the dragon's heart . . . I just unfriend them and just never talk to them again. Ah! But what if they start talking to me? What if they just have to know why I'm no longer their "friend?" I might tell them . . . or not. IF that happens, I'll decide then and there what I wish to do. Until next week, dear readers. {smiles}

Monday, June 24, 2019

The Daily {W}rite June 2019 wk o4

The last week of June. I'm a bit sad. Summer is already here and I feel like I didn't use Spring well enough. Sorry, Spring. I'm thinking that all the "soul searching . . ." I probably said this before on this blog or in a poem . . . soul searching. Interesting idea. Could mean searching inside the soul for some answers to life both spiritual and physical. Or could be that we spend a lot of time looking for something that some people . . . a lot of people these days . . . think doesn't exist. The soul.

Anyway, I woke up this morning with a bit of a feeling of  . . . peace? All the stuff I've been working on, working on myself? I don't know, I woke up this morning with a bit of a clear picture about my self hate, my anger, my inability to let the past go  . . . away. I said picture? More like a reflection in a rippling pond. The edges of my . . . existence as an angry young (old) man. I wish I could tell you more or to tell you that my journey to peace was over and I've arrived at that calm within an angry storm . . . but like I said, it was just a picture, a distorted picture that had some truth that got through to me.

Tuesday, June 25, 2o19
Late getting up this morning. My body just doesn't like to go to sleep even when it's tired as hell! It's like that little kid who keeps calling for his mom from his dark bedroom. "Mom!" "What do you want?" Dad's growl is powerful making the half open door (that leads to the parents bedroom) shake on it's hinges. "I WANT MOM!" Heavy sighs, the squeaking of springs and then the thud of angry bare feet across a cold wooden floor. "What do you want , son?" Mother's voice soft and gentle . . . even when she is madder than hell.

Been working a bit on the "poetry project" and the blog. But not getting out to ride the bike as much. Need to do that. Need to exercise the body as much as I try to exercise the mind by writing and reading. Scrapped my arm on a corner of spackled drywall . . . hurt like hell. What was worse? When I woke up in the morning and saw this HUGE bruise, a bloody bruise just below the skin. You know, that nasty looking bruise old people get when they bump up against something. Before this "accident" I'd noticed this under the skin discoloration and went to the doctor  . . . he just laughed and said, "Just another one of those things you have to deal with as an elderly." Well, the good news I got from that? It wasn't life threatening.

Wednesday, June 26, 2o19
I've been talking poetry/art with this Facebook friend from Denmark. He asked me today how I would define my poetry writing style? Hmm. Took me a few minutes to come up with . . . My style of writing mostly comes from my theatre experience. Mostly, I think I write in what would be a monologue style . . . mostly. But I also consider myself a . . . hyperrealist? not sure that that's an actual word but hyperrealism is the blending of reality with a virtual (non-realistic) reality . . . creating within a poem a third reality . . . which is pretty much what all art does. Often enough I hear a question on Facebook about movies  . . . which movies are based on real life? My answer is all art is based on real life  . . . sort of. At least, all art is inspired by the real life of the artist or artists, directly or indirectly. But the creative impulse is also inspired by the artist's (or artists') imaginary reality. The imagination inspires the artist to create.

Thursday, June 27, 2o19
Well, finally got a call from David: "I gotta go to the doctors. Wanna go?" Damn, I was worried about him and so was his kids. He'd been sick for at least 2 weeks. And when he picked me up . . . boy, h's face was flushed, and he just looked so tired. So we went to the doctors . . . to the grocery store where David just piled the yogurt into the shopping cart . . . then to Braum's where he picked up two BIG containers of ice cream (don't know what flavor) WHICH signaled to me that he's getting home, locking the doors, taking his antibiotics . . . and we probably won't see him again until he beats this thing!

Friday, June 28, 2o19
Okay, so I have been on this positive attitude towards everything that slaps me up side the face from friends, enemies, or total strangers on and off of Facebook . . . But last night  . . . well, we got into this discussion about the proper spelling of the word theater . . . is it t-h-e-a-t-e-r OR t-h-e-a-t-r-e  . . . so, you know conversation went on a while and people (all people who are deep into theatre (live theatre) had comments . . . I had a few . . . before you know it, the "experts" start getting on me about not knowing the origin of the spelling t-h-e-a-t-r-e, and they go on and on with their pretentious "I'm a theatre professor, and you're not" bull shit and I just . . . ended their friendship with me on Facebook. I didn't get angry, depressed, didn't shout or scream about it . . . I did write a poem about it: Scream, thrash the air,/open fist . . . Scream/like a crow in the darkness./Peck the eyes from/the offending shadows/until their laughter stops./I have watched on nights/like this one, down by/the river's edge, I have/watched the river raging,/running on broken legs,/listened to its frightened/voice . . . its tears/no different from my own." So, I just unfriended the academic bull-shitters . . . and plan to say no more about it . . . except for this entry on my blog.

Saturday, June 29, 2o19
o1. Well, up early. Not early-early . . . but early for me, nine in the morning. Went to sleep at four in the morning . . . so . . .
o2. As I think I said above . . . I'm tired of pretentiousness, people who just love to tell you how "smart" they are and how "stupid" you are. I'm done with them . . . for now. (And I also said above I wasn't going to mention it again . . . I'm such a LIAR!)
o3. Trolls are out from under the bridges today. I responded to two of them . . . which I regret. Not because they are still goading  me . . . I just feel bad about answering them back. Bad for myself.
o4. Life has a way of reviving itself  . . . it's not killed off as easily as one would expect.
o5. The distance between the darkness and enlightenment can't be measured merely in feet and inches . . . Spirit needs to be taken under consideration. The strength of one's spirit to carry the torch of enlightenment is the key thought I'm munching on.
o6. Things to do tomorrow . . . drop off rent, mail the cable bill . . . something I need at the store . . . not remembering what. David's still sick so out on the bike I go which I need to continually do more of.
o7. I go from sad to angry to mellowed out in less than 5 seconds. Yeah, pretty big jolt from one emotion to another . . . rollercoaster . . . no . . . more like a lopsided ball bouncing off the walls. Drains you of any desire to do anything. Eat, go for a walk, even sleep is too weary of a chore to take on.

Sunday, June 30, 2o19
Well . . . here it is  . . . a funeral and a christening to follow . . . yes, the end of a month. I don't have that much to say right now. Out into the world today after three days of solitary confinement . . . self imposed. But bills are begging me to turn them in on time. My bank account is highly susceptible to embarrassment whenever a bill is payed late.

4:56 pm
Back from what turned out to be one hell of a pleasant ride. Not at all as hot as the weather guy was saying. Warm, yes. Nice breeze though pushing me and my bike along at a nice pace. Clouds I can't help but stare optimistically  at the Oklahoma sky in late spring. Buffalo shaped, white clouds just moseying along in a ghost rider sky.

So, this is the last . . . okay, I already said that. It's been a mostly productive week.  Smiling more and relaxing more . . . a few ghosts showing themselves in the disguise of friendship. One thing bothers me most. When I go riding on the bike my head drifts off course to stare at a bad memory or two. Yeah, memories. The trolls of the mind. I don't know why I trail off into the Depression Zone . . . but that's exactly where I go. I even forget sometimes that I am actually riding down the street where  there are cars that would love to bounce me and my mountain off their front bumper. Anyway, that's it for this week. Enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. {smiles}

Saturday, June 15, 2019

The Daily {W}rite June 2019 wk o3

Maybe you remember me talking about the "universe" telling me something on last week's blog? You know, how the girl almost hitting me with her car and my response to that incident, AND how me telling David about it . . . and how his reaction  . . . all of that  . . . mean something profound  . . . something for me to think about when it comes to my reactions to the world in general? THAT sort of thing happened to me . . . again to day.

I was looking through all the pictures I had taken over the years of the monthly Art Walk in Norman-town. And there were a lot of great candid picture there of people attending Art Walk, browsing through the art galleries, the shops, stopping to listen to the music our local musicians where creating on the sidewalks . . . and it mad me sad. I wasn't doing that anymore. I didn't last night. Last night I just concentrated on the "secret art" project . . . And this morning I get a Facebook message from Frank Lawrence, one of the many musicians I always shoot during Art Walk. And he was asking why I didn't have my camera with me last night . . . and why I hadn't taken his picture?! AND it just hit me. I was NOT taking pictures because of SoonerCon's ban on taking candid shots of the Cosplayers. You had to ask for permission, and that's something I don't want to do. I take non-staged shots, that's my art, that's my craft . . . and there were also folks at Art Walk . . . mostly shopkeepers . . . who didn't want me taking pictures inside their shops. But there were also people on the street that would rather not have their pictures taken. Okay, I get it. So, this is what is going to happen. I'm never going to step foot into SoonerCon again. The shopkeepers who don't want me to take pics in their shops . . .  you got it. I won't And people on the streets if you see me taking your picture and you don't like it then you just tell me and I'll delete that pic right there in front of you. Fair enough? It better be because I'm going back to shooting freestyle because . . . because that's my art and it's what makes me happy.

Sunday, June 16, 2o19
Interesting day. I always seem to wake up in a depressed state. Seems that this is my daily routine for several years now. I mean, when I was younger, I couldn't wait to wake up, finish off whatever dream I'm having and . . . WAKE UP! But now . . . . it takes me awhile to get my positive thoughts flowing through me head . . . coffee seems to help. The more awake I become the more positive I become.

Got out of the house, on to the bike . . . a trip to Braum's for lunch and bread an apples. Talked to one of the kids there about riding my bike. And it was a good ride. My lungs aren't completely healed . . . and they will never be according to the doctors . . . but they work well enough to get me to Braum's and back with only two stops to catch my Breath.

So, I've been looking over some of my poetry that I wrote for Poetry Month . . . last month, and a lot of it is good enough to work on, I think. Spontaneous creativity. No waiting on a mood, a muse to strike you with a bolt of inspiration, no drugs . . . although steroids for a serious sinus infection does jolt the old imagination . . . IF you know what I mean. Anyway, life sucks . . . no, I really meant it. There is no such thing as gravity . . . the world just sucks. But so does a vacuum . . . and they are okay with me . . . especially an old Kirby my mother used to have. I was allowed to vacuum the living room rug until . . .  I sucked my sisters long blonde hair up the tube . . . and did she scream?! Well, what was she doing sleeping on the floor?

Monday, June 17, 2o19
Up too early . . . that's what my eyes were hinting at as the refused to open . . . they blinked a bit . . . but never stayed open. But I forced them, the lids to open wide and stay open while I found the coffee cup and poured a bit of lukewarm coffee into its mouth . . . and staggered back to the couch/bed. Yes, staggered like a drunk right after the barkeep yelled, "LAST CALL! DRINK UP, GET OUT!" At these advanced stages of aging that's my body early in the morning . . . before the first sip of hot, dark roast . . . nothing more than a drunk at last call.

Tomorrow . . . a haircut at a real hair salon. Tried an old fashioned barbershop a couple of weeks ago . . . but long hair is an alien to them. Don't know what to do with it. But a hair salon . . . yeah, they'll treat my old strands with respect. {smiles}

Tuesday, June 18, 2o19
It's difficult . . . if not down right impossible to shed the past from your thoughts . . . like a snake sheds its skin. Impossible to rewire 71 years of learning into a new system . . . one that's free of any kind of preconceived ideas about people, philosophies . . . anything . . . everything. Wonderful it would be that you grew up in an environment where you decided what is right and wrong without any interference from other, older humans . . .  no mothers and fathers carving you into their own likeness. No social rule that tells you how to perceive the world and the people in it. No religious sleight of hand from Biblical "scholars" who twist the meaning of every word written in the Bible, the Quran, the Constitution of the United States . . . etc. Yeah, sure. You can change the way you've been taught, brain washed into believing about living in America  . . . but it's hard. Relieving yourself of all the bullshit that's been shoved into your brain . . . would be like getting a tattoo removed  . . . it hurts like hell and it leaves a very nasty scar.

So, went out this morning to a hair salon called The Social Club. Got me a pretty good haircut that cost . . . $35.00 + a $5.00 tip! AND $35.00 more for a leave in conditioner. Yeah. Way too much to pay . . . and I won't be going back.

Wednesday, June 19, 2o19
 . . . but I woke up this morning and looked in the bathroom mirror and . . . the hair looked damn good! I mean, for a bald guy (the sides and back are hanging on to my head for "dear life.").  So, I don't know. Do I want to spend . . . $35.00 (+ $5.00 tip)? But it's not like it's every month . . . more like every 4 months. So . . .

I always wake up sad . . . angry . . . depressed . . . I know you're tired of hearing about it, about my difficulties dealing with life . . . then maybe you should give up reading me . . . No, don't do that. Just bear with me, will ya? Let me write the blues out of me . . . if that's possible. Anyway, off for a bike ride. Maybe being out in the  afternoon breeze, which Norman is known for, I'll feel better . . . better.

Thursday, June 2o, 2o19
Why not look at the world as . . . poetry? Poetry that is waiting for me  . . . to write it down. Poetry. The sounds of the living, the life, the existence. A rain of words, a thunderstorm of ideas, of breath, filled with the steady (or unsteady) pounding of the heart. Poetry. Words. Words yet to be created . . . words painting a thousand . . . a billion  . . . an infinity of life pictures . . . in words.

You know how you do an action over and over again . . . and then one day you change? Not a big change. Just a simple change that has stared at you forever and you never . . . stared back. Picture to the left. The effect is called Reflecting Water. Usually, you have the original picture on top and it's reflection illustrated on the bottom. I've created thousands of those pictures . . . and to day, I just decided to take a "chance" and see what would happen if I just created the original effect (pic on top, reflection on the bottom) and turned it so the pic and the refection were side to side. {miles of smiles}

Friday, June 21, 2o19
Last day . . . in the third week . . . of June. I went to the store this afternoon on the bicycle. Very hot. Extremely hot. I was told by the guy at the checkout line that, "Ah, it ain't that hot out there. Gotta good breeze goin'." Yes, a breeze but a breeze out of the south and very warm! I didn't say anything. I was too exhausted from riding the few blocks between my apartment and the store on 12th and Lindsey. Going up wasn't too bad . . . two small grades to get up, but going to the store the grades going down gave me enough pedal time to pick up some speed before hitting the up slope. However, coming back? Three stops to catch my breath before I finally got to the front door of my apartment.

I haven't written a lot this week. Maybe because I', mellowing out a bit. Seems to me I'm more prolific when I'm in one of my angry depressed moods. Well, I hope that my writing doesn't require I be insane. I mean, pretty tough to write anything while wearing a straightjacket. {smiles}

Saturday, June 8, 2019

The Daily {W}rite June 2019 wk o2

So, starting up the second week of a lovely June. Too much rain lately. Flooding through out Oklahoma . . . OKC got hit hard. Too many people trying to drive through the flooding. The weather folk were worried that people would drown . . . they came up with a catchy phrase that the said over and over and . . . "Turn around, don't drowned." It was scary . . . at first. But after it was said over and over and . . . people started to laugh at it.

Sunday, June o9, 2o19 8:45am
Up early! Yes, it's SoonerCon today. Not going to talk much right now. Got to get ready to go! Later, friends!

. . . and how depressing. Damn. First off, new rule. No taking pictures of anybody at SoonerCon unless you ask permission. Well, damn. I mean, most of the shots I take are non-staged, natural . . . but now I've got to ask permission? Fuck that! Done with SnoozerCon. And the hotel lobby that the venders are set up in? According to the venders they have to pay outrageous rents for an area to set up in and peddle their wares. AND one vender told me IF they wanted to use the hotel's Wi-Fi, they had to pay for it, $75.00 a day. AND the hotel set up security guards (in full security guard uniform, looking very suspicious of people dressed up as . . . comicbook characters? I mean, what "normal" human being does that?!) to check what . . . people coming in with bags filled with what . . . for . . . weapons, bombs, knives?! No. To protect us from people bringing in food from other places than the hotel. Yeah, it seems that IF you are going to eat at your vendor's table you need to buy your food from vendors IN the hotel. I don't know.
It makes me sad. I mean, I take pictures as a hobby. I don't sell them. I just edit them and post them on Facebook so that the people I do take pics of can copy them off Facebook, no charge, no nothing. Plus, I used the pics to promote the artists, the book writers, the vendors who are there trying to sell something. Anyway, I'm done with SnoozerCon. Not like it matters.

Monday, June 1o, 2o19
"Woodie, you've gotta to stop thinking about all this . . . you KNOW how depressed you get?" Yeah, I know that's exactly what you are saying, my brain duster reader, and I DID exactly that . . . wind-up deep in the back of the depression locker. Not a place I like to be . . . but I do go there often enough. "See, I told you . . . !" alright, enough from you, Sigmund! I know, I know . . . "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar!" Yeah, yeah, yeah! I get it . . .  no I don't get it. I never understood what the hell you meant by that.

I decided to give up taking photos of people all together. No, I wanna focus on my art project and for get about recording in images the different events that happen here in Norman. It's no big thing. It's not like anyone actually appreciated what I did. I'm just tired of people telling who I can and cannot take a picture of. Okay, you don't like me taking pictures? No problem. I'll just stop doing it.

My mind is beginning to slow down . . . thoughts in drift mode . . . the shores where memories are stored  . . . where memories have decided to live, sleep and dream . . . a thin line . . . blue and straight . . . I leave it all behind before those "thoughts" that bind me . . . most times . . . can find me. Out of sight, out of mind . . . the both of us.

Besides, there are other horrors awaiting me . . . no need to drag the old crew along with me. Surely there will be some monster will surface from beneath the surface . . . subconscious submarines . . . silent but deadly . . . a brain fart . . . it's here before you know it . . .

Tuesday, June 11, 2o19
So . . . I keep focusing on the same question . . . why can't I just be sane? Why can't I just accept life as it is? As it is. Going out today on the bike . . . ride around . . . pic up something I need for the top secret art project. I'll talk to you later.

So, walking my bike across Porter on Main, in the crosswalk, light flashing its red lit count down, and I'm walking across . . . and this fucking kid in a SUV, this fucking kid couldn't have been more than 18, she makes a left hand turn off of Main onto Porter, and she's driving damn fast and she almost runs me over. I just stopped, just stopped dead in the center of the crosswalk . . . she slams on her breaks and I start yelling at her, "You stupid motherfucker!" Start shaking my head and mumbling to myself. Of course, she did hear me yelling at her . . . if she read lips, then she knew what I was saying. If I had not been so angry, I might have just yelled "I'm walking here!" like Dustin Hoffman in Midnight Cowboy:

Wednesday, June 12, 2o19
What I Learned when Almost Murdered 
By A Teenage Girl Driving An SUV
So, I told David the story about the teenage girl in the SUV, told him how I cussed it out with "You stupid motherfucker!" And he had an odd look on his smiling face. "So what's the look for?" I asked. "Is it because of the story or because I yelled 'You stupid motherfucker!' at her?" David thinks for a minute . . . "Both."

This morning I woke-up having a strange epiphany: That girl trying to "murder" me with her friggin' SUV yesterday . . . was a sign, a lesson from the universe. AND me telling David the story of the teenage serial killer of old people wannabe . . . also a lesson. See, I get extremely angry with David for over blowing his horn at people in traffic when they are in his way. "Dude!" You keep that shit up and someone's gonna go all Road Warrior on you . . . and ME!" Okay, in short . . . I have been trying to change my . . . reaction to people who I feel threatened by. AND when I look at these to incidents, the girl in the SUV, and me yelling at David about his driving . . . So both events remind me that I am still living off the cuff with shouting, with anger . . . Thanks, universe, for the heads up.

Friday, June 14, 2o19
Well, I missed a day  . . . yesterday. Not feeling too much like writing. Not feeling like doing more than sit on the couch and watch TV. Depression is a soul killer. Just drives you pounds you down so hard . . . you wonder if you can ever get to your metaphorical feet. Ha! At Art Walk tonight, one of the owner of one of the art galleries n Main said to me, "Hey did I see you the other day on Main walking across the street, and some goofball almost hit you with a car?" "Yeah! It was some 18 year girl, I think." "What the hell was her problem?!" It made me feel like I could finally stop fretting about what happened . . . someone saw it happen and had somewhat of the same response as I did.

So I started the "art project" tonight during Art Walk. We'll see if anything happens with it. {smiles}

Saturday, June 1, 2019

The Daily {W}rite June 2o19 wk 01

Do we really realize that we have the chance to change the walk of life that we chose? Do we know we don't need to ask permission, beg for moral support or financial assistance from anyone in order to feel sane? Do you realize you could change at anytime? No special date is needed to change, no special time . . . you just decide to change and then you do. No one may notice that you have changed . . . but you will. You'll know. Keep it a secret if you like, just between you and yourself. Oh, others may notice a different tone in your voice, a different rhythm to you natural way of walking . . . they'll never suspect that you had changed in some fundamental and extremely important way.

I've given up on people, being friends, being more than friends. It's never worked out for me . . . relationships. I'm not a relationship sort of guy. There's that name for people like me . . . the loner, the lone wolf. A book written about it . . . a movie . . . The Invisible Man. None of those clichés can accurately define, describe me, my . . . predicament. I won't even try. No need to. Not everything needs a word to define itself, its existence, its reason for existing.

Sunday, June o2, 2o19
Enough soul searching for now . . . I've always wondered what "soul searching" actually means. Does it mean to search thoroughly the soul . . . or is it really to search for the soul . . . the first definition would be a waste of time if there isn't such a thing as the soul. We are not a being with a soul, but a sole human being.

In about an hour after I do my whole breathing through a tube thingy I'll be out on the bicycle getting that needed exercise for my continued longevity. I will warn you though, I'm still in a depressed mood about . . . everything.

Monday, June 03, 2o19
Days come to bloom for twenty-four hours. Days come to bloom and to wither and fade like a well worn pair of jeans . . . death comes so readily to a moment in time . . . we haven't the chance to mourn it properly.

I'm finally working on a poetry project that will, hopefully, get my words out there into the world of  . . . human thingies. Thingy bobs, doohickeys, doohickyism. Anyway, it's not on any grand scale like screaming it from the street corners . . . more of a subtle attack allowing my victims to succumb to my artistic wickedness of their own free will. Not going to tell you more than that . . . but be on the look out for it during the June Art Walk in Norman, OK.

Tuesday, June o4, 2o19
Not well today. Body and spirit both  . . . a bit on the stare at the computer and  . . . stare at the computer and . . . listen to the calming music drifting from the TV . . . and realize that . . . it's not all that calming . . . no relief from the storm sulking inside my head.  It's one of this moments in time where being alive isn't a good enough reason for getting out of bed. Well, I am out of bed so the demon has been dealt with. But still feeling . . . well, one demon at a time. Slaying too many monsters at one time . . . a bit of an over reach.

Wednesday, June o5, 2o19
In the heading I'm still inclined to type May as the month we are in. What does this say about my moral character.

I woke up today . . . you see? A simple phrase will have a different meaning, a deeper meaning than you intended when you don't finish it.

I woke up today feeling a bit more energetic than I had the day before. I don't know what the problem is. I don't understand why I can feel better one day and awful the next day, and then good again . . . a vicious cycle to my existence. But whatever, however I feel physically and/or mentally, I need to keep working, creating, using my mind, my imagination to create for myself (and whoever wishes to live there with me) a world of wonder and . . . I don't want to say joy. I'm hearing the word "joy" being tossed around these days as if that's the most important part of living. I mean, we seem to think of joy as an objective to try and reach, a goal to accomplish, but joy is more of a byproduct of living a good life, don't you think?

Thursday, June 06, 2o19
People. I don't know how to deal with people. People . . . often piss me off. Most times I think I'm justified at being upset with  . . . people. Not always sure though if my friends think I justified in giving a rather heated defense when someone insults me. Most of my friends think I make too big a deal out of things. "So what if someone says something to you? Blow it off. Be the better man."

"I don't know." Beckett was stabbed by a mugger once. The police found Beckett's mugger (muggist?), took him to the hospital where Beckett wound-up after the stabbing. Beckett identified the man in police custody as the mugger who stabbed him. Beckett then asked the mugger (muggerony?), "I gave you my wallet, my money and you stabbed me anyway. Why?" The mugger (muggerton?) shrugged and said, "I don't know."

"I don't know" how to effectively deal with people when they are nasty to me. Maybe I shouldn't do anything, try NOT to stand up for myself because there is no reason to do so. Let people be the way they are, and let me go about my own business. Then again . . . maybe I should stand up for myself . . . but not get angry about it. Maybe I can stand up for myself without being too forceful with the person I'm dealing with. It's not that I stand up for myself; it's how I stand that matters.

Friday, May o7, 2o19
Well, first week of June and  . . . I made it through the whole week without an emotional tsunami crushing me into a bloody ball of human blubber . . . So far . . . so good. But I still find myself drifting into a bad memory and staying there for a time before I regain conscious control over my mind and body. It's not that long, really. Maybe a 10 second freeze frame . . . I think. It's hard for me to not slip into the state of memory unconsciousness. But I am working at it, trying to gain control over my moodiness, my time warping back to some bad experience I haven't yet dealt with enough to say . . . No, I'm not nutsoid! I'm as well adjusted as you. See you next week. {smiles}