Tuesday, March 20, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday, March 8, 2018

The Daily {W}rite March 2018 wk o3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Nothingness

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

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

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

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

Sunday, February 18, 2018

The Daily {W}rite February wk o3

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

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

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

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

Friday, February 9, 2018

The Daily {W}rite February wk o2

Been thinking a lot about the military these last few days due to the fact that Emperor Trump has decided to  have a big "missile" parade to "support" our troops. I'm pretty sure it's just a line of bullshit. Trump doesn't give a shit about the military. If he did, he'd do more that make sure that the guys who fight for this country had better health benefits when they get back from whatever war that's going on. He'd make damn that they got the mental health facilities in place for the brothers who are having a hard time assimilating back into civilian life. He'd make sure that one, NOT one military guy lived on the streets due his inability to cope with peace time. But he won't. No, he'd rather throw a parade, shake a vets hand and say, "good job," hand them a fucking medal, big slap on the back and then . . . will that's it. None of those fuckers up there in Washington gives a damn what happens to the warrior when the war is over for them.

Friday, February o9, 2o18
I lose connection with myself sometimes. No, more than sometimes . . . all the time. Late in the evening my forgetfulness is most productive and powerful. I often find myself gone from this old-gray reality. Where do I go? I have no idea. I only know that I am not here. I look for myself, I truly do. Behind the couch, no, not there. Maybe buried away somewhere  within the layered mound of dirty clothes that guard the closet door . . . in the pockets of my jeans, my Spider-Man leather coat, perhaps? You see how frustrating it is to get so tired of thinking you just disappear, divide yourself into split images so black and white that you can tell if you control the darkness  or . . . is the darkness me? Is that where I've gone? Hiding out behind the wooden toolshed in the backyard of the old family home after getting swatted on the hand by an angry aunt when I dared to stick my hands in the fresh pudding she made. It did taste good until I got wacked! Then all the flavor ran out of my mouth as I ran out of the house to find my way to that dark space between the shed and the neighbor's ivy fence. Crying is all you can do when you're young. I cried. Great bubbles of pudding colored snot blasting from my nose, drizzling down my white t-shirt like a sadly happy rain.

I should write something else, I suppose. I haven't been out of the house for a couple of days, maybe three, maybe an eternity . . . I've forgotten how to walk. It's been that long. I've forgotten how dream. I sleep but I do not dream. Or if I do dream (and I'm sure I must), I can't remember what fantasy I went dreaming through! Again, lost.  Forever lost . . . except for memory, which refuses to be forgotten.

Sunday, February 11, 2018
Saturday was Mardi Gras in Norman town. Streets were blocked off by the police so the parade could pass down Main St. without the participants being run over by unware motorists. But it wasn't that big  of an inconvenience because the parade was only about two blocks long . . . and it was very short. So short they actually ran it twice! Hey! Not bad for a small town! It definitely was fun but so damn cold! The day after and my fingers are still freezing! Yeah, I know, why didn't I wear gloves? Because, silly, I can't pictures with winter gloves on!

So, I got through one pass of the parade without my fingers falling off, and I figured that's enough parade for me! Went to get me a burger at McNellie's. David came in a few minutes later a ton of Mardi Gras beads around his neck. He was so pleased with himself.

Flashback: 4:30pm, Saturday
David and I went to Walmart. Had to hurry a bit because we needed get groceries, gas (Yeah, I see the gas gauge on the dashboard flashing: EMPTY! "Hey, you're out of gas!" "No, I'm not! "Look at the gas gauge!" David looks, "HOLY SHIT!"), take the groceries home and get down to the parade before 7pm. Anyway, I'm getting some ice cream (Ben and Jerry, New York Double Fudge Crunch) And I hear this voice, "Excuse me, sir." I turn around and there is this young kid, maybe 18, and a girl walking away from me and they are laughing. For a second I blow it off . . . and then that old demon shouts in my inner ear, "You gonna let that little fuck get away that." "Hey," I say rather loudly, "You want something from me?" "No." Again, he laughs. Then he and his girlfriend turn the corner at the end of the  ice cream aisle laughing very loud as they disappear. And I start to lose it. my hands tighten up, my breath starts accelerate, my heart beating fast . . . I want to run after that little shit, that little pretty boy motherfucker and rip his fucking face off. But I don't. I just my head and wander off to find my shopping cart. I'm still thinking about that punk as I grab up some tomatoes, lettuce, a few apples.

Monday, February 12, 2018
So, I figure I shouldn't leave the last blog post go without a little explanation just incase it freaked you out a bit. Yeah, I've been pretty caught up in violence my whole life. Always the skinny kid I was the go to guy to beat up whenever some bad ass needed to stomp on someone. Angry stepfather knocked my front teeth when I was 16 years old. Sucker punch to the face. Then two years later he came at me with his 12 gauge. Wrote a poem about it:

Step Up

I grabbed him by his skinny neck
slung his naked ass out’a the bedroom.
For a moment he seemed to float through air
then slammed hard into the linoleum floor.

Son of a bitch,” he mumbled
trying to stand up. “Son of
a bitch!” he shouted, stumbled
to his feet, staggered down the hall,
bouncing off the walls like a pinball.

He made it to the garage.

The baby stopped screaming.

Mother shut the bedroom door.

Then Click-click!
I knew that sound.
The fucker jumped out at me
before I could reach the garage
and shoved the unfriendly end of a
single barrel shot gun against my ribs.

You know what this is?” he said poking
me several times in the gut.
Yes, I do.

His eyes went red. He’d been crying.
You know what this can do to you?”
Yes, I do.” I—

...And sometimes I wake-up.
Sometimes...  I don’t sleep at all.
Woodie 8-10-11

Wednesday, February 14, 2o18
Last day of the 2nd week in February, 2o18 and it's been a day of love and death.

Yes, another mass shooting this time in a school in Parkland, Florida. 17 children and adults murdered and the death tally will probably go up from there. But this an old story in America, is it not? Mass shootings at schools, movie theatres, universities, churches, malls, a country  music festival where fifty were murdered and 500 hundred were injured . . . there's not a place anymore that we can consider sacred. And our government, our "wonderful" President who is all gung-ho (or if you like, GUN-ho) to put the hammer down on foreign terrorists, stop immigration by "those people" and protect America from terrorists by any means  . . . but when it comes to American citizens (mostly white males) who go out with semi-automatic weapons and gun down as many people as they can . . . well, that's something that we can't talk about, do anything about because . . . hey! The 2nd Amendment. Bullshit. Mass shootings, mass murder is not a right protected by the 2nd Amendment. All those CONservatives, the NRA, the gun manufactures, the Congress of the United States, the Alt-right, they tell you all about the Bill of Rights  . . . but they don't know diddly about the Bill of Rights.

And of course, it was Valentine's Day today. And as usual, there's no love in my life. Love. I've never known love. If I have known love for a minute, for a month, for the time it takes to bat an eye . . .  I've  forgotten the  feeling. Love. I've never loved someone. Never. Sure infatuated for a while with some lovely blond, brunette, red, who spent a drunken moment to "get to know me" but never have I loved. Too ME centered. To interested in myself, my art, my soul  (if I actually have one) to ever give love to another. "Friends." I do have friends. But love? Love is a stranger to me. However, I have written  a Valentine's Day poem (what? YOU wrote a poem?!) that talks a bit about the few women who were able to make a dent in my ignorance enhanced psyche and who I remember (whether I want to or not) every now and then . . . in the darkness  . . . and alone . . . I remember. 

Not a Valentine’s Day Poem

I chose not to write a Valentine poem,

but then decided, what the hell,
I might as well, since it is Valentine's Day.

In The Garage, standing in line to order
a Swiss and mushroom burger you kissed
me, hard. It felt like a passionate, drunk
Mac truck had just smashed into my lips.
I will not lie and say it was unpleasant
because you did taste like 1979, the last year
that our mouths said hello to each other.

And the other one, you know who you are,
the one that I bought a Teddy bear for
on the 12th of each month just to tell you
how thankful an old was to have you in his life.
You were nice until you weren’t anymore.

And then there was the one, the only one, really.
Blond hair, English accent, glasses
that partially hid the bluest eyes . . .

I don't remember ever celebrating
Valentine's Day with you. Perhaps,
it was that every day seemed like
Valentine's Day when we were together.

So, writing a poem about ghosts
isn't the most romantic thing.
But when you have little left
except for memories? Well,
memories are better than nothing.

Happy Valentine’s Day

Friday, February 2, 2018

The Daily {W}rite February wk o1

Friday, February o2, 2o18
Luckily, I got about two hours worth of sleep time before I had to be up at ten to wake David up with a phone call so he could get showered, dressed and ready to pick me up at eleven so we could catch a noon showing of The Maze Runner: Death Cure. Oh! We also had to stop by our friend's house and pick her up too. Yes, I did say "her" because our friend IS a girl named Vickie. I know, I know, usually we don't take a member of that other sex with us, but Vickie need to get herself out of her house and do something. So, me and David are in the same head space . . . forcing ourselves to go out and do something . . . anything. And our choices are limited because I'm not all that interested in music, and David is such a local groupie. I like to ride my bike, but David doesn't have a bike so . . . so, movies are about the only thing we can do to just get out of the house instead standing in the doorway of our respective apartments yelling, 'You kids get off my lawn!"

Anyway, the movie was really exciting, lots of action, good versus evil and shot so well with very little (if any) CGI. Okay, they did use a CGI trick I hate, fake muzzle flash from guns, but the rest of the movie was so interesting that I overlooked this one . . . blemish.

Saturday, February o3, 2o18
There's a hole, an emptiness inside my  . . . spirit? My imagination? Deep down in the ME of me. And like with all holes, any empty space that nature finds it begins to fill it in with . . . mind dirt, subconscious sediment . . . a darkness so dark . . . the eyes begin to scream . . .  And when the screaming  becomes unbearable, the gentle fingers of Nature plucks your eyes out your bald head and feeds them to the crows. And silence rushes into the sockets, the red gouges and order returns cool and refreshing like the wet washcloth mother would lay on my forehead when I was  6 years old, delirious with . . . chickenpox. And you think that chickenpox would be enough of a physical torture for we childrens to get the hint . . .  But you know all this. You knew when that endless silence dropped its eternal spit in those empty sockets the world would dissolve and disappear just as speedily as the blond-haired English girl who swore she would forever love me. And I suppose she didn't lie. Maybe she does still love me . . . only from about three thousand miles away.

Sunday, February o4, 2o18 12:37am
I'm wandering now. Lost in the desert searching for a sturdy prophecy, one made of driftwood, light and durable. A man, an old man always needs a good stick to guide him to the edge of that endless wet spot.

Monday, February o5, 2o18
The older I get, the farther I'm removed from this life, from this existence that at one time was so important. Saturday nights. Beer, the jukebox at the old watering hole. Love. Blondes with thick, sturdy legs, lips like fat caterpillars . . . but no fur. Summer nights, hot, sweaty. You as shadow in my bed or your bed or up against a wall in some ally we staggered into. All of that? A shrug of my arthritic shoulders and the memories dissolve into a puttylike fog that my raspy breath blows into the shadows that the one lone streetlight outside my apartment window provides.

Tuesday, February o6, 2o18
So, again, very little sleep. Maybe two hours or so. Not up until 1:30pm. What a cosmic
 drag it is to sleep most of the sun away. But my friend David called just as I was getting up to remind me that we were meeting with an old friend, Patrick McCord, for coffee. So, a fast dress, brush the old ivories and out the door we go to YuYu! Okay, David's got a thing about this Egyptian coffee house that I don't quite appreciate. Too expensive for me . . . and not that much coffee in the cup. "But I don't complain." David laughed when I said that.

Anyway, Patrick is an old friend from my undergraduate days in the OU Drama Department. A really good actor. Much better at the craft than me. He spent, I think, a year studying acting in London. He came back saying "Shedule" instead of the American way "schedule."
Anyway, we gabbed a while, remembering old stories from back in the day, and discussing how much it sucks getting old . . . er.  

It's good to see old friends. Friends of our youth. Our stupid, awkward youth. A lot of my memories though are not that pleasant. I was an angry sober guy . . . made even angrier when I drank . . . which was almost every night when I didn't have rehearsal. Oh, yeah. I never drank during rehearsal or a show. To be honest, it was just the excuse I gave myself to be a nasty drunk . . . Hey, at least I didn't drink during a show. I gots class!

Wednesday, February o7, 2018
Hey! The last day for writing on the blog . . . AND . . . I almost got through writing something every day! Yeah! Beer on me! So, what's happened today that everybody who religiously reads my blog is just waiting to hear what I have to say about it.
1. Trump wants a parade ala Adolf in his prime. After the parade of giant missiles and even larger egos. And after the parade let's invade Poland. 
2. Went to bed . . . 8am? Hard to tell. Awake, asleep are blending together so much i can't tell which reality I'm in. I do know that I finally woke up (I was asleep . . . I think) at 3:30pm. THIS MUST STOP!  I feel like I'm sleeping through life.
3. I still find myself thinking about something that happened in the past and I get really angry. Old girlfriends (who probably have more reason to be mad a me than I have reason to be angry with them), slights against me from friends. Enemies fucking with me isn't a bother. That's what they're suppose to do . . . fuck with you. But my friends? What the hell, man.?Oh, remember the guy from Art Walk that kept bumping into me on purpose over and over again? Well, I was sitting in Yuyu's (horribly expensive coffee but nice staff) listening to this band and a blobby shadow moves passed and "nudge, nudge" I get bumped and . . .IT'S THE SAME GUY FROM ART WALK! I tell David about it and I get the old, "Oh, he did not." David doesn't believe anything I say about this "nudger!" He doesn't even believe that the guy did it, on purpose, at Art Walk! "He has a PhD! He wouldn't do something like that!"  IF it happens again, I'm going to say something to Doctor Him . . .  but I won't get ANGRY! Or if I do get angry . . . I'll smile while being so. 

4. I'm working on a new poem. Needs a lot of work, but the idea is sound:

Close my eyes and dream about
the love I've lost and never found
just like a pair of socks she disappeared
between swigs from a longneck beer
and music in my ears singing softly
do not go, please don't go from here.
nightmares wake me up before
my dreaming time is up
the alarm clock blares
who cares no one cares
or so it seems to we
who never get a chance to sleep
who never get chance to say I'm sorry

Monday, January 22, 2018

The Daily {W}rite January 2018 wk o3

I know. What the hell happen to you writing daily, HUH?! Hey! LIFE happened. Yes, the original Russian roulette, the universe, God or the Devil deciding that I got it too easy this life! Nooo! So, whatever powers that be decided to CRASH my computer! But you're thinking, "That's no excuse! Just buy a new one." and I did. I spent a hell of a lot of money too on it too. More than I liked but it's a little bit better than my old one and I need a good running computer IF I'm ever going to get back to showing my art and poetry around town.

Politics drains me of my desire to linger in this existence. Well, maybe not that drastic. But it doesn't do much for my believe that things will workout for the better. Trump and his followers have us by the metaphorical gonads . . . and it's not a pleasant grip. What do we do we the "other side" has no sense of right and wrong . . . strike that. The CONservatives DO have a moral sense: We are right and you are always wrong. But Trump? Is he the evil or just a puppet? He makes a deal with the Liberals concerning DACA, goes and talks to someone and then . . . changes his mind. Yeah, someone's pulling his strings, alright, and We the People are gonna pay heavy price to watch this scumbag dance.

Gotta give David a wake-up call at 11:30 tomorrow morning. He's got a doctor's appointment around one or so. He's been sick with bronchitis for the last couple days . . . and he's blaming me for getting him sick. Ha!

I'm starting to feel better after my sinus infection. The damn cold just really gets to me. But I've restarted the blog and started a new poetry blog, Poetry by Woodie. Yeah, not flashy, but I like the use of my nickname Woodie as my nom de plume! HahahahahahahahaHA! I always wanted to use that phrase:  nom de plume. How pretentious!

Wednesday January 24,
Went with David to his doctor's appointment. Nursed called him in and I sat on a very comfortable white leather chair and read some Edna St. Vincent Millay poetry:
Dirge Without Music
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

An older man than me came and set next to me and started talking about his wife having died and now he has no reason to ever leave his house . . . except to come to the doctors office. And we sat there a while talking about how it sucks to be old (I am hitting 70 this year and the old guy was 78). Don't let anyone tell you, he said in a whisper as if he was telling me a grave secret, that it's fun gettin' old. It's not. The nurse came in again and the old man was taken back into one of the nondescript rooms where they check your heart, ask how you feel and decide whether or not to tell you, You're going to die sometime in the future. 

David finally came out and we went home. I didn't think about the old man that I met at the doctor's office until now. I didn't think about the Millay poem until now. I don't want to be like that old man. I want to hate dying. I want to kick death in balls when it comes for me. One of my friends on Facebook posted the other day that he was wearing pajamas to bed because he was afraid that he might die when he goes to sleep and he didn't want anybody seeing him naked. I commented back, To hell with that! I WANT them to find me naked as the dawn! They'll have a hard time forgetting about me AFTER they've seen my dead, naked body. {smiles}

Friday January 26. 2o18 12:32am
One of those days. You know the type. In the apartment all day. No human (flesh to flesh) contact. Just the TV. MSNBC goes on and on about Trump. I listen. But as soon as Trump or one of his henchman show up to talk . . . I turn the channel.

I wrote a poem about Vietnam around 2006 (My Cream-colored Psychedelic Flashback) that I just reposted yesterday. I was shocked at the number of positive comments. One person liked it so much that they sent it to some semi-famous actor, also a Vietnam Vet, for him to read. Nothing will happen, I'm sure, but it's always a nice thrill when someone likes your work so much they send it to someone "semi-famous." 

It was enough to get me thinking about trying to get out of the house to do a reading or two. Still want to do the Power Point presentation of my poetry and my art work, which if your are a "fan" of my poetry or my blog you know I've wanted to do something to "get my work out there" for some time.

Friday, January 26, 2018 10:19pm
The day existed, the sun trying to light the world through a filter of unfriendly gray clouds that had just began to retreat to the western horizon, where the sun had already claimed its own land. We existed at the same time. A light wind spoke to us in gentle words along the outside of our ears. But we didn't understand a it said . . . neither of us spoke the wind language.

I'm relaxed, thoughtful tonight. A bitter day inside my head battling the evil forces who had taken up their crusade to save Trump from the FBI's probe against him. And of course, his champions, his protectors, the misguided CONservatives, fought against with the only weapon they have . . . It's all Hillary's fault. Obama's to blame." I cursed them a bit, calmed down and told them, I won't play this game with you anymore. Believe what you want or change your thought patterns and get on the good side of these troubles. Will they do it? No, of course not.  But I will not let it pester my sensitive peace of mind.

Sunday, January 28, 2018 12:39am
Been working on poetry and editing pics with some new apps. Semi-busy today, but not accomplishing much. I need to get up early and go do something tomorrow. Sleeping until four in the afternoon is just not making me happy. I need to be up and about amongst  the day walkers for a change.
Guess what I haven't been since Saturday, waking up Saturday afternoon at 4pm. Okay, I did get maybe two one hour moments of sleep today . . . but I just couldn't stay asleep for eight hours at one time which is what I should be doing. And I think I'm hallucinating a bit. I'm fading in and out as I write this not knowing exactly what I put on the page. This will need a bunch of proofing, I'm sure.

Monday, January 29, 2018
Did seem to get some shut-eyes time last night . . . err . . . this morning. You know I'm tired of talking about sleep or the lack of sleep. There has to be something else to talk about to write about.

There's a giant crane, a metal, heavy lifting crane . . . you know what I mean . . . I hope. Anyway three huge red lights on the length of it arm. Only one winks, blinks at me.at the junction, where the arm is attached to the vertical leg of the crane, is a white plastic rectangle that contains a white light, which is much brighter the red warning lights on the arm. The logo and initials of the company  that owns the crane, but the white box is too high up for me to see the logo or name clearly, even during the day it's hard to make out.

I thought about teaching myself to be more conscious about my life. What do I mean by that? Well, take my mind out of sub conscious mode for the most park, start being aware of myself and my environment more, take conscious control of my life. Like tying my shoes, you know? I tie my shoes without even thinking about it anymore. Am I missing an adventure there? Is there more to tying my shoes than tying my shoes? Perhaps the meaning of life is there somewhere within the double knots I use to keep my feet from flying out of my Chucks. I know for sure that there must be a poem in the idea of a grown man double knotting his shoes . . . perhaps it's a symbol for my insecurities about writing poems, about the way I look, my weight,  about life.  I snuck a poem into this blog. Yes, right above your gaze . . . on the left.

Well, this is all I got for January. My writing abilities have taken a bit a vacation, and my Muse doesn't seem that interested in helping me out either. Probably a lot of typos, grammar mistakes. But I did the best I could for the first month of a new year. AND I plan to get better as I "grow" along. So, goodbye, January. You were a great month, but I gotta move on to Feb. and beyond. {smiles}

Tuesday, January 9, 2018

The Daily {W}rite January o9, 2018 wk o2

I never know the difference between a cold and a fever. "starve a cold, feed a fever." Not sure which I have but my guess is a fever because I'm sweating with a bit of chill to my bones. So I'll say fever. I'm sleeping a lot but only 1-2 hours at a time. The heart doctor's office called. Well, not the nurse but a phone-bot called. I'm suppose to go in on Thursday for the annual check up. But I got a "fever" so I should probably not go. Tomorrow I'll call the heart doctor, and in my best phone-bot voice, reschedule for next week.

Fredrick Schroeder (Facebook friend) made this pencil drawing (above) of me from this alien pic I created of myself some years ago. it's creepy how much the drawing looks like my real self . . . except, of course, for the two extra set of eyes. :) I think I've written a few poems about feeling alien on this planet.

Alien Backpackers

Friends come and go and come and go
and dreams do too but they don't slam doors
and yell and scream and shout about
"How unfair you are, you fuckin’ bastard!"
 I sleep well, though, when I sleep.
The sleep of a dead man who hung himself
out to dry during the winter months
and didn’t allow anything, anyone
to get in the way of his self-employed misery.
By degree we all must suffer the dead things
that live inside our tiny but quite tidy heads
and won't allow us (who sport a conscience)
one moment, one single dull moment of peace.
I'm afraid I've lost the choo-choo of thought
I started this poem off with. But does it matter
if words mean nothing, describe nothing,
amount to nothing more than an aging hope
that someday alien backpackers will stop by
and read this poem and say, "Damn,
now that guy, he could write!"
Woodie 11-21-13 (rewrites 11-21-15)

Saturday, January 13, 12:12am
Yes, I know, don't be mad. I haven't written in a few days. BUT I've been sick! No, not an excuse I have been REALLY sick with something, sinuses, breathing, fever . . . and I'm not making it up. Other people I know have the same symptoms. So, there! I was worried for a while, thinking that maybe it had something to do with how much I've mistreated body in my past and my age which is almost 70! Fortunately, I'm not the only one with year's crud. makes me feel a bit better. But still, I have to take care to make sure it doesn't turn into something "life threatening."

Still, I do sound a bit like a paranoid hypochondriac, don't I?  Maybe true. A man I did admire, who I thought would live forever did die last week, Tony Maffucci. He was older than me . . . but still. There are those deaths that are so profound to an individual it is hard not to think of your own death. I may write more after I go to bed and wake up . . . today.

Did venture out to Art Walk this evening. Not much going on because it was so cold. Below 30 degrees. Like a frozen wasteland. Only two street musicians out on the sidewalks. Brave souls. We made the rounds to the Main St. Gallery and down to the Stash. But I was getting tired way to fast. Stopped for dinner at one of the local watering holes that had food. Patty melts and pub fries and the Ale Bar. Mmmm, good. But that was it. feeling the sickness creeping on me. David took me home, I got in right at 9pm just in time to watch Blue Bloods.

Sunday, January 14, 10:31pm
I wore my new Chucks for Art Walk. That's them on the left. What do you think? Yeah, I know. Weeeeeeeird! But only one guy noticed them at Art Walk. "Nice shoes," he said as he passed me. My friends on Facebook were a bit more vocal. Brother Timothy typed, "This means you got six pairs of tennis shoes: 1 green pair 1 red pair, 1 green and red pair, 1 red and green pair. Okay, so I don't know how that adds up to six pairs of Chucks . . . but I was never that good at science. Anyway my friend David bought the two pair of Chucks for me. I kept trying to talk him out of it but . . . Oh, and David sent me an IM about Ford reintroducing the Mustang from the movie Bullitt! I was so excited. It was a dream of mine to own a replica of the Bullitt Mustang! Of course, I could never afford it, and to tell the truth the new Bullitt doesn't really LOOK like the original Bullitt. That's a bit of a bummer. 
But honestly, do I really want a car that was built in 1968? Hell, yeah!But I would want state of the art air-conditioning and a 21st century sound system so . . . I really don't want an original Bullitt car, do I? Life is full of these ironically ironic moments, and yes, I know it's probably isn't ironic but I couldn't pass up the use of "ironically ironic."

Have a good rest of this day!