July The Daily (W)Rite WK 2

"I just have a hell of a hard time in a crowd of people. There's always some DICK (or DICKette) who thinks it's okay to mess with me. Like I got this big tattoo smack in the middle of my face that says, 'Please MESS with me!' I know, I know, I don't look right, I don't dress right and everyone thinks that makes me fair game . . . but it doesn't. And just because I am an A-hole in real life doesn't mean you have a right to treat me like an A-hole in public. I usually don't say ...anything in the moment that some jerk-weed decides to ridicule me. I wait until I get to the privacy of my apartment and I let loose . . . usually on the Facebook. I don't want to go off on somebody in front of a bunch of other folk because when I do I windup being the bad guy. And that's because when someone goes off on me I go back at them twice as hard. They throw a metaphorical spit wad at me, I toss a verbal hand grenade at them. They snipe at me with a pithy round of insults, I'll come back with an atom bomb bombardment of @&%$+*&^ words! And I always win the insult game when I do that, but I also always lose in the arena of public opinion." -Woodie

Sunday, July 12, 2o15
2:oo AM
Spent a big part of the afternoon yesterday watching the baker at The Gray Owl make strawberry scones. The light frosting of  the pastries was the highlight. A small pot of heated glaze, a whisk keeping it from melting into water, even, crescent shaped lines meticulously placed along the face of each scone. I fell in love with the baker's precision, her loving delicate care she gave each scone.  I fall in love easily, quickly . . . I love the moments of love that old men seem to gravitate towards so very, very easily.

3:48 AM
I'm no longer punishing myself for staying up until four or five in the morning. What's the point? All the yelling that I do inside and outside my head has never worked. I promise to go to bed at a reasonable hour, promise to get to bed before the sun comes up . . .  and I never seem to make it. The worst thing a person can do is lie to himself betray himself by not doing what he says he should do. No one likes a liar, and I'm no exception to that human rule of thumb. Never trust a person who can't tell the truth.

Monday, July 13, 2o15
4:o3AM

My mind can't hold onto a single thought tonight . . . I mean, this morning. Scrambled eggs for brains this early in the AM. Butterflies of thought flutter around and 'bout inside my head . . . bouncing off the curved grey wall, smashing into each other . . . a pile-up near the corner of Id and Unconsciousness . . . a mushy mess of past, present and future. Sometimes I am not quite sure where reality and fantasy separate . . . not sure that they are not the same thing . . . the Siamese twins of existence . . . that which is spiritual and scientific rushing towards each other . . .would either survive a head on collision?

I dream when I'm sitting at the computer, wide awake, typing down some mind-nonsense that I won't remember thinking up after the words I choose to express this electrical shock that living has become hit the blank page  . . . which is no longer blank once I've begun to type. I worry about my process . . . sometimes. I worry about numbers . . . sometimes. Hours of sleep. Number of years I have left to breathe. You can rightfully say that you're old when the days you have left on this planet are less than the number you have already spent. I confuse myself . . . sometimes.

Tuesday, July 14, 2o15

End of a week of writing. I'm looking for myself again. Always it seems towards the end of a week I look for myself, try to remember that I exist in this world and not some other place. I do misplace the self quite often finding a stranger in the reflection on the computer screen. Of course, I'm speaking metaphorically. I always know who I am, that I am most times. It's easy to lose the self. Like house keys or my sunglasses, I sometimes put my being somewhere and can't remember exactly where I left it.

Sometimes I feel sharp, on it, aware. Sometimes though I feel myself dissolving, splintering, fracturing . . . cracking like a mirror . . . I can see me but it doesn't look exactly like me, the nose a bit more crooked, my goatee a bit more gray . . . my eyes a duller blue than I remember. But it's me, it's always me . . . but for a split second I think it's someone else.

However, I don't like being the me that I was the day before. No, not a total change of my character but I hate the thought of being exactly as I was the day before . . . doing and saying the same exact things. Proust said something like, "the worst thing for creativity is habit." I like that idea. I want to wake each morning and see myself in a different way. I want to be, act, think differently throughout the day. It makes me feel more alive. It makes me feel more like me and not a stranger.