September The Daily (W)rite 2o15 WK o2

Refugees ran out of their own countries. Other places, safer places don't want anything to do with them. Beaten by the cops of the countries they're running towards. I guess it's better than staying in the world you were born into where they kill you. Beaten or murdered. A fucked up choice. How can I write about my pitiful, little life, my "problems" which really aren't problems at all compared to what's going on in other parts of my country, in other parts of the world?

I've gotten use to the idea of talking to people when David and I go out. Spent a good bit of time talking to a little kid at the dentist office as I waited for David to finish his appointment. Actually, I was a bit shook up when this little girl came up to me asking me why I was at the dentist office. Did I have a hurt tooth? No, just waiting on a friend. "Do you have an appointment?" I asked her.  She said, with a great deal of pride, that she did. She was having a hard time biting down on food! I was laughing inside cause this six year old was talking to me like she was thirty. AND then the model train above our heads moved through the reception area and she became mesmerized. "You know," she said in a very wishful way, "I'd like to ride in that train. But I'm too big. If I was small enough, I would ride in it. But then how would I get off? I'd be too TINY." Oh, kid. Samuel Beckett couldn't have explained life's misery any better.

At dinner with David and his kids the other night we got into one of our arguments about . . . nothing. Damn," David's son-in-law said, "You guys are like an old married couple!" And we all broke out laughing. It was true. I had an aunt and uncle that used to do the same thing, always bickering with each other over . . . nothing.

Damn it I want to write more! I want to scream politics. Our leaders? Our pretend leaders? Trump. What a dick. Doesn't anybody other than me see what a waste this guy is? An over ripe avocado has more charisma. Doesn't anyone but me see it?
I want to write more. Kim Davis, Ted Cruz, Huckabee! I want to tell them, tell them all! But I can't, I won't. They have worn my spirit down to sand. I can barely shake my head with disgust. Maybe tomorrow I will have more to say about . . . nothing. Yeah, tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll have more to say.

Saturday, September 12, 2o15
It was Art walk yesterday. Reached Main St. about 7pm and already the street was filled with musicians, the delicious smells of food from the venders' trucks, and people moving slowly from gallery to gallery, stopping now and then to chat with a friend. And David has lots of friends! A lot of them he knew from so far back he had forgotten exactly who they were and how he knew them! But David is a sly old dude. He would smile and shake hands and sometimes (when he thought it would be welcomed) he'd hug the person, and all the time he's asking them questions like "How long has it been?" "What have you been doing all these years?" "Where you living now?" until (hopefully) the interrogated  lets slip his or her name. Like I said, David is a conniving little pacifist!

I don't talk much to people. Too busy taking their pictures! Dogs, cats, human beings mostly. Old, young (mostly not kids, though), I can't get enough of it really. I love shooting pics and then going home an editing them. I love faces, bodies! And I've gotten into cartooning some of the pictures I take. By hand? No, by internet! I got a couple of really good editing sites. One of them has a cartoon app. I'm just learning to use it! To create the whole cartoon I use three different sites: Ribbet (mostly for lettering) BeFunky (great cartoonizer app.) and the holy of holies  . . . PHOTOSHOP! Yeah, I finally got it back and I'm in editing heaven.

Sunday, September 13, 2o15

What I Think About Before I Go to Sleep



I think I'll go off to bed—off to bed—off—of  what? Off my feet, off my chair in front of the computer . . .? Turn off the light . . .? Why not turn off the moon, the stars (if there are actual stars in the dark and not just pinpricks in a sheet of black, unholy paper—what  lies beyond those pinpricks must give us pause.) . . .? The sun can be blotted out and may well be someday . . . or should be some day. . . . according to Mick. You can turn out the dog into the backyard to do his . . . unmentionables. But do not turn out your dog’s insides . . . it would cause him great discomfort . . . and a big mess on the carpet. You can turn out to be a good person, a decent enough citizen of the humane race . . . if there is such a being in existence. Existence, for instance, exists for a moment, for a brief moment, some say. But nonexistence is calculated to be a much longer moment.

 Nonexistence

n.: 1. a state of being without the knowledge that one exists.

Impossible, I'm told, by people who think about such things as that. But I have time these days . . . time to think upon, about, around and through things like that for I . . . am old. When I was younger—a  half hour or so ago—I had no desire to think, no need for thinking . . . too busy living my existence (Ah! That word again!). . . too busy to decide if I am carrying out my natural exist—Hmmm, carryout. You can order carryout . . . Chinese, pizza . . . You can carry out the garbage but you can't "carryout" the garbage because "carryout" is NOT a verb! And you don't want to look stupid by typing "carryout" when you mean "carry out." However, if you feel a bit naughty, you can say "carryout" when you mean "carry out" and no one will ever know the difference.

 

In closing:

“You can say what you mean and mean what you say—“ unless, of course, you’re a mime.

Monday, September 24, 2o15

End of another week. Evaluating my life today. Yeah, I know . . . AGAIN! Thought you did that yesterday? True enough. But it didn't stick to my personality. Besides, I need to either reevaluate my life or clean house. Yep, easier the former than the latter. "The latter and the former." I always like those terms ever since I heard them in English class back in high school.

I don't feel right about my life. No, not a bit. I'm not living the way my conscious mind wants me to live. My subconscious is such a bully. It doesn't like changes in my behavior or in my thinking. Too tied-up to the past, it is. And staying conscious all day long? Being totally involved in the moment as it happens and NOT regurgitating some old worn-out response that I've performed over and over my whole adult life? Naw! old Sub-C wants nothing to do with that!

There's this philosophy that I've been dwelling on for a long time now: It's not what the world does to you that counts; it's what you do to the world. I know, maybe a bit too Kumbayah for the times (I can feel Sub-C shaking our head in agreement.) but it feels right to me. I spend too much time being angry and depressed with "my life" all those things I've gone through . . . all the stuff people have put me through . . . all the stuff I've laid on them. Screw it. I want to change my life. I want to live a different way, balanced, in love with life again.

6:14am
Ending this post, this week, this life in this particular thought zone. Hmmm, is there a daylight savings time for the mind? I'd love to turn those hands back a bit . . . .might not do as much speed as I did as a young man. Lot of pain I caused a lot of people I wish I could erase . . . not a big enough Handi Wipe in this world to clean up the sticky mess I've of this life. But I'm planning the change, right No regrets . . . couldn't have gotten here if not for what came before.

See you next week, readers . . . friends.