TheDaily (W)Rite October 2o15 WK o3

Friday, October 16, 2o15 6:00am
You know what it's like, what it feels like in your mind, inside and out of your body? I hope you do because if you don't, if you are one of those well wired individual human . . . things

that always falls into a deep sleep at 10pm every night . . . I don't have any desire to try and explain insomnia to you. My head feels like someone stuck a giant, wet sponge inside it
. . . my thoughts all squishy, waterlogged, I'm suffering from Moby Dick of the mind. I'm my own white whale and the dry land of dreams is so far off . . . I can't seem to find its shoreline. But don't worry about me. Sleep will soon, or perhaps later, web sling me to that peaceful, sandy beach where yawns and stretching prepare us for the nightly death.

Suppose to wake David up at 9:30am. I guess we're going to a movie. He's so full of energy since he got back from his visit with his father in Las Vegas, Nevada. I don't know where he got it. I guess everything that happens in Vegas doesn't necessarily stay in Vegas.

Anyway, if I'm at all lucky, I'll get to bed by six. That'll give me three and a half hours worth of sleepy-bye. No sweats. I've done this before. Three and a half hours is enough to get me through the day. Yeah, it'll be fine. Besides, if the movie sucks, I can always doze off during the movie. The warren has the most comfortable chairs ever. AH! A yawn! Won't be long now.

11:30pm
Have you ever experienced one of those days when the world slows down . . .? Gravity loosens it's grasp on you, the body, my body feels lighter than usual, anorexia of the flesh, the spirit of the flesh floats within its confines, bouncing off the ribcage, ricocheting towards the human steeple, I mean the skull, which when softly thumped by a wandering thought makes a dull, hollow church-bell sound . . . pong!

As we drive toward the Warren Theatre to see Crimson Peak, I'm told by David's son, Michael that the gravity on Mars is significantly weaker than the gravity that Earth beats us down with every single moment of existence. That's why a 200 mile an hour wind storm on Mars feels like a gentle,
summer breeze, or the
whispery breath emitted from a sleeping baby. That's how I felt today, like I was on Mars
. . . those turbulences that invade my mind, that sledgehammer into minuscule shards of cellulite any thought, any form of human reason that my mind might believe contains a simple thread of truth . . . it melts away, the hammer, the chisel of gravitational imprisonment, and my mind, yes, my whole body, my spirit (if there is such a thing), the all of me both mental and physical is free to enjoy life without the natural pull of the Earth. And for those insignificant moments that it takes for David to park the car and for us to get out and walk towards the Warren's entrance, I feel as if I might . . . just might live forever.
Saturday, October 17, 2o15

Here's what I think writing poetry is all about. Ready? Dumpster diving. Yeah, pretty much. Writers dig through all the garbage he has produced in a lifetime. What about other people? Yes, I know, a lot of folks believe that writers don' write about themselves, they write about other people. And yes, other people do supply a ton of worthless crap that writers can turn into . . . more crap that's just as equally useless . . . but to do that, to write effectively about others' crap, you must first make their crap YOUR crap. A great writer, a magical artist, the Wizard of Writery can make people believe that this recycled mind feces is not worthless at all. My point is--if there is one--is that it's all just shit, crap, nonsense, if you will. Nothing is worth writing about because nothing is far more interesting than all the crappy crap we lay on people and that people lay on us.


Sunday, October 18, 2o15
David's driving too damned fast. I grip the back seat with my hands, exhaling like banner does when he just starts to  turn Hulk. "Slow down man." I say it forcefully. Not knowing that I was even going to say it. "Your going to mess up the engine." That's Michael in the front sit. His father, David, seems to get the hint and the car slows down to a reasonable 45 miles an hour. Why don't people listen to me? Why is it always someone else that people listen to?
My hands rub away at my jeans. Then suddenly, they flutter up onto the laptop and pick away at the keys. Words appear, some of them spelled right some of them not. My fingers ignore the line that appears under the non-word "apeard." The bright serrated. blood-red line shouts at them to STOP, STOP THIS INSTANT! and they do, like children who just got caught misbehaving, they stop in mid-misbehavement and slither back to rubbing my legs. They pout sometimes, my hands, my fingers. I wish my writing could make it rain. A solid, thick rain would be nice. My hands long for the weather to change. Their desire to write is always heightened when it rains.

I miss the presence of another person. The sound a woman makes when sleeping. Her voice, I remember her voice, that thick English accent always sounded like I was getting graded no matter what the topic of conversation. My face is frowning as I write this. I don't like being graded. I think I got an F as a boyfriend. I should of at least gotten a passing grade . . . C- for effort, at least. I mean, I tried to be an adequate lover. I just wasn't good at it is all. Not my fault. I never learned how to love another person. My family, mother and father, were very self-serving. They never loved me or showed me how I might  . . . love another. Bad luck for me, I guess . . . and all the girlfriends that wasted their time on me.

Monday, 19, 2o15
Some things are simple, easy, no effort. Depression sneaks in on little wet waves of memory . . . memory . . . memories wear soft shoes that cover big toe like images, which are often enough illusions, less substance than the thick gravy that reality spoons us. I think I'm having a love affair with depression. A fickle, rather bloody relationship. Me, always me, wanting her to leave . . . JUST LEAVE! But when she's gone . . . how I miss her presence.

The concessions guy smiles, "Hey! Back again?" I nod and sigh. Fourth movie in about 7 days! He looks at me trying, no doubt, to figure me out. Why would anyone go to four movies in a week's time? I wonder too. But creative philosophy is not my strongest attribute.

Wednesday, October 21, 2o15
Lifting the weight over my head 3o times x 3. Atlas shrugs, he asks himself what's the point? Why not just let go, let God's gravity deal with this giant snot-ball that seems
to become heavier every ten million years or so. Star dust is just that. The dust of a billion suns, allergies  . . . the Big Bang Theory. All lies told to simple brains that wag their stems when ever He approaches. I'm not sure if this existence is much of a life or am I somewhere in the ash cloud dreaming that I live? You hips slam against mine, you grunt each time . . . the same sound I make as I try to sit-up my way to a skinny, flat bellied future. One day at a time. I live each moment one day at a time.

1:51am
It's almost 2am. I should be off to bed soon. As soon as the over the counter sleeping pill I took an hour ago kicks in. I wish I had more to write. Wisdom. That would be nice. I could tell you all, tell you all . . . that which you never knew you knew. We were born with all that we needed to live good, productive lives. Unfortunately, on the day we vacated our mother's insides, all that knowledge vanished from our minds. That's why the doctor slaps us on the ass . .  to knock out all the thoughts we had gathered up during our nine months in captivity.  Everything lost. And it's our job, our destiny to spend our time on this Earth relearning all we can, reclaim all that which was stolen from us because of some careless doctor. Doc, next time you feel that urge to beat the sense out of someone, pull down your pants and smack your own ass. {smiles}