The Daily {W}Rite March 2o16 WK o4

Wednesday, March 23, 2o16
My eyes aren't quit ready to shut even though it is 4:30 in the morning. The air conditioner is keeping me awake, the bastard. It's bulldog growl keeps ponding at my eardrums. I'd turn it off, but then it

would be too warm in my small apartment. So, I just wait and write while I wait for my brain to click off . . . and then turn itself on again, switching to the dream channel for a few hours. I don't sleep much anymore. I'm told that old folk need less sleep than when they were young. I believe it's true. I've been reading up on time, how time has changed over the years. Interesting read. David doesn't think so, though. On the drive back from Walmart I told him all about how people once believed that nighttime was the time diseases like cholera and the black plague would travel from person to person if they were unlucky enough to be outside. the called the phenomena the Miasma theory. He laughs. Doesn't believe me. He sometimes makes me think he believes I'm a little stupid. Naw, he's probably just kidding.

Anyway, my eyes are starting to cross. That's their single to me that it's time to go to bed. I'm such a slave to my eyes. So, more tomorrow about this . . . this . . . this existence I have been forced into living by a person or persons unknown. Goodnight. P.S. I think Miasma would be a good name for a horror or fantasy character. What do you think? {smiles}

10:35 P.M.

Wow! Energy abundant! Rushing rivers of it drowning my hands and fingers, flooding pouring out of my fingers and flooding the key board with words, words, words. I did sleep most of the afternoon away because I didn't get to bed before 8 a.m. I woke about two hours after I went to bed . . . well, wasn't really awake . . . more like Zombie Consciousness! Anyway, cut a few more Zs and finally bounced out of bed around 2 p.m.

David and me kind of jousted on the Facebook today. Was sort of fun:
ME: So, I'm starting to see these
trailers for the live action movie of
Warcraft? Anybody psyched up for it?
David: I think it is the same as that other comic book one - "Batman vs Superman: Civil Warcraft" only Scarlet plays Lara's sister War - or is that Croft... They had to cut the Jimmy Olson/Robin scene. I heard it isn't as good as the others because Groot isn't in it and the CGI of the pegging scene isn't as good as Walking Deadpool. So I guess I have to take you to see it Friday because your bicycle isn't fixed. Warren or Regal? Is it supposed to get lots of Oskies?

ME: Warcraft is NOT Batman vs. Superman. Civil War is the soon to be released third movie in the Captain America series. You have learned nothing from me, Grasshopper. AND yes! Batman vs Superman, Friday at 11pm . . . but if you don't want to go . . . I can go by myself. {fake cry}
David: Wake-up at 9 then?
ME: Sounds good to me!

Thursday, march 24, 2o16
I've no friends as constant as the air around me. And it is created by artificial means, a wad of interconnected wires, red, white, blue . . . I wonder what that lone, purple No. 2 AWG  wire that goes so deep into the brain of my air-conditioner . . . I wonder what's it for? It must be hooked up to the memory. Yes, that's it. It connects the outside world to its memory. Hmm, interesting enough hypothesis can lead only to a much darker question:  Do machines think? They must. Of course they must. How else would my Mr. Coffee, coffeemaker know to begin brewing my coffee at exactly 6 a.m. each morning? My electric razor remembers the shape of my face, I'm sure of that. How else could I get a perfect shave each and every morning if  my razor did not have a consciousness? Because I'm pretty sure that I don't wake up until 11 am and my face is always clean shaven, so, therefore, someone or some thing must have performed the operation because I sure as hell didn't.

Unless, of course, I'm also a robot, a robot thing like my air-conditioner, like my Mr. Coffee, 12-Cup Coffeemaker . . .  or as the handbook calls it: Cafetera de 12 trazas. Perhaps, I'm less human than I am aware of. I, Robot! But no, that's been contemplated way too many times in way too many bad Sci-Fi movies. I'm not a robot, I just act like one. And while we are add it, about Sci-Fi, why is it robots want to be human so much? Why when a robot finds out that he is a robot and not a "human bean" he/she gets all sad and stuff? What the hell? Being human is an asshole job. Being a toaster, at the least, does something worthwhile . . . making toast!
But I'm ranting, like a Scarecrow wishing he had a heart . . . or is that the Tin Woodman? But does it matter? I am human, I have the faults all humans carry with them . . . granted, maybe more than most, my sins are many. But alive I am.

Friday, March 25, 2o16
Retreads. I stepped on sticker today and I felt it on my foot. My shoe's sole is thinner than an old man's skin. The heals are worn-out also. The shoestrings once white are now a chimney soot gray. "Toss them out," I tell myself, "you have three more pairs that are in far better walking shape." And it's true. Yet, we've traveled so many miles together, in the snow, the rain, that one day through a muddy bog down by the Duck Pond. What a mess that was. And how many sweaty summer trips did we make to the Regal to see some dumb-ass movie nobody with a car wanted to go see with me? Nicotine gum runs to Walmart, kicking at some crazy ass dog that chassed us. Maybe not always a fun time with these shoes. But when you share a life for as long as I have with this faded blue pair of Chucks, it's hard to let go, to say goodbye.

Saturday, March 26, 2o16

I sat down in front of the computer and wrote a movie review, a whole movie review without stopping except for a lunch break and  quite a few bathroom breaks . . . the coffee was already made so all I had to do was walk to the kitchen and pour me a cup. But other than those few necessary breaks, I wrote straight through 'til the end of paper. I don't do that often sit down and just write.

The other day a person from the university that I've known for a few years Facebooked me and ask a simple, straightforward question, "Do you believe human beings are basically good or basically evil?" My answer was, "Yes." The friend understood what I meant without asking more questions. It's probably best to go through life thinking people are basically good . . . however, always leave room for the possibility that you are wrong. {smile}

I busy myself. Poetry, my mind on politics, writing the blog, watching a favorite movie, I busy myself. I don't fight the end of light, the dark in night, I accept my single minded dreaming. Drift through the oil slick as if it were cleansing waters. I do not drink from it, that is a certainty. The stink is enough to warn my lips that that way is toward the infinite, the dreamless dream saved only for the security of the grave. I don't think on it. I don't stomp around inside it, splashing its mud on my shoes, in my eyes, I don't think on it. A numb buzzing around the inside of my balding head. A whispering hiss from the plastic, metal monster behind me. But I don't worry on it or about the cyclops perched on the corner table. He never blinks never takes that one red eye off of me. Most times I don't pay attention his scornful gaze. Now and then I do place a red scarf over his lidless orb. Sometimes my skin screams, it's bright stare burning me. But I do not mind it at all.

Sunday, March 27, 2o16
Watched Easter movies all day. King of Kings, Barabbas, The Silver Chalice. Thought a bit about Christ, about my religion and how pretty much I must be big disappointment to . . . I don't really try to be the good Christian. I keep promising Jesus that I'll do better, every night in prayer I asks for forgiveness of my sins, and as soon as I wake up in the morning I repeat the same sins that I promised Him I would NEVER do again. Hmm. Well, I keep trying with the hope that sooner or later I'll get it, get the whole holiness thing.

I can feel the sleep fairy rubbing the back of my neck, my shoulders, her breath on my eyes making the lids slowly close. So, it's off to sleep, I hope. Don't want another night like last night where I didn't get to sleep until 9 a.m. Wish me luck.

Monday, March 28, 2016
1,000 miles an hour. That's how fast and how far the Earth spins. Okay, from the equator but it still spins almost as fast in Norman, Oklahoma. Some times I can feel that spin. My head notices now and then that it's dizzy. I have to sit down until it passes. No, that's all an illusion. We really don't feel the earth move . . . I think. But sometimes, I'm pretty sure, Do you ever have those days or moments where you just keep bumping into things or you do weird, physical actions that  you've never done before like shutting the door to David's car and not realizing until you try to take your camera out of its pouch to take a few traveling picks that the lanyard you keep your keys on, that you usually wear around your neck, but today for some godless reason you put around the handle on your camera bag, that the whole lanyard didn't make it into the car and your KEYS are dangling outside the car as you drive at 70+ miles an hour to Oklahoma City?
Me: Fuck! My keys are outside the fucking car!
David: What?
Me: My fucking keys are swinging in the breeze, I closed the door without realizing that the strap I carry them on . . . oh, hell! Just read the description above, David!
David: You want me to stop?
Me: No. We'll be at the hospital soon, right?
David: Yeah.
Me: Naw, don't stop. If they're gone, they're already gone!

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

Politics. The murderer of my peace of mind. No. Not really. Just my excuse for NOT allowing myself to be peaceful, to not fight, to relax and let the world churn in its own gravity. I want to explore without thought this existence. With out labeling it I want to smell and taste and touch and hear and imagine this consciousness adrift in a sea of consciousness. There are so many other entities wondering in this ocean of air. So many shapes, sizes, colors. Every now and then one of those ocean creatures sparks your interest. Its gravity drags your attention towards it. And you watch as it moves to the register, smiles at you hands the coffee you order. And you pay it and smile and it reacts with a smile that turns into a blazing galaxy of light.

But politics. I need to stop thinking about it. I need to allow the universe to unfold all by itself. I keep thinking that my gravity can change the momentum, the trajectory of the other things who are just like me. I think that my thoughts can somehow lasso their beliefs, change them, brand them with my symbols of right and wrong. But it never happens. I can't change existence.

11 p.m.
All day the weather stations has been warning us: a powerful thunder storm traveling through Oklahoma. And parts of OK have been hit. Rain, lightning, and a few tornados all around us. But not IN Norman-town, at least nothing bad . . . yet. Too far south, I'm guessing. JUST heard a rumble! No, a train passing by! Ha. I'm fearful of a stormy night. And yet, I long for the storms to come. An interesting dichotomy within the soul, to fear something an event and at the same time long for it. All of my existence has been filled with horror and delight to a point that it's difficult to tell sometimes which is which.

Thursday, March 31, 2o16

My eyelids whimper a bit, well,  as much as eyelids can whimper. The fingers on my left hand scratch gently at my forehead. Body warped into a question mark, the legs shaky. Each "last day of the month" is a small funeral for my physical being. It's like my body's aware that the end of the month signifies one more step towards that eternal darkness. Maybe my eyes don't recognize Big Daddy D marching slowly in front of them, but my nose can still (even in old age) sense him  smell him . . . just up the road, just around the bend he walks, and too soon my feet (and the rest of me) will catch up to him.