The Daily {W}rite July 2018 wk o3

It's more difficult to forget than to remember

Alone, singular in the apartment as well as in life. A stranger to everyone, to myself a mystery, a puzzle that I can never figure out. The saddest thing about my existence in this moment  . . . I am satisfied. The saddest and happiest I remember ever being. A cup of coffee asleep on my left. City of Bones acts as a pad for my mouse . . . we all know what I'm talking about, right? Pad and mouse to my right . . . the laptop, the center of my universe. So hypnotized by my keyboard and my fingers making love together, creating a technological child together . . . I shall call their prodigy  . . . Blog. Its proper name, its name in public, The Daily {W}rite. But here, I'm  its . . . grandfather? Oh, don't particularly like that label . . . Blog's older brother . . . Woodie.

4:41pm
Last night for the last two months I have had three different dreams where I'm attacked by an intruder. And each attack has brought my out of my dream kicking and punching at . . . well, the open air. I'm not much on dream analysis but I was curious. Why am I having dreams in which I'm being attack?

Dreams about being beaten or being attacked often relate to issues of control in your life, and your own vulnerability.  Even if you feel you are in complete control of your life, you may still have an attacking dream, because deep down, you could be waging a war to stay in control, and fear what would happen if you lost control.  Being attacked in a dream is not usually about wanting to hurt yourself or others but can be about your own unresolved internal conflict.  They can disturb with their violence, but attacking dreams often show a way to peaceful resolution. -WellBeing.com

As I said above, I don't believe in dream analysis per se but considering my personal feelings about myself . . . it makes sense. 

MONday, July 16, 2o18 4:30am

Yes, still up. Wide-eyed awake. Well, not exactly wide awake . . . Sleepiness is creeping up behind me. I can feel it's warm breath on the back of my neck. Maybe I'll get something worth reading written down before my eyes give up their desire to keep consciousness alive.

But don't count on it. This late at night, or should I have said, this early in the morning my body feels weightless almost, like I'm floating. Tumbling through the darkness, a shadow in the void searching for just a bit of pale  light to guide it's way onto the couch and then, hopefully, to just fall all the way into the warm arms of a nice dream. Yeah, I want to be lost for a few hours in a fantasy that won't wake me up before the sun arrives.

5:24pm 

   Those who are possessed by nothing possess everything

Memory. I go over and over this . . . from the afternoon when I wake up until late, late into the next morning when I finally go to sleep . . . again. It's my prison . . . my memory. Planning a breakout. It'll be a long process . . . like boring through  Mount Fairweather with a thunder storm . . . but with the force of one raindrop at a time. Change is impossible. You can rearrange the furniture in your apartment, buy new clothes and throw out the old . . . far easier to change your look than you mind, your thoughts.

TUEsday, July 17, 2o18
The sun through my front room's window . . . even with the blinds half closed it warms to an uncomfortable degree the right side of my body. And gnats playing kamikaze games, my face their Pearl Harbor. I want to write a new poem. I'm hesitant. What if it's a bad poem, what if someone reads it, what if it really sucks? Okay, I'll go with an older one.

Doors
There are too many doors inside my head.

Big doors, thick in varnished mahogany,

shiny doors with gold inlay knobs,
and knockers the size of a gardener’s fist.

Shy doors too, cracked and muddied,
bloody handprints dripping from the frames,
their hinges browned in rust, decay.

For far too long have those doors been closed,

and yet, I always try the handle, listen to the rattle
of their locks . . . they never let me in.

And the creature dressed in black,

a heavy collar (boney white) around
its turkey neck, he tells me tales
of a magical place where the door is always ajar,
always inviting, holy and just as white and stiff
as that cardboard noose that chokes his throat.
Woodie 11-24-14 (rewrites 11-19-17)

July 21, 2o18

Long night last night ending at eight this morning after a hungry run to the local IHOP for burgers and fries . . . a run to Walmart for nicotine gum. Been a couple years or so since I quit cigarettes. Now I gotta figure out how to leave the nicotine behind too.

Early morning yesterday on our way back from Walmart . . . I had a thought. Yes, not many of those around, are there? I shard this one with David. I'd like to go somewhere, somewhere that I haven't been before. Japan maybe. Or Scotland, Ireland . . . somewhere that I've put off for this reason or that. One place before the final curtain call. Didn't write everything I wanted to but . . . {smiles}