The New Daily (W) Rite
Wk2
Sunday, September o8, 2o13
11:30 AM, Saturday morning, me, my bike, backpack, helmet tight around my skull . . . down the stairs, clump, clump, clump, tires aired up . . . to the street, big arching swing of left leg, my butt landing perfectly on the narrow bikeseat, body aligned and we are off to the movies to see,
Riddick! Rocketing down the street, legs pumping it out in rhythm with my lungs . . . smiling as I swerve around the Game Day traffic just beginning to clog up the narrow Norman streets. I had a dream last that me and the bike got hit by a car so I'm wide-eye aware as I approach the old lady driving a bigger than life blue Cadillac. She looks nervous perched behind the giant donut shaped steering wheel, looking to her left for a chance to get out on the road from the Homeland parking lot. But no one will let her in. Game Day road hogs have no sense of chivalry. So, I make a nice slow curve around the back of her monstrously large car . . . a nice wide curve just in case she decides to back up suddenly. After that a sweet, sweaty ride to the Spotlight 14. A fast stop at Homeland, to the money machine, to the grocery checkout stand to buy a bottle of water . . . Didn't feel the heat of the day until I got inside the air-conditioned building. Big gulps of way, way to cold water . . . don't know the brand name . . . Don't really care at the moment. Catch my breath, reattach my helmet to my head, gloves on, sunglasses on, unlock the bike parked by the local rock 'n' roll radio station van blurting out an old heavy metal song . .. I can't remember the group. And finally, over the bridge, again, very alert as I cross the exit road for the freeway . . . traffic thicker now, horns are starting shout their annoyance at slow drivers. But I'm okay. Around the block and down another street and I'm there. I'm coming to get you, Riddick!
9 PM Saturday night. The game just over . . .
WE won! Trout Avenue already bogged down
with foot traffic and cars trying to "get out of town." It's a beautiful mess of purring engines, bright headlights, the almost mute tap of feet hurrying along to their cars. There's that smell too of human sweat and oil in the air. I take a few fast pics, no flash though, wouldn't want to startle the walkers. Game Day in Norman. A part of the breath of this little town. Little? I always thought of it that way. But on Game Day it surely isn't. There's a herd of cars on my front lawn. Our landlord rents it to game goers for $5 a car. Doesn't make a lot, but these days five dollars is five dollars. I don't watch the parade of weary OU fans for long. They'll be out there until 1 AM Sunday morning. They'll probably spend almost as much time sitting in their cars trying to get home as they did watching the game.
Monday, September o9, 2o13
Monday. A very lazy day for me. Of course . . . that could be said of everyone of my days since
I retired. I truly need to get my mind onto doing something creative. Yeah, I write a little poetry, but I don't treat my writing as a job really. I need to get out of the house and start being more active in the art going on around me. There's a lot of it here in Norman Town, lots of painters, dancers, musicians and some poets. They had an open mike tonight which I should have gone to, but I only found out about it yesterday. I know, that's just an excuse to stay locked up in my apartment. I don't like the idea of not being prepared, well rehearsed before I go out and perform in public. So, I'm going to start working up some of my poetry and hopefully when the next open mike happens I'll be ready. It at least gives me something to do so I don't feel quite as useless as I'm feeling right now.
Wednesday, September 11, 2o13
There's a lot being said about today. Lots of people leaving testimonials about where they were
o9-11-o1 when the Trade Center Towers went down. We all pretty much remember when and where we were that day. I was in Las Vegas, NM just starting my second year teaching theatre at New Mexico Highlands University. Just up, watching TV and drinking coffee when the first plane hit Tower 1. The news folks on the
Today Show thought it was a fluke accident . . . until the second one hit then everyone pretty much knew it was a terrorist attack. I left about 8:30 AM 'cause I had class at 10:00 AM. As I was walking to the
Sala de Madrid, our little theatre on campus where I taught
Intro to the Theatre, I heard a LOUD airplane engine. I looked up to see this small aircraft flying LOW, I mean, LOW and I thought, "
Motherfuckers are after me now!" I sort of laughed nervously. I got to the theatre and our tech director was watching the news coverage on a small, b & w TV in her office. "
What do you think of that?" She asked me. All I could so was, "
Oh, well." It was the only exclamation I could come up with. I KNEW what this meant. Hell was gonna come down on whoever was responsible. I told my kids in class that this was a game changer, American life would be changed forever on this day. A lot of them, being kids, laughed at me, thought I was over reacting. But I wasn't. Even now, twelve years after the attack, we are feeling the effects. We're a troubled nation, and most of that trouble was started on September 11, 2oo1.
Thursday, September 12, 2o13
Just put the finishing touches on a new poem,
Shadows. I'm feeling positive about the piece. Read a
little bit of Whitman before I started putting it all together. I think some of the Whitman style rubbed off onto my poetry. That's a good thing. I never read much Whitman . . . No, I take that back 'cause I've NEVER read Whitman. Yes, for a poet I don't know much about my heritage. Many say Whitman is the father of modern poetry. I don't think I can argue that. Definitely prose and image driven the poems I read of Walt's. I need to read more of the masters' works. I need to find more ways to skin the old poem. My style needs a transfusion of skill and creativeness. I love writing poem and yet I balk when trying to read it. Need to take at least one
or two days to do nothing but read the great poets. Walt will be the first one I'll explore. The main thing that I've discovered while reading Whitman, a 19 century poet, is that "seeing the world" in a unique, personal way is the challenge. Too many of us wannabe writers just recycle old, clichéd images, phrases and words. I don't want to do that anymore.
It's been heavy clouds all day, clouds that speak in whispers about rain. Not sure their promises will be met tonight. The weatherman says no. Not until next week. But I can't wait that long. I need a drink of rain right now. I need to see it dripping off the eves, off the tree branches, slithering down the concrete gutters to the storm drain entrance on the corner of Page St. and Trout Ave.
Friday, September 13, 2o13
What started out as a minor day of "celebration" has become a VERY special day . . . well, for some of us, manly due to the popularity of the
Friday the 13th movie series (There's only 12 in the series right now. Damn, Hollywood, get your shit together!). Yeah, Jason and his machete AND hockey mask have done a lot for this minor "holiday" though I'm not sure if anyone gets a day off. All I know is that America (okay, where I live at least) people get into it . . . a bit. Okay, NOT as big as Halloween or Christmas . . . but I enjoy it. AND the cool thing is that in some years . . . I get to celebrate it more than once! What do I do to celebrate this glorious day? Not much. I do post a "Happy B-Day, Jason" on face book, and I put my personal Jason mask and machete (plastic, okay?) in the window facing Trout Ave. AND a my little plastic Jason. I hope it doesn't freak the neighbors out. But other than that not much. Yeah, I ore just acknowledge it than celebrate it. To be honest, I really am more of a Halloween fan, But please .. .
Don't tell Jason about it. He and Michael haven't talked in years!
So, it is also the 2nd Friday Art Walk in Norman tonight! And YES! I AM going tonight, me and my camera. I know, I always SAY I'm going and always don't go unless someone makes me. But David ain't here, and I promised myself I MUST get out and explore Norman Art Walk all by myself. I got to start doing something artistic. Plan tonight to get the ball rolling on doing some poetry readings. There are a few 'open mike" nights around town . . . but I have reservations about it. Not sure what they are. It's probably just stage fright. But then again, I want to get reintroduced to Norman Town, and I'm thinking that the beat way to do that is to make myself the center of attention. So, I'm planning to put on a bit of a one man show, and there's no better venue in town than the Art Walk.
Took a few days off from writing. I don't know why. I suppose I didn't have anything worth typing out about. Not that I ever do. It may well be that this constant feeling of loneliness is created by a great desire to just not do anything. I'm lazy. I don't want to go out and engage other people. Hell, I don't want to shower or wash close or do any of the stuff that one is suppose to do in order to have "friends." I wish it was more complicated than that. I wish there was some great despair or great fear that keeps me tethered to my small apartment with only the TV and computer to keep me company. A dark secret, perhaps. I'm a criminal on the run. Hiding out like Walt in the second to last episode of Breaking Bad. Or maybe Norman Bates! Yes, sitting patiently, waiting for my next victim to innocently knock upon my door, unaware of the monster on the other side. No, nothing fancy or fantastic as that. Just a lazy guy that no longer gives much of a farmer's truck about himself . . . or other people. I guess I've just given up on myself the way I imagine everyone else has given up on me. I know, "Boo-Hoo." Don't worry. I'll be better tomorrow. I have to have at least ONE day a week to feel sorry for myself. 
