The Daily {W}Rite December 2o15 WK o4

Well, the last week in Christmas has snuck up on me and beaten me about the head with the heavy idea that this year, this wonderfully dull year is almost over. The fear is settling into the cracks of my brain housing group caused by this revelation. . . what the fuck have I done with my life echoes through my head. I've done nothing, I guess, or maybe I've done everything! I have made a New Year's resolution to get deeper into my writing both on The Daily {W}Rite blog and my poetry in the coming year. I've also vowed to get that damn book of poetry I've been going on about for the last ten years published. Hmmm. That may be a little tough since it involves getting a publisher interested in my poems. No, not all that secure about my work, for sure.

I called David at the usual time, 11:30 a.m. and he had just gotten to sleep. So, That means I have plenty of time to write on this blog . . . or do something else. Going to Moe's for Christmas this year. I've done that at least once, I think. I met Moe back in '68 when I got back from Nam. We became best buds pretty fast. Got a lot of Marine Corps inspired stories to tell . . . but we don't tell them very often because . . . Weeeeeeeell, some of them are a bit . . . unsavory? {Mischievous Smirk}

10:16 p.m.

I'm stalling. I need to take a shower and pack for my Christmas trip to Moe's house. I plan to be there for a few days. The thought of sleeping in a strange house, on a strange bed, having to take a shower in a strange bathroom . . . Hee! I think I've accidently fallen into my Norman Bates phobia. It doesn't happen often but I get a feeling that going to visit at a friends house is a lot like the shower sequence in Psycho. When I'm out of my natural habitat, I get extremely uncomfortable, unable to sleep and my body just starts to itch and ache, I toss and turn. I really get scared. I know it's crazy but it's real. Here in my apartment there is always a hall light on day and night. And at night when I'm going to sleep I can see the hallway light shinning through the gap between the door and the door frame. It's "comforting." I feel safe. But these last two nights? The hallway has been dark. The lamps are burnt out I guess and the landlord hasn't replaced them and it's unsettling to be in the dark like that. I mean, it's not totally dark, but somehow . . . it scares me to not have that light shinning through those cracks in my microscopic world.

Sunday, December 27, 2o15
1 p.m. on Christmas Eve. At 75 miles an hour the thick grove of blackjack trees turn into a wall of brown mush. Where long, wild stems of yellowed high grass once stood waving in the northern breeze a river the color of urine magically appears. The world looks strange at 75 miles an hour. Too fast it is for my eyes, my thoughts . . . only way to slow things down is to look at the sky right above the tree line. There the world is normal, traveling at a rate of speed that my mind can understand.

It's starts off well, the trip to Moe's house for Christmas. Lots of talk about out shared passed experience. "You remember that time in Yuma?" ""Hey! the two drunk girls, big girls we picked up in 29 Palms that time?" Pleasant conversation that can only be appreciated by the two of us. It was a rowdy time that most of our friends, lovers and relatives wouldn't approve of. A pleasant time, to old friends just reminiscing . . . then with just one sentence containing the name, Donald Trump, the laughter stops and the argument begins. It lasts the rest of the trip to Moe's house

Teresa is always gracious even as I babble on about the sins of Donald Trump. My better subconscious realizes that I'm treading on dangerous ground here so stop talking about politics and concentrate on Christmas. Lots of presents from Moe and Teresa. Their adult size kids are always fun to talk to. Sarah is the adventurous one of the family who is heading off  to South Korea to visit with her friend who teaches English there, who now sits on the couch in Moe's living room and smiles and chuckles anytime the conversation includes her. And there's John the rock star to be. Moe and Teresa asked me to talk to him about a speech class he can't seem to get through. I offer him some advise and he listens graciously though I'm not sure he really listens or cares what I have to say on the matter. So, the night passes by with out anyone mentioning politics. We say goodnight and I try to go to sleep long before 4 in the morning.

Christmas day is filled with sleepy people waking up at ten or so. Will, not Moe who always gets up at 6 in the morning making breakfast for everybody as they wonder into the kitchen. No big plans for today. Christmas was celebrated the night before. However, Christmas night we are to go over to Teresa's brother's house to meet her nephew's new wife from Sweden. Oh, I get a bit excited about that. Never met a person from Sweden. Even better, the new wife's whole family will be there. And they were I spent most of the time talking to them about Sweden and how did they like America and such. To tell the truth, it's kind of boring until I just happen to mention that I liked

Quentin Tarantino movies then the brother of the bride jumps in with, "I love Tarantino!" and the rest of the night that's what we talked about. Thanks, QT even though I'm pissed about you shooting hateful Eight in 70mm! Dude, the closest theatre that has a 70mm projector is about 40 miles away from where I live!

The day after Christmas I'm back on the road with Moe, 7:30 in the morning and we're heading for a showing of Star Wars at the Warren in IMAX! There's a deep, gray fog over the farmland we travel by. I\I find a smile spreading across my mouth. Fog relaxes me. A trance maybe. A feeling of sadness, yes, but with a touch of calm that I don't often feel.

The movie was great. My third time to see it. I'm enjoying watching my friend Moe responding to what's going on, on the screen. It makes me smile again. I remember Moe from back in the day when we were in the Marines together. I remember that evil little smirk he got whenever he was having fun. He was having fun today. When the movie ended Moe drove me home. I unpacked my clothes when I got in my apartment and realized that I left a whole bunch of the presents I received from Moe and his family at his house! Damn it. But know time to fret. Gotta get ready for Hateful Eight at 3 p.m.

Rain. Thick, heavy rain. Anytime a big as rig passed us it splashed a blinding wave of rain water on the front windshield. But Brendan drove the 40 miles or so to get to Quail Springs Mall without  getting us killed. The mall was swamped with people! Large lines for the movie theatre snaked around the food court, and wouldn't you know it? Hateful Eight was sold out! Sorry, Tarantino but I ain't gonna see your movie today!

Monday, December 28, 2o15

A childhood friend was an electrician in the L.A. area back in the late '80s. When I moved out to Hollywood, he offered me a job as an electrician's helper. Work was long hours but not really stressful. New buildings were the best because we would lay the conduit and then just pull the wires through. Older buildings were a bit more frustrating at times because you'd have to pull the old wire out first, maybe change out some of the conduits and then insert the new wire.  Why I do I bring this up? Well, if I want to change my life, I mean really change it, I need to pull out my brain's wiring system and rewire my whole head. Yeah, it sounds a little strange perhaps. But how else can you change your way of thinking if you've been hardwired from birth to think in one particular way? There's nothing you can do but replace the brains conduit system and rewire the whole fucking mess.

11:14 p.m.

The last two days I've been a prisoner. The weather has been so nasty, too nasty for my old self to find the courage to put on the winter gear, open the door and walk out. But I got a pardon from a need to go shopping for food and nicotine gum and such, and David needs the same (except for the nicotine gum.) So, tomorrow I dress up warm and head out into the frozen waste land that lies between me and the rows and rows of needed supplies housed in the warm embrace of Walmart.

My memory. I'd like to get rid of some of the junk in there. Not the useful stuff like knowing how to walk, tie my shoes and such. I mean the nasty things, the memories that keep rising to the surface of consciousness whenever some trigger goes off and snaps to the forefront of thought. Maybe I'll go more into this tomorrow. Right now I got one more poem that I just wrote that I want to post on my poetry blog. So, until tomorrow . . . . {smiles}

Thursday, December 31, 2o15 (New year's Eve)
Well, I really didn't write much for the last month in the year 2o15. Meant to write a lot more today, but I didn't wake up until 3 P.M. Yeaya, I know . . . what the fuck! Well, in my defense I went with Brendan and Michael to see Hateful Eight and "road  trips" tend to wear me out these days. To tell the truth I don't even feel much like writing now. I do hope this next year will be better for me and my beloved country. I miss the America of my youth . . . this one I live in now? Not as good a place as I remember as a kid or even as a young adult. I want more from us than always fighting with each other. I want to see that loving America that I remember back in business. So, this will be my last post for 2o15. Let me leave you with this thought:

Happy New Year, Facebook friends!

The Daily {W}Rite December 2o15 WK o3

"I'm gonna write a three page blog about you!" I told David this as he was giving me shit about something. He look a bit scared but it didn't stop him from stirring the controversy.

David: Where would you like to go for coffee?
Woodie: Oh, I don't care.
David: We could go to the Gray Owl . . . oh! You don't like them because they are too expensive.
Woodie: They are.
David: Let's see . . . how about Second Wind?
Woodie: How about the Old School Bagels?
David: Okay. (David starts driving)
Woodie: Where you going? This isn't the way to Old School.
David: I thought you said Second Wind.
Woodie: No, I said Old School Bagel. (Pause) But we can go to Second Wind.
David: Okay. (David starts to turn the car around)
Woodie Where the hell are you going now?
David: You said Old School Bagel.
Woodie: Yes, but after that I said . . . never mind. Lets go to Old School Bagel.
David: Okay.

Earlier today. Woodie walks out of his apartment and gets in David's car. He is wearing his shorts that resemble the American flag.

David: Those are some very loud, patriotic short you got on!
Woodie: They're the same shorts I've worn to the gym all month.
David: Hmmmm. They sure are bright!
Woodie: Well, I'm wearing a brand new blue sweat-shirt.
David: Maybe the sweat shirt draws attention to the shorts being so loud.
Woodie: Yeah, Maybe.
David: Hmmmm. Alright.

It was a good day. The sun shinning but not to bright . . . I got through my workout and didn't die. The landlord surprised me with a message on my phone: Exterminators tomorrow. I called and told him that my house was a big mess. Could the guys do it Monday? No, the exterminator company picks the date and that's the date we have to do it. He did say not to worry about it. He'd give me at least a week's notice next month. Thanks, Kirk!

Thursday, December 17, 2o15
My need for nicotine gum outweighed our desire for a trip to OU's art museum. So, off we went on an adventure we didn't plan. A quick stop at the post office to mail off some retirement fund papers, a few minutes to flirt with the very clean looking blond student working at Starbucks: "What's your major?" "French," she said. "Ugh, French!  I hate the word, 'croissant.' Why can't they just say 'crescent'?" She doesn't get it and I feel my face burning red. I gotta stop flirting with young woman, or I need to work on my material. I don't feel to bad because David's not making smooth with the two ladys at the post office. "Yeah, they put whipped cream on my drink! I didn't want whipped cream. Then they tried to take it off, and guess what happened?"

I tracked my sister down as soon as we got inside Walmart. She's excited about going to see Star Wars on Monday. I almost forgot that I was taking her. My birthday treat for her. But I pretended that I didn't forget and that I was all psyched up about us going. She ran off to take care of some malfunction at a cash register, and what was suppose to be a short trip to Walmart to get nicotine gum turned into a full fledge shopping run. "Oh, yeah, I need muffens, and coffee and . . ."

On the way home David and I make plans about tomorrow. Star Wars, man! 10:30 a.m. showing! We'll be up by 8:30 and on the road by 9:45. May the force be with us.


Friday, December 18, 2015
Up by 8:30 and call the "Old Man." Conversation went something like: OM: (answers phone. Silence.) Woodie: You up? OM: (silence) Woodie: (louder) Hey! You awake?! OM: (mumbles something) Woodie: Are you okay? Are you up? OM: Mumble, mumble, mumble . . . Woodie: Wake-up! OM: I tried to put out the fire . . . but the flames . . . Woodie: WHAT?! OM: I'll pick you up at 9:45. (hangs up phone)

I'm always nervous when we go to movies. What if we are late and don't get to see the previews? What if the show we want to see is sold our or, even worse, what if it's so crowed the only seat I can get is in the first fucking row?! Yeah, that's the normal thoughts that goes through my mind anytime we go to a movie. But Star Wars?! frigging' Star Wars?! Hell! I was freakin'! But my freak out was premature because there were plenty of seats, not much in the way of a crowd at all. How was
Star Wars, You ask? IT WAS AWESOME!!!

Sunday, December 20, 2o15

Today was David Slemmon's birthday. I tried to do something particularly special for him today, But as is par for my life my plans didn't work out. I called him last night and said that tomorrow being that its his birthday we would do what ever he wanted to do. Anything. Well, we first he thought it'd be nice to go bowling . . . but . . . we got there and we were both hesitant to give it a shot because the last time we bowled . . . it laid both of us up for about three days. Then he suggested just going to the gym. I think I frowned, and that made him change his mind. So, we decided to go have coffee and decide . . . and by the time we got done with that (we actually had smoothies not coffee) we both were tuckered out! I got to laugh at us. But we did have to go out to dinner with his kids at six so it was best that we called it a day.

Here's the thing. David is my best friend. Well, I hope we are best friends to each other. I know he's good to me. He looks out for me, he makes sure I get out of the house once in a while. When I need to go to the grocery store or to the doctors, the dentist or to a movie David always drives me. I'm not sure what I do for him. All I know is that he has been there for me all the time. So, though I couldn't do anything special for him to day, I hope he understands that he's my friend and I wish him a happy day today.

Monday, December 21, 2o15

My sister. She's a grandmother. But mention going to see Star Wars and she blossoms like a moon size grin on the face of a six year old. But before we can go, I have to get the three overflowing  bags of Christmas presents she bought me and climb them up the stairs to my little apartment. Oh, and there was also A BIG Spider-Man cutout too. My sister is "a giver." She loves Christmas, and she really loves giving presents! But enough of that! We gotta movie to see. Yes, I already saw it, and YES I really didn't think much of it. But my sister got stiffed on a birthday movie date with one of her grandchildren, and although she didn't make a fuss about it, I knew when we talked on the phone that it hurt her a bit. So, hey, even a coldhearted bastard like myself likes to do something NICE for someone as decent as my sister . . . well, once in awhile. {smiles}

There's a part in the movie where one of the "good guys" gets killed. Sorry, I'm not going tell you anymore than that. But when it happened, I looked over to see my sister's response. She had her right hand over her mouth and it looked like she might cry! I remember as a kid back in the 50's when we got our first family TV. It was maybe 10 or 15 inches. Not sure. When you turned it on, there was this white dim light that would come on around the screen. At the time this was really cool. We were the only family on the block with a "halo" around the TV screen. My dad was real proud of it. He invited all the neighbors over to see it. THEY were impressed!

Anyway, one movie we kids loved to watch was King Kong (1933). And Channel 9 in L.A. would show it all the time. And every time King Kong climbed to the top of the Empire State Building and the airplanes shot him and he fell to the ground . . . dead . . .  my sister would bawl! EVERY SINGLE TIME. And of course, my brother and I would laugh at her, and my mom would chew us out for making fun of her. "Leave your sister alone. She's the Woods with a heart," mom would say to us. And that's true. My sister has a big heart. And though I don't always show it openly because that's my "man thing," I guess, I do appreciate how caring she is to everybody.

The Daily {W}Rite December 2o15 WK o2

Tuesday
It's almost four in the morning. I need to get up by ten a.m. I should be asleep by now. But sleep is not coming for me right yet. I'm not sure exactly why but my insomnia may have something to do with this sadness I'm feeling over all the nasty stuff going on in My America. I wish I could do something to get her back on the right track, help her see that the road she's on is leading to irreparable disaster. But there are too many evil men and women whispering in her ear, forcing her to do things that they know are not good for her or for the people who populate her precious shores. They know, and yet they keep on misleading her, destroying her . . . My America, what have they done to you?

6a.m.
So, got to bed at four . . . up an hour later. Yikes going to be a hell of a long day! But I can't sleep. It happens. I don't know. I get a hold of a bone and I just can't let go of it. It's actually fun to be souped-up over something, to feel the need to write about . . . well, about anything. Too much lately I've had to force myself to write. Hell of a thing to have to force a writer to write! But sometimes I have to MAKE myself be the artist.

I got in a little debate with a friend over the idea of religion this morning and it made me think of an old poem that I've rewritten so many times . . . well, here it is:
No New Messages

Such an incredibly thin man,

sparse patches of gray hair sprouting from what

otherwise would be identified as a bald head,
a loose fitting Panama jacket that once
may have been off white, now . . . as dull
as that coffee stained  beard that slithers
from His chin to rest cloud like on a boney
chest that’s devoid of both shirt or fur.
Yeah, He hadn't changed a bit.

It was Him. No doubt in my mind.

But how could I be so sure?

Well, who else would have the balls

to sit in my favorite café,
at my favorite table, the one I always
camp out on when writing my poetry
that very rarely rhymes but sometimes . . . 
almost does.

Just as I finished that thought

He lifted his face from his cell phone
and looked straight at me.

I didn't know the face,

but I sure as hell recognized those eyes:
two blue orbs the size of tiny gray moons
pulling at the shores of my soul.

Quickly, I averted my glance

looking down at my feet
pretending that I didn't see Him.
Then, I noticed . . . my Chucks were untied.
This always happens whenever
I need to make a hasty retreat.

I didn't hesitate. I ran, a stumbling run,

I ran from the tiny café,
the untied laces flapping in the wind,
a bruised ego pushing me down Main Street
spilling my latte along the way.

For weeks I'd been calling Him,

He ignored every message,
every desperate message I left--

Suddenly, my cell phone buzzes . . . "Hello?"

A voice not unlike thunder
whispered, "Sorry . . . wrong . . .  number."

Click!

Damnit, it's HIM!

Again with the, "How do I KNOW?"
Because it's always Him
on the other end
of an empty phone.
He's just gotta have
the final word in any argument . . .
Woodie o8-25-12 (rewrites o6-o4-14)

11p.m.

Went bowling today for the first time in over 20 years. all I can say is . . . UUUUUUGH! I swear, someone must have stomped on my right side (my bowling side) in stilettos. The pain is vast and as steady as water torture.  Damn you, David Slemmons! Other than immense pain it was really fun. We'll probably do it again.

David apologized to me as we drove to The Warren to see a movie, "I read what you said about me on your blog . . . about me being annoying . . . sorry." Oh boy! I really hurt his feelings. BUT I think I smoothed it over when I explained that the blog is an attempt at written "art" and that there is a bit of artistic license taken . . . but not much. The cool thing is that both of us are a little eccentric AND that's fun to write about . . . AND hopefully fun for the reader to read!

I think I'm done for the night. Really, the day took a lot out of me, and I loved it. {smile}

Wednesday, December o9, 2o15

Don't tell David, but I'm still laughing about this morning. I called at 1o:3o. To be totally honest I wasn't up for it. My body felt like it had been stomped on by a herd of gorillas. Is herd right? Anyway, I did call and a rather perky, wide awake David answered the phone. He hadn't yet been to bed because his father called at about two thirty to talk about Fantasy Football. And then he said, "Dude! How you were feeling yesterday after bowling? It just struck me . . . HARD!" We both chuckled at ourselves and decided there would be no gym today. Hell, we'd be lucky if we got out of the house for a grocery run!

Listen, if some old people start giving you that line about "you're only as old as you feel," tell them to drink some warm milk and go to bed. Fuck it! You get older your body starts feeling pains that you never felt before. The whole right side of my body (my bowling side) is still throbbing from playing only two games ( 20 frames or 40 rolls with a 10 lb. ball). Frigging bowling is hard when you're over sixty and haven't bowled in over twenty years! Am I gonna give it up? Hell, no! I may hurt but I'm not gonna quit! Live Free, Bowl Hard is my knew motto.

Thursday, December 1o, 2o15

A shower. Not feeling that sleepy time thing. Got to get up by 9a.m., David and I both have doctor appointments. But not worrying about that. Another beautiful sunset tonight. Just finished editing the pictures and posting them on Facebook. Tomorrow night is Art Walk. I love Art Walk especially December's Art Walk. It's Norman-town's  community Christmas.

I started writing a poem based on a simple little story a Facebook friend posted. His mother had died recently. He went over to her house to clean things up. He was searching through the closet, came across this Davy Crockett lunch box that he had when he was just a little kid. It made him cry, this sixty year old man. His mom had saved this little thing from his childhood. So, the story got me thinking about all the "stuff" I've missed placed or loss or had broken and thrown away. I don't have anything left that represents my youth . . . except, of course, for memories. And those, unfortunately, are not all pleasant. But not having fond memories is not very sad to me because . . . well, I'm smiling right at this moment as I write this blog . . . Whether I was happy as a kid really doesn't matter as long as I feel good about the life I'm living right now. {smiles}

Saturday, December 12, 2o15
Warm last night at Art Walk. The sidewalks, the galleries crowed with people. There's the rich, the poor, young and old, and ghosts all walking the sidwalks. Lots of ghosts haunting the shadows between the dimly lit areas. Mad dancers at the Church of the Spaghetti Monster. Dancers hidden in a thick, manmade fog, music driving their feet to stomp about, the arms swinging, heads bobbing like pigeons or hanged men in the thralls of  dying. I wonder if the dead hear music?

But those are the friendly ghosts, the living ghosts disguised as teenagers, young adults, beings insearch of meaning that can only be discovered through movement and drunkenness and getting high on substances still illegal in our state. No, the ghosts that follow me from gallery to gallery are not as friendly or as kind as the kids at the CSM. I won't tell you about them, those personal ghosts that smile and say, "How are you tonight, Oh, it's been too long since I've seen you last." I won't tell you how my hands begin to shake when I hear their voices, how my feet run out of where ever I am at the very moment they make themselves known to me. How angry these monsters make me, and how I try to lose them in the crowd, and find a pleasant piece of darkness to hide in. No, I won't tell you about these personal demons. You really don't want to know about them, and I have no interest in seeing them appear on this blog.

Sunday, December 13, 2o15

They're closing slowly, my eyes. The lids, tiny slits in the looking place, the seeing place. Colors merging into a deep, gooey pond where my weary thoughts dog-crawl across the thick water. Used to be my hands would take off on their own, creating on the keyboard some wise saying, a funny line or two . . . quite the jokers my fingers used to be. But these days, they touch the world and feel nothing in return. I don't know what their problem is, why they no longer have a love affair with my thoughts, my eyes, my other senses. They've disconnected from the rest of that which I call me. They no longer understand what it is to be whole in this world, to be a part of something more than what they can grasp, what they can hold on to.

Monday, December 14, 2o15
Yes, we got back to the gym today. Not too bad getting back into it but definitely a struggle. particularly for David. But we do get a workout in and we go checkout the new park they are building on the west side of Norman-town. It's fancy for sure. there's a Pretty little pond (manmade) with a few of those fountains spirting water and a small amphitheater. Yeah, it's nice, but we have so many parks in Norman already.

David was getting tire, but I talked him into taking me to Target. I needed a new watch and a sweatshirt. AND I also found a cool hat to wear about town. Yeah, I know. I already have more hats than is necessary . . .   like that Dr. Seuss character in The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins. But I love hats. Yeah, I know what you think. YOU think the only reason I wear hats is to hide how bald I am. Ha. Not so. I wore hats even before I started losing my hair. So, I think this is all for tonight AND for this week in December. Hope you can make out my ideas here. Some of them get . . . a little blurry . . . But you know my old fingers. They're starting to lose their eyesight. {smile}

The Daily {W}Rite December 2o15 WK o1

Yes! The very first day of December. The word even feels cold when you say it out loud, Decemberrrrrrrrrrr! But the good thing? I got my heavy, very warm coat out of the closet and set on the back of my computer's chair to slap on whenever I need it. And if my winter coat could smile, it would definitely be giving me a big zipper-tooth grin cause it likes the cold much more than I do!

We finally got back to the gym. A good workout. That's why I'm typing with flashy speed fingers! My digits enjoy a feisty jog across the keyboard's face. My mind, however, doesn't quite feel the joy that my upper body parts are feeling. It's in a bit of a slump right now. It has no desire to think and is having a difficult time coming up with ideas for my fingers to type out. Come on, brain! Get with the program!

Wednesday, December o2, 2o15

Another mass shooting today and another, I've heard in Los Angeles, or Texas or someplace. Didn't get more info than that 'cause MSNBC was so focused on San Berdo. Right now the count is up to 336 mass shootings in America in this year of 2o15. My little "meme" blames who it blames because THEY  will do nothing to stop the mass murders going on in our country. The NRA the most guilty, I suppose, but that the governing body does NOTHING to stop domestic terrorism is the bigger sinner. The NRA? I can see why they don't want to stop gun violence, hell, that's how they make their money. The more mass murders there are, the bigger the payday for the gun manufactures. You see how it works right? Somebody (or somebodies as in todays massacre) goes into a school, a mall, a church, a movie theatre or Planned Parenthood facility and opens fire and kills as many people as they can. And the public gets nervous and buys more guns for protection, or gets angry and tries to get laws passed to cut down on the violence and . . . well, then gun owners run out and buy even MORE guns just incase the government tries to pass any laws against gun ownership, or try to make it more difficult to walk in and buy up as much firepower as person can get in any gun-shop or gun fair in America! Good racket. The more mass murder the more cash going into the pockets of the NRA and U.S. Congressmen! I was hesitant to post this meme. Didn't know how folks on Facebook would take it. To tell you the truth, this one is a bit softer than the first idea I came up with, which was a picture of me tipping my hat and a caption which said, "At least 14 dead, 17 injured! A tip of the hat to:  The U.S. Congress, The Republican Party, and The NRA! Congratulations."

So, the battle to go to the gym is pretty much a daily thing between me and David. We got off the schedule (Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday) and went to a Tuesday for this week. I don't like that. It really throws me out of sync with the universe. So, today we didn't go . . .

In the Car With David

David: I see what you did this morning.
Woodie: What? What did I do?
David: YOU didn't want to go to the gym so YOU made it look like it was ME that didn't want to go.

Woodie: I did?
David: Yes, you did! On the phone you asked me "What do you need to do today?"
Woodie: Yeeeah, and you said you needed to get gas for the car.
David: Yeeeah, and YOU took it for granted that I didn't WANT to go to the gym so YOU didn't have to take the blame because YOU didn't want to go to the gym. I see what ya did there!
Woodie: (laughing) I'm not that damn smart, David. I really thought YOU didn't plan to go to the gym today.
David: Yeeeah, I see what ya did. (David laughs)

Brendan is right. Me and David . . . like an old married couple. {smiles}

Thursday, December o3, 2o15
The gym warmer than my body anticipated, it begins to shrivel up into dead grape thing, a glob of gamma globulin. Grunting out about ten more set-ups, my lungs in full rebellion burning up the gym's stale oxygen. I stand up into a spinning world. Out of control my legs, my drunken legs tittering towards a chair. I try to breath in deep, but my lungs still not cooperating, a thousand tiny men moonwalk across the inside of my balding head, which starts to cry in waves of stinky sweat that run sprints into my eyeballs. Enough workout for me today. I think I'll go for a walk while David finishes up.

Saturday, December o5, 2o15

A gentle whirling sound, my eyes close a tiny bit. I could sleep even though sudden bumps and a feeling like falling keeps making my body straighten up and forces my eyes to look around. We don't take the freeway much these days when we head to a movie at The Warrren. A nicer drive through open fields, no longer green but they still make me smile. Yellowed grass, the barren trees. Not a lot of nature anymore on this road to Moore. Lots of new, expensive townhouses, some of them ready for owners others not quite finished.

Yesterday was depressing with all the talk about terrorists and gun violence on the TV. Even more distressing all the politicians, the "experts" with their heads up their asses . . . nothing to be done. These are the guys who are suppose to trouble shoot our many problems, come up with ways to protect the United States and its citizens but none of them have a fucking clue how.  Yeah, yesterday I just couldn't get my head around all the crap going on in our world  . . . and then I looked out the window and saw one of the loveliest sunsets, and though it was colder than hell, I grabbed my camera and in my stocking feet ran outside to snap a few pics. Okay, the problems of the world weren't solved or anything . . . but it did give me a few minutes to breathe and forget about everything except for how beautiful the sunset was.

I guess life is bad, really bad a lot. But I guess you have to learn to live with it, try to fix it when possible but live with it no matter what.



Sunday, December 6, 2o15
The phone woke me this morning at 9:30a.m. It's not too pleasant a thing to have a plastic, inanimate object wake me up. There's something . . . inhuman about it. I didn't answer it as is usual. I let the answering service pick it up. A metallic version of my sister's already raspy voice calls out on the message machine, "Hello, brother, just call to see if you want to go see Stars Wars when it comes out." End of message. What the hell? It's only the 6th! Why so urgent to call at this "ungodly" hour just to make a date to see Star Wars when the opening's twelve days from now? Besides, we wouldn't be able to get a ticket for it because The Warren has already sold out every show for at least the first weekend . . . Well, I call her back and we do make plans to see it sometime . . . and off hand she tells me that it's her birthday . . . today. Damn! Her birthday? I never knew the date of her birthday. I'm a lousy brother.

Had to go to "The Earth" for breakfast with David's kids. The fuckin' Earth! I hate that fuckin' place. They call it "The Earth" because the food tastes like dirt. No, that's insulting. I apologize. Real dirt tastes better than anything served as food at this overpriced "Gee-I-Miss-The-Sixties" restaurant. The best thing that I can say about "The Earth" is they did finally take down their every so pretentious No Smoking sign they had on the back door.

"Woodie thinks 'The Earth' is pretentious!" David says this loud enough so that not only does his kids hear it, but the entire Hippie waiting staff and every wannabe Hippie customer (I mean, come on! These kids weren't even alive in the 60s.They can't be Hippies!) in the place could hear him. Fuck. I gotta stop telling David anything I don't want someone other than him to know! Besides, I don't really HATE "The Earth." It's okay. I did try the "Vegan" chili. Weeeell, not spicy enough, but okay.

I'm not going to go into the rather heated discussion I got into with David and his kids over gun violence . . . Okay, the only one getting heated was me . . . yeah, I made a bit of a fool out of myself. But I am so tired of both sides, Right and Left, telling each other that their side is right! Nothing gets done that way. We can't stop gun violence if we're going to be at each other's throat over the fuckin' 2nd Amendment! Yeah, I came to the conclusion that I watch way too much TV news. May give it up. Or maybe I just need to relax a bit more. All my irritation with what's going on in the world is just a reaction to how big a mess America is in,  and how it's too big a mess for me to correct, and maybe my HATE of "The Earth" is just an extension of my inability to fix the world. Still, the "Vegan" chili wasn't all that good. {smiles}

Monday, December o7, 2o15

Remember Pearl Harbor? Or maybe you read something about it in you high school American History class? Oh, surely you've seen From Here to Eternity? Ben Affleck's Pearl Harbor? The beginning of WWII meets CGI. The production team on that film made "a date which will live in infamy" look like a Bugs Bunny cartoon.  Naw, I guess we don't remember it much anymore. Over 2,4oo people perished that day. Most of them sailors. Met an old guy who was there. Fortunately for him he was on land and close to a bunker. He didn't talk about it much, but you could tell by the way his eyes sort of glossed up when he talked about it that . . . well, he looked dead all over. In the 90s I wrote a play titled a man in morning. Never did get it produced.  Had a monologue in it based very loosely on the story the old guy told me about the attack on Pearl Harbor:

CHICK

Okay, so it's the night before Pearl Harbor. me and my shipmates are on liberty in Honolulu. We go to this cocktail lounge, the Waikiki Club. A real scuzzbucket of a place, off limits to sailors, but what the fuck, right? We were young. We didn't give a damn, right? Anyway, that's when I met and fell in love with the Melon Sisters. Sonya and Betty. Identical twins from Camden, New Jersey. A lounge act. They use to sing these comedy songs like, "Oh, I wanna get back to my little grass snatch in Hawaii." A couple of real artists. And they wore these grass skirts, long beautiful blond hair flowing down to their butts, and two sets of the biggest wazoos you ever saw. Earlier in the evening, I confessed to a mate of mine a dark and horrible secret: at the ripe old age of twenty-two I was still a virgin. Whatever you do in this life time never admit to anyone that you are a virgin, not even your mother. They'll use it against you the first chance they get. My buddy moseys over to the piano bar and gleefully tells Sonya and betty about my "sexual predicament." I could have died. The girls bounced over to our table and bombarded me with a barrage of highly suggestive innuendos and dirty gestures which cased me to blush a beet red , and in turn, made everybody at the table fall down laughing. before the girls left to do their next set, Sonya bends over me, tongues me in the ear and whispers, 'Come back tomorrow night, little boy, and we shall make you a man." Oh, man! Back on base I laid in my rack and imagined, as best as a virgin could, a multitude of horribly delicious things they had in store for my unspoiled body. Then, at the height of my ecstasy, I felt the earth quake beneath me and I thought to myself, Jesus Christ, if I get this excited over a fantasy, I'll never survive the real thing." And then the earth should again and I realized something was terribly wrong. I staggered to the door of my hooch, look out and I saw hell. Bombs, hundreds of them, thousands of them, Japanese bombs pounding the ground, the earth exploding around me. There was a bunker a hundred yards or so away, so I made a beeline for it. I ran, and I ran, and it seemed to me that the harder I ran the farther away that bunker got. There was a loud "BOOM" to my left . . . maybe it was my right . . . anyway, something popped me upside the gourd and I went down hard. I couldn't get up. I couldn't move. My legs had turned to instant shit, fire in my lungs. I just couldn't get up. And that's when I saw them. The Melon Sisters. Standing on top of that bunker with their grass skirts raised over their heads, bumping and grinding their hips. And I swear I could hear them yelling at me over the noise of the bombs exploding, "COME AND GET IT! TIME TO FEED THE KITTY! COME AND GET IT!" That's when I had the most horrifying thought . . . my god, I'm gonna die here a fucking virgin. Well, that seemed to do the trick. I got to my feet and some how managed crawl into that bunker. I stayed down in that dirty, stinking hole for what seemed like years. Curled up in a ball with my head tucked between my legs, listening to the world die around me. So. Never underestimate the power of pussy. It damn sure saved my life.

The Daily {W}Rite November 2o15 WK o4

Sunday,
It was movie day today! David and Michael picked me up at 11:15am and we headed off to the Warren. The weird thing? For the first time that I can remember all three of us wanted to see a different movie. David was set on seeing Mockingjay Part 2 which I and Michael had no interest in seeing, and Michael wanted to see Spotlight, but hey! I didn't want to spend two hours watching the "pedophile" flick. So, my choice was  Secret in Their Eyes. What to do? Nobody wanted to have to sit an hour or more before seeing a movie while the other guys went in, or have to wait an hour or so after his film got out waiting for everybody else! Well, as luck would have it, my film started at 11:45 and Michael's and David's started at noon. Sometimes the gods do smile on us . . . or maybe they're just too busy to worry about our petty needs and we get a pass because . . . they just don't give a fuck. {sorry, gods.}

Monday, November 23, 2o15
Loud Hipster music mixed with the "clank-clank" rhythm of metal smashing against metal. And human sounds: Grunts, groans, Hulk like yells, heavy breathing . . . and that smell of heat and sweat. It's good to be back in the gym. Been away for a week but not much damage done. Still working on my rather large gut, sit ups and various crunch exercises, 1o reps, 2 sets on the Roman Horse for the back muscles. Then to the arms and back. Didn't lose anything there ether. Added a couple of reps to all of it and a new exercise! Hell, I should be lookin' like one them "Greek Orthodontists" come spring. Yes, I know I spelled it wrong. It's an old joke I use to share with Norman Hammon. Well, way back when we were friends.

Thanksgiving coming up pretty fast. I need to write a poem about it. Not sure what right now. Maybe I'll wait until I go to one of the many dinners that David and I were invited to. Looks like about three, but not all of them are on Thursday. I like the idea of Thanksgiving. Yes, I know, sort of a bummer  for Native Americans. But sometimes . . . there are things you enjoy that maybe you shouldn't . . . enjoy. But I like eating someone else's food, and talking to folk I haven't ever met or that I don't see that often when I'm out and about.

Tuesday, November 24, 2o15

 

God was rolling around inside my head this afternoon. As David and I drove back from working out, I kept seeing His face in the reflections of the many storefront windows we passed heading down Main St. to Homeland Groceries. I didn't tell David I was talking to God. I don't think he'd understand. Anyway, I didn't actually hear God . . .  but I could read His lips. Every time He opened His mouth I'd see . . . furniture, sometimes brand new and shiny, sometimes worn out. And a lot of "CLOSED" signs and most often, just the sun's glare off of David's car as we sped by. You're wondering what God was saying to me. Well, that's rather personal and there's a sort of  confidentiality agreement that I have with God:  I don't tell other "humees" what He says, and He sort of looks the other way when I curse a bit. Well, He really doesn't hold up His side of the bargain. He makes me feel so guilty that I have to confess whenever I do something . . . sinful. Well, that's not true either. Sorry, God. I confess because I make MYSELF feel guilty! There! So, I can't tell you exactly what God lip-mimed  to me . . . but I can tell you . . . it made me smile a lot, and I enjoyed my being here on Earth a bit more than usual this day.

Wednesday, November 25, 2o15
David is forcefully attacking his health issues. Gym! Every other day, the gym, with a light (for now) workout on some kind of weird "jogging" machine, and then another jogging machine and then a bit of work on the abs. Me? Abs and upper body one day, abs and legs the next time. Total of 2 days on arms, abs, upper body, and 2 days on abs and legs. And the working out on a regular basis has done my lungs, the rest of body and my mind a shit load of good.

Can I say this (or actually . . . type this) next  bit of life without coming off too creepy? See, I met this girl back in Las Vegas, NM, a student of mine in speech at Highlands University. She was a cool kid, good student and very nice to me. Yeah, you see where this is going, right? You'd be wrong  . . . sort of. Look, even if a student did have "designs" on me,  

I would never even entertain the idea of it. Okay, MAYbe a little but only that. As soon as I start thinking about a student in a "relationship" way my fatherly side comes out and slaps me silly. Anyway, this kid was really good to me, respectful and she really wanted to learn from me. I think she wound-up taking two classes with me and she was always a joy in class. And when I got fired from the university, she was one of the first to come to my office to see how I was doing . . . with a Dexter bobble head gift to cheer me up! No, she was a good friend to me, and I can only think of maybe one other woman that I can say that about . . . They both liked me. Anyway, I think she left HU before me. But we did keep in loose contact on Facebook. She'd post something once in a while but not much, you know? She was busy going to grad school, I think. But this last week she started posting things again . . . and this last Friday (Was it Friday? I think it was Friday.) she posted that her "boyfriend" had proposed and that she had accepted. So, that sort of tapped me a bit on the heart. I know, I know. She is just kid, and we were professor and student . . . and it's all very silly and stupid to think about her in that way . . . and I don't. Not really. But it does kind of accent my relationship with women. I always "like" them more than they like me.

Thanksgiving Day weekend, Thursday, Friday, Saturday 2o15

"You guys wanna take a walk with me and the dogs?" Well, why not? Thanksgiving day dinner wasn't ready yet, and Kathy didn't seem to want any help. "You boys go ahead, " she said. So, off we went into the on/off rainy day with the "Big Dog" that didn't need a leash cause he was so old . . . and the pup! Now he needed more tha a leash! A chair and whip is the only way to keep him line, and the CAT! Yeah,  I never took a cat for a walk . . . ever. David and Chris walked ahead as I stopped every three steps to take a

picture of the trees, the lake, the rain that was dripping off of the eaves  of the house we just left. "We just got a new roof." Chris said when he noticed me taking pics of the house, "Tornado weather tossed hail at it last spring. Lots of  damage . . . but insurance covered it okay." Or something like that. I really wasn't listening. I was watching that damn sneaky cat of theirs creeping up on me. I don't know what his plan was but I went into defense mode, raised my camera and . . . CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! It ran away so fast all I could do was laugh. Damn scaredy cat!

Chris's mom is a very "tiny" little old lady. Very fragile looking. If you breathed too hard in her direction, she'd shatter into a million pieces like the head of a dandelion. She has this wonderful knowledge of history and the classic plays, and I smile as she tells me all about the Medea that she has translated from the original Greek . . . "Mom, Woodie's gotta go home." Yeah, I do. David is fading after a great meal of turkey and all the fixins and I wasn't doing much better, And "Big Dog" was already crashing on the couch. But I hated to leave. I wanted to spend more time listening to the life of this charming woman.

Friday was cold, cold, burning cold! Broke out my real winter jacket that I bought back in Las Vegas, NM. Didn't think I needed the boots, but my feet didn't agree. It was icy out, with a power punch from the north wind almost knocking me off my feet as I headed to the warmth of David's car. And then off we went to our second Thanksgiving at Vickie and Michael's.

As warm as the car was, the spirit of Vickie's family was even more so. Wonderful herd of kids all in their teens and twenties. A son-in-law (a sort of straight-laced Hipster type), an older son that works for the Transcript . . . and a very, very petty woman who is some big shot in the Norman Arts Council. Me and David sort of zoned in on her . . . maybe a little too fast . . . okay, I did. But in my defense? I've always been an awkward

asshole in the presence of beautiful woman . . . well, around people in general, really.  And this day was no different. People were having thoughtful conversations about politics, art that sort of stuff and I felt pretty much left out and I'd try to join in with some "witty" comment that made everyone stop talking and just stare at me. I'm a social imbecile. But the food was great, the company enjoyable. There was laughter, and toasting and remembering good times and bad times . . . A pleasant day with people that I really liked.

Monday, November 3o, 2o15
Well, the end of November. December begins with a very cold handshake and a darker much bleaker night. We greet it pleasantly, though, a bitter but hopeful smile on our face for it does no good to piss of the weather because the elements never forget or forgive any slight, any disparaging word. She's only doing her job, after all.

My apartment's heater switches on when I bang the wall or open the closet door and slam it shut or fidget with the thermostat for a minute or two . . . yes, it goes on and warms up the house then shuts off and refuses to come on again when the room gets too cold. And I fiddle again with the thermostat, and bang the wall where it hangs, and open and slam the closet door shut . . . ! And though I hate routine, the daily habits I form over the years . . . sometimes it's necessary to follow the laws of that which has worked in the past. And why not? Better to be uniform than colder than a "witches tit in a brass bra!" My father use to spit that out anytime the temperature in our big, Norman Bates like house got lower than 70 degrees. I can hear him now yelling at my mom from the couch where he lay most days. "Damn it, Lucille, turn the heater up! It's colder than a witches tit in a brass bra!" I think I inherited my fathers fine sense of "metaphor."

But as I said, it is December tomorrow. Christmas, my sisters favorite holiday, will arrive in . . . 24 days? I never know when Christmas and Thanksgiving is coming. Can never remember the dates. Yes, I know now from a friend of mine that Thanksgiving doesn't have a particular date, but falls on the third Thursday of November . . . although I'm not sure about even that. People explain things like dates and times for special events and I never can quite remember any of them. Now, Christmas? Yes, I'm pretty sure it's the 25th of December . . . I think. Do you see? Even when I know something . . . I'm never sure if I really do. But Halloween?! Halloween is October 31st! Yeah, I got the day for celebrating Halloween dow pat.

Anyway, I'm already into December (12:50 a.m.) and I haven't finished the blog for November! Well, I say that . . . but I am finished now.

 

The Daily {W}Rite November 2o15 WK o3

Sunday. Brunch with David and his family at some diner style restaurant. My discussion with the limp fries went well. They agreed. The cook is not winning any food Oscars for hi skills. But the peppering of conversation with the group, a bit of salt and sugar over which movies were good this year and which weren't, mad the food taste better.

I sort of fell into a bit of love with this girl writing me a poem during Art Walk. Thin, light hair that sort of snaked down over the left side of her face . . . like a waterfall it fell . . . forming a blond question mark when it reached her shoulder. I smiled as I watched her search for the "right" words, the right phrasing for my poem. I know I was smiling. Guess I was thinking, "I'm in love with this woman, deeply and profoundly . . . and she'll never know." I always feel good when I know something that the other person doesn't know. I like secret loves. They seem more honest than that love you express to someone. You know? Once you say something all the magic drains out of the feeling. Well, maybe that's always been my problem.

Monday, November 16, 2o15

Rained all day and into the night. Not a drop falling from the sky right now, but more to come the cute weather lady said. Warm, bright smile she has. I don't know how bad weather could even think of being rainy . . . if it saw that smile. The tree outside my apartment, it's leaves turned a beautiful yellow, red and orange, and is now quickly going bald. I don't feel sorry for it, though. He'll have a full head of leaves come spring.

Got to go to OKC about 7am tomorrow morning. That's just about the time I've been going to bed! I'll try and sleep a few hours, but it may turn into . . . no sleep at all. I like a bit of sleep at least every night. Take a break from my retired reality, my stare at the TV or out the window to watch that tree go comatose for the winter reality. To tell the truth? A dreamless sleep sort of gives me some idea what being dead forever will be like. In a funny way that experience makes me appreciate this "awake" life a lot more than I do.

Wednesday, November 18, 2o15
Today. Sluggish. My body feels like a lump of mud. My mind not in any better shape. I think I have a headache. Hell, my whole body aches. the universe is having a migraine attack. No, more 24 hours without sleep. I have, however, found the strength of will to write on the blog. Yesterday-

"Do you want my e-mail address?" The busy receptionist looked up from her computer. Seeing that I was a harmless old man, she smiled. "Yes, what we like to do is send our patients notices over the internet to save on postage." She smiled again. "You a patient?" ""No, I'm not a patient. I just saw your sign . . .?" I pointed to the paper taped to the top of the receptionist's counter:

Please leave us

your e-mail

address

The once friendly receptionist now looked angry and confused until her desk-mate (a very handsome, young African-American man) started to chuckle. "I'm compelled to always do what signs tell me to do," I smiled back. Finally, she got it and we all laughed . . . quietly, of course, because we were, after all, in a doctor's office, for goodness sake.

A screech of tires, I'm thrown forward. "What the fuck, David?!" "That's the entrance to I-40 East. I almost passed it." "Yeah, but don't slam on the breaks at 50 miles an hour and stop the car. . . IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING ROAD!" I can see that I've hurt his feelings . . . made him mad. So, I laugh as if I was just joking. But I wasn't joking and I wasn't mad . . . just scared shitless.

The Present
I feel much better. Maybe I just needed to vomit out a few moments from yesterday's adventure which ended with us going to Popeye's for fried chicken. I bought too much spicy Cajun (12 pieces, mixed, no sides). The old cowboy waiting in line with us (David and me) seems some what astonished with the "white" woman carrying a "black" baby. His "Humph!" of dislike or confusion isn't heard by anyone . . . but me. "Look how curly that baby's hair is." "Yeah, it sure is curly," I said but was thinking about how curly my hair was when I was a baby. My mother thought it made me look like a little girl so she had it all cut off . . . and now I'm burdened with this thinning, straight mess of fading red hair. "But the mother has straight hair." He laughed quietly (just like we did at the doctor's office) as if it was some sort of top secret statement of fact. Yeah, I got what he was saying. I don't understand fucking old, redneck people. I really don't.

I'm time warping again. Instead of writing about "now," I'm writing "now" about the "past." Makes me wonder . . . Do I appreciate my memories more than the present moment?

10:30pm
There's voices out on Trout Avenue. Shouting voices disturbing my evening. But I don't look. They're loud but they're not frightening. A dog sound made by a human animal. A howling at the coming of winter? Or maybe a bit too much 3 point 2 brew? Or a little of both. Feeling a little doggy, are we? Maybe there's a poem in this moment . . . somewhere. {smile} The "girl" who wrote me an improv poem during Art Walk IMed me today. She liked my poem that I wrote for her. But nothing else. Well, even old men can wish a bit. A sort of date. Nothing big, just a movie, maybe? A burger at a favorite restaurant? Probably not. {no smile}

I'm beginning to sort through the drawers.
Gathering up the holy socks the underwear,
both have lost their shape, their practical functionality.
Even this old cap, the red and black Spider-Man cap
needs to be bagged, tagged and thrown in the dumpster.
Maybe a homeless guy will find it. Its frayed bill,
the faded Spider-Man face on the front panel, the sweat stains
that have multiplied on the inside on the sweat band,
the squatchee on top has worn-out its cloth covering
all that remains is a gray metal button rusted and dented.
Maybe all those things that I no longer find appealing,
he'll love. People who having nothing most often find
pleasures in things best left thrown away.

11:56pm
I'm running out of time to write for this day. Which is okay 'cause I'm running out of things to say. They say the bad, bad weather is coming. How bad and what kind of bad? The weather guy on channel 4 said if I wanted to know I needed to tune into the 10:00 o'clock news. I forgot to do that. Guess I'll just have to get up in the morning, look out the window and see. {smile}

Thursday, November 19, 2o15



David is still feeling sick. Started on Sunday. Upset stomach that hasn't gone away. I worry about my friend. And I'm pretty sure he worries about me because I ain't got them lungs I use to have. And slowly other body parts are beginning to weaken. I sometimes feel like a kitten. I hate feeling that way because . . . I hate fucking kittens. {sigh}The little bit of poetry I wrote on Wednesday's post? I decided to work on it, fill it out a bit more. Not sure where it's going or if this rework will be any longer than the one above, but I got hope for it. {pause} There's a lamppost on the corner, amber light, a very dirty gray pole holds it out over the two streets. I gotta say, that streetlight has been a great model along with the stop sign that stands next to it and the trees that line the Northwest side of the secondary road. The picture on the left . . . a very rainy night in the spring of 2o14, I think. Anyway, always some great pictures to take day or night. Of course, the backdrop, the western sky always adds a lot to any shot, it knows how to be just majestic enough to make the rather shabby, utilitarian lamppost look like a king! Hmmm. Hope that doesn't sound too weird. {smile}

Friday, November 2o, 2o15

"Clickety-clickety-clickety-clickety . . ."  that's the noise brittle autumn leaves make as they tumble down the sidewalk, down the pot marked street, Trout Avenue. A southern wind sweeps the bodies up into uneven piles on my front lawn.  Not extremely tidy but better than the dead and dying leaves lying stacked on top each other in the rain gutter across the street. The yellow curb watches over the heap  as it grows in size with every whoosh! of wind. Too many young leaves this year met thire fate long before their time. Much smaller than their uncles and brothers, they will decay faster become nothing more than a lost memory in the minds of we humans who watch mesmerized at the autumn leaf round up that mother Nature orchestrates every year about this time. "Clickety-clickety-clickety-clickety . . ." sounds like a million tap dancers gone crazy.

November days. The Earth on a respirator. Great gasps of air from her northern regions. Nature turns, spins in too many directions while always heading in an unchangeable straight line. I do have a sense of the heartfelt, I do mourn  each leaf, each branch on the Elm trees that watch themselves, their children die. November days, the cancer that eats away at everything that lives, turning life into a winter that continues lunching on the bodies long after the flesh has turned to dust and this existence becomes a thought without purpose.

Saturday, November 21, 2o15

Last day in this sweet week of November and it just got really cold. I thought that we might get a light winter this year since the summer was pretty mild, but it looks like MoNa is not going to be gentle with us. The weather folk on channel 4 are already talking snow and ice. Already, my apartment is starting to cool down . . . I feel the winter stroking the edges of my spine as I type. Need to put on a sweater, my hoodie, something that can combat MoNa's icy fingers.

It was the last Norman Game Day today . . . or I guess to be accurate  . . . . Norman Game Night because the game didn't start until 7pm. The OU fans were dressed in stocking caps and coats, many layers of shirts and possibly other undergarments. But as cold as it is the fans still tailgate party, still fill the stands. Beer is more antifreeze than intoxicant during winter . . . although it still fucks you up. {knowing smile} There 's a monologue about Mother Nature from the movie World War Z that I think is appropriate for the weather change we are going through:
Andrew Fassbach: Mother Nature is a serial killer. No one's better. Or more creative. Like all serial killers, she can't help the urge to want to get caught. What good are all those brilliant crimes if no one takes the credit? So she leaves crumbs. Now the hard part, why you spend a decade in school, is seeing the crumbs. But the clue's there. Sometimes the thing you thought was the most brutal aspect of the virus, turns out to be the chink in its armor. And she loves disguising her weaknesses as strengths. She's a bitch.
It's nights like this, one where the weather gets mean that I start to think . . . maybe MoNa just doesn't like us very much. And I can't blame her. The shitty way we treat her? Hell a little payback should be expected. Morrison said a little about it too in the song When the Music's Over:
. . . What have they done to the earth?/What have they done to our fair sister?/Ravaged and plundered and ripped her and bit her/Stuck her with knives in the side of the dawn/And tied her with fences and dragged her down  . . . Morrison was a hell of a writer. Wish I could write as well. Here's one out of a three poem set I titled Seasonal Change. Written around 2o11 or so, and revised many, many times:

II Fall
What? Across the footbridge? This time a year? Quite hazardous
a walk, you know? It’s become nothing more than a cold grave for
autumn leaves, broken tree branches and patches of treacherous
black ice, which forces heroic fools like you and  me (who pay very
little attention to the weatherman’s predictions) to step cautiously
across its splintered face. When the seasons change, we become
suspicious, superstitious, wary of the very ground beneath our feet;
as the landscape shifts so must we. A heavy coat tugged tight around
me, wool cap, thick gloves… makes difficult my ability to touch, to feel
your face. But no worries. Soon we’ll be at that small café near Bridge St.
it smells of used books, freshly baked bread, the harsh aroma of hickory
chips blazing in a wood burning  stove…and that other smell which neither
one of us has of yet identified. At least we can shed our bulky, outer skins,
leave them toasting on that rickety coat rack and sooth ourselves with
coffee (for me) and tea (for you) and balmy conversations about spring
flowers and summer moons, and that short but happy trip we took last
year to the Gulf of Mexico. We can pretend (if only for a little while)
that Christmas isn’t just around the corner, that soon that old bridge
that leads home won’t all together disappear beneath the frozen snow.

See you next week,