I'm wake dreaming again. David drives fast down the back road. We're heading for the Warren to see some horror film that neither of us are really interesting in seeing . . . but it's been a while since we saw a movie . . . Listening to David's car out run the wind. I look out my window see an April green field on my right. "
Is that a clover field?" David takes a fast look. "
Doesn't smell like clover. Nope." When you look down, outside the window, when you watch the road a while going at'a rather high speed, the asphalt becomes unstable, turns to water, turns into a gray river running along side the April green field. Look even closer and the river turns into long thin almost black lines, millions of lines all heading in the same direction.
String Theory on a warm Wednesday morning . . . Sometimes I wonder if there are more dimensional realities than our measly three (or four if you count time). Other realities would be interesting to explore. I'd like to see how I'm getting along on another Earth.
Coffee. I live by coffee, a scone or bagel (perhaps) at one of two favorite coffee shops: La Baguette Bakery & Café or The Gray Owl. Points of conversation: "
Do you need to go to the store?" "
How's your kids doing?" "
Dentist for me tomorrow, want to come along?" "
What time should I wake you up?" "
You see that girl? Damn, wish I wasn't so old." David notices the girls most times. I'm too busy studying the ceiling fan or counting the number of cars in the paring lot. But I always look at the girls when David points them out. "
Yeah, definitely cute."
The Movie at the Warren was a bust. Sound was incredibly loud! David covered his ears, but I, like a stupid, thought it was suppose to be that loud . . . The manager comes in and asks what's the problem with the film. David: "TOO LOUD!" The manager looks at the screen, listens for a minute . . . comes to the conclusion: "The movie's too loud!" He and the camera booth guy fix the problem and start the movie over . . . Didn't help. The movie was just as bad . . . only we didn't go deaf.
Thursday, April 16, 2o15
Air-conditioner on high, a knock-down, drag-out battle with the setting sun. The right side of my body hot, my back side cool. Life is like that. Between sips of cold coffee and typing out some words on the blog, I think of you. Not much, granted, but I do think of you, your face, your loud, but very pleasant crow like laugh. There are memories of you and I together that drift through my head now and then . . . although I don't recall what the memories were, I realize that I'm smiling, and I'm sure I never smile unless I'm thinking of you.
I don't sing much anymore. Was a time I screeched like an owl into a microphone, stomped with thick, uncontrollable fingers on a piano . . . "
You have a great blues voice," my friends who could REALLY sing would say. I always took the compliment with a smile . . . even though I'm pretty sure they meant, "
You'll never be a REAL singer . . . like US!" But it's true. I'm no more a singer than I am a piano player . . . I just liked doing both. I also liked writing songs . . . LONG songs . . . that I'm pretty confident about . . . my song writing ability. Here's a favorite song of mine . . . written by me.
BROKEN
DREAMS (song by woodie)
As I wondered passed the graveyard,
saw Mother Mary with her Lamb
He was cradled in her fragile arms
because he could not stand
She was crying out to heaven for
someone to lend a hand
But no one heard and no one ever
came
In the small town of Las Vegas see
them walking down the street
Their hands stuffed in their
pockets and no shoes upon their feet
And their eyes are as empty as the
future 'pears to be
No one cares, not you or even me
Broken dreams rotting in the noon
day sun
Crawling t'wards the shadows
looking for the one
Who can lead them from this misery
to a place near heaven's door
Where the pain of living won't be
heard no more
From behind the barred- up window
she could see the prison walls
The things she did that lead her
here she never could recall
When she cried she clung to
memories of family and good friends
And she prayed to God she'd see
them once again
He was born of rage and fury ‘tween
the cracks in paradise
The brutal life he chose to live no
one could realize
Only by chance did he meet her in
that dark and lonely room
He took her life and sealed his own
in doom
Broken dreams dying on the prison
floor
The scream of love and laughter
silenced evermore
All the fragile shattered promises
that life freely gave
Now dance within the darkness of
his grave
And the winters here are cold as
hell
But the spring rains seem quite
warm
Sometimes at night I go to sleep
and hold you in my arms
I can hear your laughing voice in
every raindrop that I see
Do you ever take the time to think
of me
Broken dreams drowning in the
melted snow
Longing for a lasting love that
ended long ago
Take us far from this misery to a
place near heaven's door
Where the pain of living won't be
heard no more
Friday, April 17, 2o15
Sometimes my eyes finger themselves between the narrow slits that disfigures what would be total darkness in my apartment. Sometimes running barefoot through sunlight, those same eyes must halt, lean against a flickering beam, catch it's breath, long breathes sucked in through the cornea, finding there way to deflated, defeated lungs that my sight have conjured up. I see more, sometimes, than I need to, than I want to, sometimes. The green flesh of jogging shorts, the sweaty meat sliding from her head, down her shirt to form crooked, wet rivers that seek the shelter of her white crew socks. Her head a red fire burning the blue from my sight. I love/hate the thoughts that I create for myself as she turns the corner and soon disappears from sight. My eyes grow dim with loneliness.
Saturday, April 18, 2o15
A thick glob of day. The Earth conspiring with the warm weather to remind me hell is everywhere. My legs and feet sluggishly stumbling throw the crowd of older, overweight suburbanites herded onto the Mont's patio. If eyes were bows and thoughts were arrows, I'd be bleeding from head to crotch. The stylishly fake blonde mother with her college age daughter seem the most interested in my demise. Their OU caps and dark sunglasses can't hide the murderous plan they plot. Why? What harm had I caused them? Our waitress is no less guilty. She screws up my order three times, loses my check so I have to wait . . . and wait . . . and wait. No tip for her, damn it.
And Walmart. A sea of old people slam into me with their battleship shaped shopping carts filled to the brim with sour cream, butter, a pork roast and various high fat, sugary treats for late night TV viewing . . . "
You seem a bit grumpy today, " David says as he pushes our not even half filled cart to the car. But I'm too busy trying to get a clear shot of the Grackle hiding in the birch tree to answer him. David hates Grackles. But not as much as I'm hating this day.
No better at home. My headache forces me to flop onto the couch before I put the groceries away. Ice cream! That's what I need.
Ben & Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk should do the trick! It doesn't. All night long I feel like crap both physically and mentally . . . and I might as well throw in spiritually. I need for this day to finally end.
Monday, April 2o, 2o15
David and I out on the town this afternoon. That's right! Look out Norman Town the old foges are out and about. First stop
Panera Breads for smoothies and pastries! We talk a little about the MusicFest coming up . . . or should we call it GunFest since there was a big whoopee about gun owners wanting to fulfill their 2nd Amendment rights by open carrying their semiautomatic weapons of choice to the festival. Norman Town was against it, as were the folks putting on the festival, but some gun toting American took them to court and . . . well, still up in the air as to IF the gunny boys are going to carry their guns or not. Facebook is all a buzz with antigun folk screaming and gunslingers screaming . . . "
My rights! No, my rights!" Blah, blah, blah.
We took a stroll around The Sooner Fashion Mall. Personally, I love walking the mall . . . don't tell David . . . but I'd rather get my "exercise" walking indoors than trudging around the Wilderness Park with the mosquitoes, turtles and whatever insane Jason wannabe is running around out there too! Actually, I do enjoy the WP. I just said that I didn't cause I know David's going to read my blog. I just wanted to
BAZINGA! him. {snicker}
Tuesday, April 21, 2o15
Well, the end of wk 03 in good old April is about to close. A lot going on in Norman Town about "open carry" and the music festival that is gearing up for its start. I wish I could say that I'm above getting involved in it on Facebook, but I guess, after all is said, I m only human. Thought I would leave this week of wonderful April, sunny and rainy week of April with my Facebook post on the subject of open carry:
"You know I'm not really against folks owning guns . . . but I do get a bit creeped out about how some men and women start going on and about their right to carry a firearm in public . . . when they start yaking about the 2nd Amendment. The thing is the BOR doesn't say anything about carrying a gun in public. That idea was artificially attached to the 2nd Amendment by the NRA and folks who just like the idea of carrying their guns around. They also talk about defending themselves and others from the "crazy" folk with guns . . . sort of like a Captain America or something. But most of the people I know who are gun owners are just that . . ."gun owners" who don't really know much about guns, don't really have the kind of gun training that would help them or others in a real firefight. And just to be as honest as I can be on the subject, the only deference between a law abidiing citizen with a gun and a mass murder with a gun . . . is one pull of the trigger. A big portion of the guns used in the mass murders across America were purchased legally. And one other thing. I'm 67 years old and I've been in a few tough jams in my life . . . unarmed. I've been shot at twice, twice I've had guns pointed at me, and one time I had a drunken step-father shove a loaded shotgun in my guts and threaten to kill me, my sister and mother . . . but I survived all those events without a gun. Sure, in the Marine Corps, in Vietnam I had an M-16. . . but I was a damn cook! Never fired it once. I got in a couple of hairy situations from mortars and rockets and shit like that . . . but a firearm would be of no use against that kind of stuff. Personally, I think IF you want to carry a gun full time, you should join the military. Even then there are places where you can't take your rifle. If you want to protect and serve, join the police force and get the right training, training that will help you IF you need to protect yourself or your family."
It seems to be too difficult any more to just sit down and work on my writing, work on my poetry, hell, work at anything. Lazy? lethargic? Just too old to care about being creative? I don't know. I'm just not interested in doing anything other than "playing" around on Facebook or watching TV. I miss my creative self, my energetic self . . . I use to have
