August 2o15 The Daily (W)Rite WK o1

The first day of the month and I am ready to start living my life. Yes, I know. I have been living this whole time . . . since the day I was born . . . a little disingenuous to say "I'm going to start"  when I've been alive for 67 years and an odd number of months. Let's say then I'm going to enhance the life I've been living . . . write more . . . get out more . . . do something other than eat, shit, sleep and wake up long enough to watch TV . . . and get ready to go back to sleep! Yeah, so if I wish to call it a "start" then who are you to tell what I mean? Oh, right you do have permission since you are me.

A brilliant sunset outside my window tonight . . . as usual. How many sunsets have I watched? Always in awe of it, the way the day dies . . . such color . . . such beauty . . . only to repeat itself the following night. It loves the glamour of  a well rehearsed death . . . but it's perpetually drawn to the dull, repetitiveness of being born again . . . and again . . . and again . . . throughout the eternal yawn scientists call . . . THE BIGGER BANG.

Tuesday, August o4, 2o15
Hmmm, the last few days a bit rough on me. My body just shut down . . . eyes wouldn't stay open . . . couldn't eat much. But today was better. Out and about by 11am . . . David had a dentist appointment. After that we took off for the Sooner Fashion Mall. Misplaced my damn soft cap. Couldn't find it anywhere. Fuck! I loved that cap. But I was resolute . . . a Spider-Man cap to replace it! Didn't find one . . . damn it . . . but we met some interesting people. One guy all Hipstered out, those big hole ear thingys in his lobes . . . extremely well manicured beard, a pair of mismatched low cut Chucks (left foot blue, right foot red), both arms covered in tattoos. Guy was working in a shoe store but was a chef! Yeah, an actual chef! Didn't like the "cut throat" life. Hee! Couldn't take the fast pace of high end food culture.

In Spencer's, David started a conversation with a beautiful Hippie chick . . . dreadlocks almost down to her waste, skin the color of fine white sand . . . again, tattooed arms . . . slender . . . like a reed in a pond. Could've talked to her for hours,  and David would have if I hadn't drag him away. Didn't find a hat I wanted . . . but the day was pleasant . . .and my body feels better. Hope that continues.

Worked on a couple of older pieces, monologue/poems that I never got a chance to perform. Good news, Michael (David's son) thinks he might want to film them! They need some major rewriting . . . but I think hey are doable. Here's one of them:

Children of the Night

 

Late at night, a campsite in a wilderness.  In front of a small campfire The Survivor prepares for battle. The sound of the Monster Children can be heard coming from the surrounding darkness.

 

Bela Lugosi (V.O.)

Listen to them—

Children of the night!

What music they make!

 

The Survivor

I can hear them . . .moving about.

Somewhere near, out there
where darkness devours light.

 

(Animal like noises from the darkness)

Oh, I can hear you . . . mumbling
incoherent whispers, that heavy breathing,
gnashing of tooth against bone . . .
the occasional high pitched growl
at a phantom moon . . . a siren sound
that penetrates the ear drum like
a sharpened spoon.

 

They’ll be coming soon. Soon . . .

just as soon as they finish their feast
of human flesh . . . no worries now.
Not until they stop . . . what? Talking?


Can I call it that? More like insane gibberish,
bestial cries . . . screeches . . . that make
no sense to a human ear . . . to God . . .
to even hell . . .

 

Poor Janice. Not a chance against their numbers . . .

She screamed briefly as their tiny bodies, their
emaciated bodies swarmed over her like . . . like . . .
hungry human ants . . . No. Not human . . .
at least . . . not anymore.

 

Skeletons wrapped tightly in gray, moldy skin . . .

spotted skin, dark brown spots . . . like dry blood . . .
and eyes pale, moonlight white . . . the better to see you with,
my dear . . . when the sun goes down.

 

Amazingly strong . . . those long, thin arms . . .

ripping bone from socket . . .They enjoy that.
Watching those long thin ribbons of blood spew from
the torso . . .like . . . like the spit from their misshapen  mouths.
Yeah, they drool a lot . . . just children, they are . . . or were.
Somebody’s child . . . once . . . but no more.

 

It’s warm here.

Quit pleasant under the circumstances.
A cozy fire licking at the charred remains
of a bark-less log we found earlier in—

 

(the noise in the dark stops abruptly)

 

Quiet now . . . too damn quiet . . . Yes,

they’ll be coming soon . . .for me.
But I’m ready for them.

 

(The Survivor picks up his shotgun)

 

Yeah, won’t the be surprised

when they see what I got in store for them . . .
YOU SONS’A BITCHES!

 

(Blackout. Maybe one shot from the shotgun.  The

Children of the Night swarm The Survivor. He screams.)

Thursday, August o6, 2o15
Last couple of days I've felt freed from the fog. A heavy fog that found its way into my lungs and than into every bit of muscle tissue I have left in my old body . . . and into my head where it settled in like a thick, wet blanket. If I can get technical for a moment: I felt like dried up cow shit on a very hot Oklahoma summer!

But now I'm better. I feel . . . good . . .  a bit of a bounce in my skinny legs . . .  a wicked little smile keeps appearing on my mouth . . . and I'm writing. Granted not as fast or powerful as a locomotive, not Superman creative writing . . . but writing all the same . . . like . . .  training wheels on a bicycle . . . a little bicycle.

I'm back in love with writing and have begun to put together a writing group which will meet maybe twice a month. A place for writers to sit down with their peers and share their work. Getting a pretty good number of folks who are interested. I'm excited about it

Friday, August o7, 2o15

First week in August is winding down. Last couple of days the Oklahoma summer really beat me up. I need more sunscreen. But no excuses. Hot or cold I have to get out of the house and do something everyday. Usually it's no more than coffee at The Gray Owl and a food run to Walmart. But that's enough for now. Weekends I try to get to at least one movie. Not riding my bike, though. Way too hot for that. I drag David out of his air conditioned apartment and make him see whatever I want to see. He hates movies. Well, that's not fair. He's just very particular about what he sees. I know he doesn't like the Marvel superhero flicks always drag him to . . . Okay, he does like some of them but we went to see Fantastic Four today and . . . hell, I didn't even like it.

It's the last day of the week and I want to write something special. Maybe I'll try a straight up, off the top of my head poem:

I had forgotten how to dream.
My eyes would close as always
my thoughts would slowly drift away
on the darkness that transplanted
itself inside my mind, and the next thing
I would know it was morning.
Sun bouncing up over the windowsill,
the sound of the gardener's weed trimmer
cutting down the lawn, and the birds,
those fucking sparrows shouting like
the drunken frat boys who live next door,
they murder sleep.

And there I am wide awake
fresh coffee in the pot
the TV magically turned on
and the news  . . . the news . . .
so much happened last night
while I sleep a dreamless sleep.