The Daily (W)Rite October 2o15 WK o4

Wednesday
Michael had his hair cut today, I hated to tell him it didn't look any different. We laughed, the three of us, as we drove to the Warren (again) to see more movies. David, Michael going to The Bridge of Spies, I wondered off to see Goosebumps. It took some planning to figure out how we could see two different movies without anyone having to wait long for their movie to start, and having to wait afterwards for the others to get out! Confusing to me, but David attacked the problem like a general planning an invasion  . . . " If we go to the show at 2:30pm, you'll have two wait an hour before your show starts.  However, if Michael and I go to the 3:45pm showing of Bridge of Spies, you will only wait 15 minutes to see your movie . . . and only wait 15 minutes afterwards for us to get out of Bridge of Spies." Patton would have been proud of him. We synchronized our watches and headed out to the car.

If I could live at the Warren, I would find life quite satisfying. The smell of cooking popcorn, the sounds, movie music in the lobby, the clicking of ice filling up a large cup for my ice tea, The white cloves of the ticket takers, and their clear and pleasant voices telling me where to go, "Goosebumps will be to your left, theatre number two, sir. Enjoy your show." What a pleasant place to live out one's short and meaningless . . .  whatever this is.

Thursday, October 22, 2o15

My mind and body fought like demons against each other last night. Having taken an over the counter sleeping pill about 1:30, my mind was already to go to sleep. But my body? No, way. It fought back with itches and muscle tightening, and having to go to the bathroom every five minutes or so until the mind gave up and forced me to open my eyes and work on the computer until seven this morning. Finally, my body gave in and I slept . . . until 11:45am! My brain and bod have got to come to the table and work this bullshit out. I can't be staying up all night every night. I miss waking up with the sun.

11.00 pm
There was a rain today. Still going on and off. No fanfare this morning. No rumble of thunder to announce it's arrival, no harsh angry winds just a gentle, quiet rain soft shoeing across the tiles of the gabled roof just outside my upstairs apartment. Sadly, I didn't pay much attention to it. Yes, I did stare out the window for a minute or two watching the huge potholes on Trout Avenue slowly fill up. The birds hardly noticed it all. They flew around as is normal for them stopping now and then in the tree branches (their leaves just turning fall colored), or on the streetlamp standing guard on the corner. A very ordinary day in which the way of the world was as it was the day before . . . except today it rained. It's raining even now as I write this blog. It may never stop. That wouldn't be bad. Easier to live in a world that is wet with fresh rain. Much easier to sleep when it rains. At last I hope so.

Wednesday, October 28, 2o15
Yes, I know. I am well aware of my digressions. I haven't written a damn thing in . . . 6 DAYS! What the hell, man?! Not totally my fault. My Che Guevara spirit invaded the mind while Karl Marx took over my body. Che: Enough with this Bourgeoisie blogging bullshit propaganda! I want to watch TV! Marx: I'm with you, Comrade, It's the couch for me! The coup was bloodless but successful. I gave in to their demands and did very little these last six days but watch TV, eat, sleep . . . yeah, that's about it. No, I did a few things with friends . . . but I felt apart from them, adrift on some unimaginable sea of lethargy. Yes, I smiled when they brought me Halloween presents (a very cool evil pumpkin mask WITH a movable jaw AND a very, very cool Freddy Krueger sweater!), and yes, I enjoyed the four movies in 6 days marathon that I had with David and his son Michael, and my sister . . . Yes, good movies! But once I hit home, my captors put the chains right back on me and I did nothing. No creative writing, no blogging . . . a little Facebook time when Che and Marx weren't looking, but that was about it.


10:30 this morning:
So, today David forcibly made me go to the gym and workout. Didn't want to go, but the little hippie fuck got the best of me and I finally went and workout a bit on my Hitchcock gut and my noodly arms. And . . . I liked it! I liked it enough to sign my life away for a membership so I can MAYBE get my body into some kind of shape . . . that doesn't look and feel like I'm an overripe avocado.

Friday, October 3o, 2o15

Yes! That dart and rainy night before the ghouls and ghost and the thumpers and bumpers of the night! The call the night before Devil's Night. Not sure where that started but the movie and the graphic novel, The Crow, has it's beginnings in Detroit as a part of crime syndicate's scheme to grab up a lot of downtown property. It did start pretty much in the '70s in Detroit as acts of vandalism that escalated to burning down buildings and such.

 

Today . . . sat around in shorts and my sleeping shirt (actually it's just a sweat shirt I never wash . . . I know, gross!) and watched horror films all day. Mostly it was the Halloween franchise which consists of a LOT of really bad movies! original is the only one worth the afternoon . . . and they didn't show it. I shouldn't sit around all day. I should get out and do things, any thing, anything that gets me out of the house and out of my head. You see, when I don't busy myself with something, there's something or, I should say, some things that live deep down in that bog, that slush, that subterranean unconsciousness basement known by followers of the Freudian Theory as the DUM,DUM, DUUUUM! The subconscious . . . MiiiiiiiiiND! that just come bubbling up into the daylight of consciousness and send me of, me and my rational mind, into a spastic time warp. Yes, I am a time traveler as all of us are time travelers. And yes, don't get all huffy I know science says, according to Discovery News, 2o11: Hong Kong physicists say they have proved that a single photon obeys Einstein's theory that nothing can travel faster than the speed of light — demonstrating that outside science fiction, time travel is impossible.

 

I do hate to go against science but I think we ALL time travel all the time, at least, once a day if not more! And yes, I have a Time Machine . . .  just like the one that every human on earth has. But later with that, gator.

 

Saturday, October 31, 2o15

 

 I didn't get a chance to write much about Halloween. Wish I had. I hate leaving the month without saying much . . . much of value. That I could say something . . . worth the while . . . is a bit laughable. Well, I don't need to be that harsh . . . perhaps a slight snicker behind a hand would ridicule me well enough to make the point. I'm really not as smart or cleaver or creative as I'd like to be. A pity. I think I'm fucked up enough that if my art was really something, enough to get the attention of the experts, they would have a field day trying to figure me out. Hmmm, reminds me of a poem I wrote:

 

History

 

In this life

 each shadow has been broken,

shattered— if you will— into a billion,

or perhaps a trillion insignificant pieces.

Far too many,

too, too many jagged shards to ever piece

together into one coherent thought or— if

you will again— one singular existence.

 

For instance: archeologists, not yet born,

would have fun trying to sort it all out,

“One unhappy childhood here,

a piece of broken heart there...

Hmmm, a memory! Sitting at sunset

watching twilight gain momentum!

What does it all mean?”

 

History is not written down but lived, breathed,

shaped by circumstance and happenstance—

a drunken dance down darkened alleyways,

my frayed pants bunched around my knees

upon my legs a breeze, my manly hood

exposed in all it’s glory— but that’s another story.

 

My past

a labyrinth of crooked paths that thoughtless feet

have traipsed upon in muddy boots and high heel shoes.

Scarred by love, hope, dope fiend fingered scratches.

This one’s long amber hair. That one’s poisonous stare

which curdled bone and heart. This one’s inner thighs

like silk and fleshy Hershey Bars— the stars at night,

the moon so bright our shadows melted into galaxies,

perpetual lust that churned midnight into dawn...

and on and on it goes until it stops!

 

Until it finally stops! Once and forever.

Mush-muddled memories French kissed to death

by a Mack truck reality, a fantasy car jack,

a head on collision that welds the two together

the bare naked truths and half clothed lies,

unable to distinguish now between an absolute fact,

an extravagant but all so minor pulpy fiction.

 

And if by chance I am (for better or for worse)

found out to be  more mortal than immortal,

if by chance my solid flesh does melt

like ice cream on a summer day,

what shall the others say of me

when I (at last!) do shed this misery,

when dust reclaims the  dust,

when thought turns sour,

when those hours left no longer matter,

when this matter doesn’t matter anymore,

and Einstein’s cosmic Relativity

no longer seems quite… relative?

What will they say? “Oh, Him!

Yes, him! Afraid, I didn’t know

him will... or ever cared to.”

Woodie 4-16-09



 

 

 

 

 

 



 

TheDaily (W)Rite October 2o15 WK o3

Friday, October 16, 2o15 6:00am
You know what it's like, what it feels like in your mind, inside and out of your body? I hope you do because if you don't, if you are one of those well wired individual human . . . things

that always falls into a deep sleep at 10pm every night . . . I don't have any desire to try and explain insomnia to you. My head feels like someone stuck a giant, wet sponge inside it
. . . my thoughts all squishy, waterlogged, I'm suffering from Moby Dick of the mind. I'm my own white whale and the dry land of dreams is so far off . . . I can't seem to find its shoreline. But don't worry about me. Sleep will soon, or perhaps later, web sling me to that peaceful, sandy beach where yawns and stretching prepare us for the nightly death.

Suppose to wake David up at 9:30am. I guess we're going to a movie. He's so full of energy since he got back from his visit with his father in Las Vegas, Nevada. I don't know where he got it. I guess everything that happens in Vegas doesn't necessarily stay in Vegas.

Anyway, if I'm at all lucky, I'll get to bed by six. That'll give me three and a half hours worth of sleepy-bye. No sweats. I've done this before. Three and a half hours is enough to get me through the day. Yeah, it'll be fine. Besides, if the movie sucks, I can always doze off during the movie. The warren has the most comfortable chairs ever. AH! A yawn! Won't be long now.

11:30pm
Have you ever experienced one of those days when the world slows down . . .? Gravity loosens it's grasp on you, the body, my body feels lighter than usual, anorexia of the flesh, the spirit of the flesh floats within its confines, bouncing off the ribcage, ricocheting towards the human steeple, I mean the skull, which when softly thumped by a wandering thought makes a dull, hollow church-bell sound . . . pong!

As we drive toward the Warren Theatre to see Crimson Peak, I'm told by David's son, Michael that the gravity on Mars is significantly weaker than the gravity that Earth beats us down with every single moment of existence. That's why a 200 mile an hour wind storm on Mars feels like a gentle,
summer breeze, or the
whispery breath emitted from a sleeping baby. That's how I felt today, like I was on Mars
. . . those turbulences that invade my mind, that sledgehammer into minuscule shards of cellulite any thought, any form of human reason that my mind might believe contains a simple thread of truth . . . it melts away, the hammer, the chisel of gravitational imprisonment, and my mind, yes, my whole body, my spirit (if there is such a thing), the all of me both mental and physical is free to enjoy life without the natural pull of the Earth. And for those insignificant moments that it takes for David to park the car and for us to get out and walk towards the Warren's entrance, I feel as if I might . . . just might live forever.
Saturday, October 17, 2o15

Here's what I think writing poetry is all about. Ready? Dumpster diving. Yeah, pretty much. Writers dig through all the garbage he has produced in a lifetime. What about other people? Yes, I know, a lot of folks believe that writers don' write about themselves, they write about other people. And yes, other people do supply a ton of worthless crap that writers can turn into . . . more crap that's just as equally useless . . . but to do that, to write effectively about others' crap, you must first make their crap YOUR crap. A great writer, a magical artist, the Wizard of Writery can make people believe that this recycled mind feces is not worthless at all. My point is--if there is one--is that it's all just shit, crap, nonsense, if you will. Nothing is worth writing about because nothing is far more interesting than all the crappy crap we lay on people and that people lay on us.


Sunday, October 18, 2o15
David's driving too damned fast. I grip the back seat with my hands, exhaling like banner does when he just starts to  turn Hulk. "Slow down man." I say it forcefully. Not knowing that I was even going to say it. "Your going to mess up the engine." That's Michael in the front sit. His father, David, seems to get the hint and the car slows down to a reasonable 45 miles an hour. Why don't people listen to me? Why is it always someone else that people listen to?
My hands rub away at my jeans. Then suddenly, they flutter up onto the laptop and pick away at the keys. Words appear, some of them spelled right some of them not. My fingers ignore the line that appears under the non-word "apeard." The bright serrated. blood-red line shouts at them to STOP, STOP THIS INSTANT! and they do, like children who just got caught misbehaving, they stop in mid-misbehavement and slither back to rubbing my legs. They pout sometimes, my hands, my fingers. I wish my writing could make it rain. A solid, thick rain would be nice. My hands long for the weather to change. Their desire to write is always heightened when it rains.

I miss the presence of another person. The sound a woman makes when sleeping. Her voice, I remember her voice, that thick English accent always sounded like I was getting graded no matter what the topic of conversation. My face is frowning as I write this. I don't like being graded. I think I got an F as a boyfriend. I should of at least gotten a passing grade . . . C- for effort, at least. I mean, I tried to be an adequate lover. I just wasn't good at it is all. Not my fault. I never learned how to love another person. My family, mother and father, were very self-serving. They never loved me or showed me how I might  . . . love another. Bad luck for me, I guess . . . and all the girlfriends that wasted their time on me.

Monday, 19, 2o15
Some things are simple, easy, no effort. Depression sneaks in on little wet waves of memory . . . memory . . . memories wear soft shoes that cover big toe like images, which are often enough illusions, less substance than the thick gravy that reality spoons us. I think I'm having a love affair with depression. A fickle, rather bloody relationship. Me, always me, wanting her to leave . . . JUST LEAVE! But when she's gone . . . how I miss her presence.

The concessions guy smiles, "Hey! Back again?" I nod and sigh. Fourth movie in about 7 days! He looks at me trying, no doubt, to figure me out. Why would anyone go to four movies in a week's time? I wonder too. But creative philosophy is not my strongest attribute.

Wednesday, October 21, 2o15
Lifting the weight over my head 3o times x 3. Atlas shrugs, he asks himself what's the point? Why not just let go, let God's gravity deal with this giant snot-ball that seems
to become heavier every ten million years or so. Star dust is just that. The dust of a billion suns, allergies  . . . the Big Bang Theory. All lies told to simple brains that wag their stems when ever He approaches. I'm not sure if this existence is much of a life or am I somewhere in the ash cloud dreaming that I live? You hips slam against mine, you grunt each time . . . the same sound I make as I try to sit-up my way to a skinny, flat bellied future. One day at a time. I live each moment one day at a time.

1:51am
It's almost 2am. I should be off to bed soon. As soon as the over the counter sleeping pill I took an hour ago kicks in. I wish I had more to write. Wisdom. That would be nice. I could tell you all, tell you all . . . that which you never knew you knew. We were born with all that we needed to live good, productive lives. Unfortunately, on the day we vacated our mother's insides, all that knowledge vanished from our minds. That's why the doctor slaps us on the ass . .  to knock out all the thoughts we had gathered up during our nine months in captivity.  Everything lost. And it's our job, our destiny to spend our time on this Earth relearning all we can, reclaim all that which was stolen from us because of some careless doctor. Doc, next time you feel that urge to beat the sense out of someone, pull down your pants and smack your own ass. {smiles}

 

The Daily (W)Rite October o8, 2o15 WK o2

Norman-town, Thursday, October o8, 2o15

On this beautiful fall morning (yes, I said morning! Hard to believe, isn't it?), David and me rolled over to the Westboro Baptist Fair! You know how David LOVES his fairs. Unfortunately, it was rather . . . disappointing? You had your Westboro folks on one side of a barrier singing their songs to old, very old rock songs and holding up their "HATE" signs. One sign's statement forced me to ponder its meaning: "GOD HATES OK" If God had ...actually been here when Trump was in town, I could understand His holy indignation. Then there were the anti-Westboro people, about fifty feet or so away from the barrier (Some rather intimidating police folks guarded that DMZ, if you will, with savage, suspicious eyes.), and this group was . . . well, very "activist wholesome . . ." if there is such a phrase. They smiled a lot and sang a lot and laughed a lot, usually all their frivolity was aimed at the Westboro people who looked both stern and . . .sort of bored. They looked like they wish they were somewhere else, doing something . . . more productive? One cute WBCer carried a "Love Thy Neighbor Equals Rebuke" sign in her right hand while she busily shouted abuses (which I couldn't hear) at the wholesome group and  shooting off a text to some unknown entity  with her left hand! I could NEVER do that! I wonder who(m?) she was texting?! Anyway, there were also some TV folk with cameras and such . . . they seemed almost as disappointed as me. No yelling, really . . . no fights breaking out, no police clubbing unruly protesters from either side of the . . . issue? I don't even know what the hell this protest . . . excuse me . . . this FAIR was about!

Driving from the "protest" I watch the sidewalks fill up with pretty girls and mountain bikes. In a hurry they all seem to be as the steer quite professionally around the slow moving backpacking walkers. Where are they all headed? Why of course. They're headed for class, the last day for learning this week because everyone will be heading off to Texas for the Red River Showdown. A yearly event that I never attended when in school at OU. And it hits me as a watch some guy in a bike helmet riding what appears to be . . . motorized roller skates?! It hits me. I miss being in school.

Saturday, October 1o, 2o15
A bit of a fall inspired breeze last night at Art Walk. Brought out a whole bunch of other "art lovers" to walk the street between galleries and restaurants and tattoo parlors and various art and crafters on the streets selling their wear from the top of long, portable table-clothed tables, the kind you find in grade schools, and the food trucks! The new fast food, hot chili dishes, BBQ sandwiches, Thai and Chinese  . . . the spicy perfume of cooked meats and rice . . . alluring, yes but the Christmas lights wrapped  around the Elm trees that line have just been lighted and our feet begin to slow down a bit because it is getting darker. But there's a loveliness to this darkness that is peppered by the amber light radiating from the windows of the antique shops just a block down the street from the shadow musician playing the Sitar, cross-legged on a rug, black, black hair on top of his bowed head his fingers picking lively at the steel strings . . . The antique store that he squats in front of captures my attention. So much stuff to look at, a beautiful junkyard of candlestick holders, ornate picture frames smothered in a gentle dust. And books, old books, the edges of their pages a yellowish-brown, a rocking chair for a child made of whicker, I think, holds a jack-o'-lantern in it's lap..  And goodness! Mirrors, large, golden framed  mirrors, on the walls, on the floor. One tall, thin mirror fastened securely to an antique dressing table, stares directly at me, and I with a fast defensive gesture raise my camera up to my chest and . . . click.

  Monday, October 12, 2o15
October breathing in deep, exhaling a cold rush of breath that force the early autumn leaves to tap dance across the crack asphalt street. Buchanan Ave. shivers a bit, Othello's wraps itself up in the warm sun streaking through its windows. But the breeze, even as ornery as it is to David's white-straw cowboy hat, is a blessing, a cool prayer that my body has wished for all summer long.

Happily orange and green, the pumpkin patch plopped down in the grassy part of the church parking lot has nothing but smiles, autumn leaf smiles to offer the children and adults who take the time to stroll about the neat, sturdy piles of  pumpkin bodies. I take a ton of pictures of the massive patch as David stands on a sidewalk contemplating the meaning of a red sign stuck in the side of a aging hay bale, Pumpkins Priced by Size. No telling what he makes of that, but I'm sure whatever he's thinking it probably has little to do with pumpkins. {smile}

Wednesday, October 15, 2o15

Didn't get as much writing  completed on the blog. At least, not as much as I wanted. Summer is a mean and stubborn time of year. here it is October in Norman-town and the Oklahoma sun is just biting at us. Yes, autumn tries its best to comfort us with a cool breeze roaming through the elms, the giant oaks, the blackjack trees. My mom use do the same sort of thing whenever I burnt my hand as a kid . . . blow on it. The true being her breath was so warm that it caused the burn to hurt even more! But the idea of my mother's large hands cradling my injury and gently blowing on it, trying to relieve my pain . . . was at the least, comforting. Autumn is like a mother who tries as best she can to relieve the pain caused by a heartless father who's only desire is to be noticed. The Oklahoma sun can be  a ruthless demon whose only pleasure is the suffering he causes others.

The Daily (W)Rite October 2o15 WK o1

Friday, October o2, 2015 4am
It's late or early. It really depends on your point of few. From where I sit it's late. October started off joyously for me. I mean, it's fall and Halloween is in the air. But something happened on the first day of October that sort of knocked the crap out of any holiday cheer I may have had. I'll write about it tomorrow . . . or actually, later on today. {smiles}

2:25pm

Yesterday, waking up about 10:30 or so, turned on the computer, poured coffee and sat down to watch a little morning news . . . and there it was . . . . another school shooting. Another small, out of the way town  this time in Oregon. The target this time Umpqua Community College. Some punk ass in a flak jacket, equipped with some kind of assault rifle and a handgun . . . and a shit load of ammo walks into one of the many buildings. I'm guessing he starts asking students he runs into in the hallway, "Are you Christian?" If the answer was no, he'd shoot the student in the leg. If the answer was yes, BAM! A shot to the head. This goes on awhile until a SWAT team shows up more heavily armed than the punk and . . . BAM! He's done. I don't think they asked him if he was Christian or not.

And then the circus begins. MSNBC is already allover the story, local news station helicopters are in the air, but the police are tight lipped about everything: how many dead, how many wounded? In Particular, the beefy Highway Patrol captain didn't want to talk about the shooter. "I will at no time mention the killer's name. I don't want any attention paid to him, news people, I don't want some other nut out there to get any ideas." I listened to this guy and I'm thinking . . . he's watched way too many Harry Potter movies, "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
But MSNBC doesn't care about any of this nonsense. They have a job to do. Soon the broadcast room is filled with experts of all kind saying the usual bullshit, "He was obviously a disturbed young fellow." "This is the NRA's fault! We need better gun control laws!" "No, we need LESS laws and more GUNS!" I sort of give up on it. And President Obama seems to be of like mind. He does make a statement, but it's mostly, "What the hell you want me to do about it? I can't do anything." He does say more than that . . . but pretty much that's what he meant. I think he was as frustrated with the whole situation as I was.

11:05pm

 Saturday, October o3, 2o15
Sinus flair up. A frigging explosion in my nasal cavity. Can't breath through my nose, last night couldn't sleep the pain was so thick. A giant snail crawling up into my left nostril. And on top of the infection,, just a angry day for me. These Mass Murders really get to me. And the response by public officials, "stuff happens." "Nothing we can do about it." Oh, my favorite quotes comes from Rubio, "Gun laws would be a waste of time because criminals don't pay attention to laws that's what makes them  criminals." I do not know how anyone with a bit of conscious, patriotism could ever vote for any of these guys.

One last post on this subject:

Sunday, October o4, 2o15
Took the day to get this stuff out of my head. To tell you the truth, it's not all gone yet. Man, I get all wrapped up in knots thinking about these "things." But I nice bike ride this afternoon, lunch at the Garage by myself, and stopping now and then to take a few pics helped purge me of these obsessive thoughts.

I love Norman-town on a Sunday afternoon. So quiet, peaceful on Main St. hardly a person out and about, just me and my many reflections in the shop windows . . . most of them closed. Old town Norman, no work on a Sunday.

But a few places are open and I stop for awhile, walk through the bars and antique shops that I find open for business. So many things to see, downtown. I walk pushing my bike along (need to get some air in the back tire) saying hi to the few people out and about. And then it's time to go home . . .

well not quite. I decide to go down to The Corner for a milkshake. Some old guy in a Jimi Hendrix t-shirt and his buddies stop me. "You takin' pictures? You should get a couple of that flower car." I look where is pointing and, yes, thee is a little car (don't know the make) covered in flowers! Someone did a hell of a retro paint job on it. Jimi Hendrix t-shirt, flowerchild painting . . . for a moment I thought I was  . . . back in the day! Didn't take a picture of the car. It disappeared down the street too fast. I did get this pic on the left of a motorcyclist leaving the Starbucks . . . I finished my shake and headed home. It was a good day. I almost forgot the horror of Umpqua. But not all of it. So, no smiles today. Maybe tomorrow.

Wednesday, October o7, 2o15
Last day in the week. I didn't write a much as I wanted to write on the blog this week. I'm guessing I didn't want to go on anymore than I did about the Oregon murders. Okay, I DID go on about Mass Murder much to

all my friends' regret. It hit me hard, jumped into my head and just wouldn't come out except onto the page or in memes and cartoons.

Up all night . . . again. I'm sure the sunlight will wear out my eyes before too long. I hope not, though. I don't want to sleep. I wanna write all day, and all night. But that's not going to happen. I'll run out of words soon. I can already feel my brain shutting down, deflating like the tires on my bike. I need to take it out for some air. My bike. But  I won't.

David got back yesterday. We're thinking about going to a movie today. But pretty much I don't think I'll be awake! It's getting hard not to just stop right now and go sleepy bye. In fact, I think I well. Goodnight, good morning, good afternoon, dear reader. Time to pay the dream-keeper. {smiles}