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
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
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