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}