Daily {W}Rite January 2o16 WK o4

Well, I sure started off the last week of writing for this first month of 2o16 with a whimper. I didn't get off the "sleeping" couch until 2 p.m. Okay, I need to get my sleep cycle under control. Man, staying up until five or six in the morning is not working for me. I want to get back to waking UP at 6 a.m. not going to bed then. I miss jumping out of the sack, taking a shower and going out onto the porch to watching the day begin.

And what makes things worse, David is off visiting his father. He'll be in Arizona (no, stupid, he went to Las Vegas, Nevada) for ten days or so. Again, MAN! David is my life line to the outside world. Yeah, he also drives me everywhere too. Without him around, I'm apartment locked, you know, like the phrase: land locked. I gotta start motivating myself to get the hell off the computer and OUT into the wide awake world! Damn, I'm wasting too much daylight, sleeping it away. Need to stop this nonsense now (he said at 4:30 a.m.).

Saturday, January 23, 2o16

My head seems to be thick with winter fog today. Hard to find a thought worth repeating onto the blank page. Blank page. My head is a blank, or maybe it dreams itself a question mark. A question mark? More answer for sure than there are questions . . . but we tend to worry about the order of consciousness  because we are told that the question always comes before the answer. You can't know a thing until you emphatically ask, "What the HELL is THAT?!" Names. everything living and dead needs a name. A name glued to your shirt when you enter a room filled with strangers, "Hello, my name is Woodie." A name printed on your underwear with indelible ink by you mother . . . never understood that. Was I going to lose my underwear . . . while wearing it? A tombstone must have a name: Here lies Robert Woods, Robert R. Woods, Robert Ray Woods, or maybe just Woodie, or even better . . . .
UNKNOWN. What an inspiring name! UNKNOWN. People, stranger people would stop and look at that! "UNKNOWN!" They'd mumble to themselves, "Who's that under the grassy knoll? A soldier, a bank robber, a famous actor . . .?" Sometimes a name makes the man; sometimes the man makes the name. "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet?" I don't know about that. Call a rose Shithead or Toe Jam it would effect the olfactory organ . . . as well as one's sense of taste.

Sunday, January 24, 2o16
Again, consciousness let me sleep in longer than I intended. But it arrived much earlier than on other days. When I finally got up (around 10:30 or so), I worked a bit on my Top 10/10 Movie List for 2o15. Didn't get a lot done, only two movies reviewed out of the twenty. I'm not writing full reviews on any, but it does seem to be harder to get anything down this year. But I'm determined to get it ALL done tomorrow. I was suppose to go to the movies with my sister tomorrow, but she wasn't feeling well so we postponed it.

A bit deep into the depression today. No big thing just the regular cycle. The regular crap crawling up from the mind cellar to raise a little hell with my self-esteem. I gotta give up the worry, the sadness, the ghostly memories that keep haunting my daytime and night time dreams. But some memories get etched into the ol' gray, and there seems to be no way of cutting them out or sanding them down just enough so that the thought of them is  harmless. I'm afraid they are there forever a permanent stain that no amount of bleach can make white again.

DAMN, I need to get out of the house, I think. I can't depend on others to force me out, push me out . . . I need to do it myself. Be my own best friend, my own sibling. Hard to do, though. Too Easy to just sit here in the gloom, to sit here and wait for night to come along and sweep me up into a sleepy pile of dreams . . . And when day arrives again? The same as the day before . . . and the day before that . . . reruns. My life has become a reruns. No laugh track, nothing but the quiet rush of air in and out of my lungs. My heartbeat is nothing more than a dull murmur these days. I give up the ghost of memory everyday. Unfortunately, the ghost won't give up on me.

Tuesday, January 26, 2o16

I took a dose of sleeping pill just about two hours ago . . . not working. So, I'm up until they kick in, until my eyes finally decide they've seen enough for the night . . . or morning.  I gotta figure out how I can get to the store tomorrow. Need some nicotine gum. Oh, man. I'm way too aware how dependent I've become on the kindness (and combustion driven transportation) of my friends.

But as sleep deprived as my spirit is I still have to smile a bit. I'm rather happy and energetic . . . enough to write a bit on the blog, anyway. I wish I had more to talk about in these blogs. It'd be nice to say something . . . profound. I know it's all an ego thingy . . . but it would be nice that I could say something that might . . . change someone's life after they read it. Yeah, I know, I know. A bit narcissistic.

A narcissistic sociopath is someone with a combination of narcissistic personality disorder and definitive behavioral signs of sociopathy. People with narcissism are characterized by their excessive and persistent need for others’ admiration and positive reinforcement. They generally have grandiose opinions of themselves and believe they are superior to other people. Narcissists are also frequently convinced that they are above the normal responsibilities and obligations of everyday life, so they usually have significant difficulties maintaining employment or relationships as a result. The narcissistic sociopath has this type of personality along with a noticeable lack of regard for the rights of others and a tendency to regularly violate those rights. -Truthlover5.com.

Okay, so maybe I'm not that bad. {smiles} But it would be nice to be able to help somebody, be worth something to someone else. I'm working on a new poem. This is just the rough draft:

Evening creeps up on the late afternoon,

a strangle hold around the dying light,
the clouds crowd out the last bit of blue sky.

In for the night is the sparrow's song.

And I don't suppose the crows care at all.
To them the world is always dark winged,
they scratch and claw through, the hollow scream
that the early morning train whistle makes
as it marks the territory for its angry freight.

I wish for more summer on my breath,

less frost on my leaves, my fingers’  death
carve shadows on the misted windowpanes.

But the coffee’s brewing.

There’s a rattlesnake rumble crawling
from the space-heater.

I sniffle a bit, my noses itches
envious of those whose allergies
have vacated the vicinity,
their personal space unfettered, or
at least, until a fresh spring arrives.

2:19 p.m.

I miss being in school. I miss the philosophical debates we used to have in some coffee house close to campus. I miss the sound of angry voices trying to make their points, cigarette ash flung across the tables as animate hands express their ideas about politics or religion or economy or art! It doesn't matter what the topic; I just mess the interaction with other people, the battle of wills between opposing forces. I found it to be exciting, fun and exhausting. And it can be enlightening. I mean, you can learn a lot about yourself and the other person when you are in that verbal fight for metaphoric life.

But these day, people are only out to WIN an argument. They don't learn anything because their minds are closed. They are right and, by God, nobody better say they are wrong! We've sort of taken the fun, the joy out of arguing. We get way too angry, too authoritarian, too addicted to the sound of our own voices.

Awhile back I watched a science show where Stephen Hawking defined existence of the universe as having started with the Big Bang, and that NOTHING existed BEFORE the Big Bang. "Therefore," he concluded, "there is no God." Weeeeeeell, I really thought that was somewhat arrogant. So, I wrote a poem to argue MY point of vie

Science

There are large islands of autumn leaves drowning

the driveway... cars rush by changing the physical
formations of all those burnt orange, dying things.
The Big Swoosh in action... nature selection changing
its underwear in a very public fashion.

It may well be the Big Bang Theory (that our twenty-first

century thinkers just love to gossip about) was nothing more
than a simple sneeze from God’s enormous snout. I’ve heard,
from reliable sources, it’s one of His best tricks, along with
burning bushes and angels with fire retardant wings and
pear trees that bear fresh, green fruits of original sin.

Charlton Heston stood on the mountain top
watching us drink wine and scurry about  

like drunken ants. Why didn’t he just turn around
and flee back up the path yelling and screaming to
God, “take me, take me now!”. I guess, like the rest of us,
he believed that life—no matter how filthy and disgusting,
how silly and dangerous, how broken and sad it can be—
is better than a heaven where’s there not much to do  
all day but pray... and occasionally sing... with the locals.

When I was twelve, science made it simple, “Don’t you dare

eat chocolate! It will give you pimples!"

At thirty-five science said, “We lied! Go ahead,

eat all the chocolate you want... just don’t have sex."

If science got chocolate.. and sex... wrong, how

can I trust Stephen’s mechanical whispers shouting,
“THERE... IS... NO... GOD...”
Woodie 11-17-12

Wednesday, January 27, 2o16

What an adventure. Got up early . . .well, okay . . . early for me. Got dressed (semi-warm), and almost ran to the Duck Pond to catch (I was hoping) a bus to Walmart! Yes, I was on my own, man against nature, against the mean streets of Norman, Oklahoma. Okay, maybe not that dangerous . . . BUT . . . I was on my own, going somewhere by myself . . . it was frightening! Anyway, found the right bus, and charged onto it like it was Bunker Hill and I was a lone soldier of fortune looking for . . .

Me: How close to Walmart east can you get me.

Bus Driver: (eyeing ME suspiciously) I'll drop you right across the street! Fare is seventy-five cents. (pause) Are you a senior citizen?
Me: (smiles) Yes. Yes, I am.
Bus Driver: (Even more cautious) Well, if you have an ID that says that, you can ride for thirty-five cents.

I chose not to show my ID. I was too excited to take the time to pull my wallet out and show her I was old. I just wanted to get on the road! Hit the street! My head was already filled with images of Billy and Captain America on their Harleys singing, "Born to be wiiiiiiild" as they headed down the open road to discover America! I grabbed the closest seat, and we were on our waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay! And then . . . the bus broke down less than a half a block from where we started! Fuck! And the image of Billy and his bike crashed on the side of some hillbilly road, and Captain A.'s bike burning like a bond fire in a cow pasture . . . flooded my mind with despair.

Thursday, January 28, 2o16
Me: (cheerfully) Hey! You gotta  new truck!
Bus Driver: (Stoic) You mean bus?
Me: Yeah, I meant bus. So, did the other one break down again?
Bus Driver: Yes, it did. (pause)
Me: Oh, well . . .  (sheepishly finds a seat and sits down)

Often enough I try to make contact with the other beings who populate this place . . . this ground. It never works out well for me. I mean, I think I'm doing all the right things . . . I smile . . . I talk to them with a bit of laughter in my voice . . . proving that I mean no harm . . . but it seldom works. Sometimes I feel too alien. Sometimes I think that all this emptiness, all this lack of connection with others has turned me into something so foreign that no one I make contact with can recognize that I'm human . . . or at least,  that I once was a breathing, loving, feeling human being.

It makes no sense to me. I'm invisible to everybody, even to my friends. . . or if I'm not totally invisible, I'm at least transparent, a plastic wrap version of a man, a gust of dusty wind that's barely noticed by the trees, the grass, those humanoid shrubberies that walk about on flesh and bone legs. Pompous bastards.

Friday, January 29, 2o16

A winter's day, seventy degrees outside. The walk to the student union pleasant enough though the sidewalk  bordering Felgar Street is a little rough on my tennis shoes. My feet ache softly. There's a few dead leaves still clinging to their branches. A stiff but not unpleasant wind rips at them. They swing violently but can’t be torn away from home. Stubborn little bastards. Don't know when to give it up.

A sea of backpacks, students rushing to get lunch, a coffee maybe, before the next class. You have to be watchful, blend into the rush of bodies as fast as you can or be trampled by the stampeding youths in  jogging shorts, blue jeans, OU sweatshirts. It doesn't pay to be old. There's no "Pardon me sir" as they shove you, push you into the human river.

A senseless emptiness overwhelms me as I drop the bills into the post office inbox. I'm running out of the strength to take it all in. Understand it all. The shouts of music bouncing off the walls from the radio station housed in the union. And the students jabbering at each at the same frantic rate of speed that they walk at. I can't understand a word they say, even the ones speaking English . . . it all seems foreign to me, a mushy garble of syllables and vowels spoken at a frequency only dogs can hear. I don't belong here anymore, no more than those leaves on the trees lining Felgar Street belong here, in this time.

Sunday, January 31, 2o16
A blur of black and white, white and black. My eyes see but the brain can't seem to grasp the images being sent to it. No sound to help  . . . just an off beat clattering . . .clank, clank, clankity sound, and the bubbling murmur of . . . of . . . human things . . . talking? Yes, talking. It takes a few moments for thought and sight to get in sync with each other . . . there's something slightly warm in my hands . . . a Styrofoam cup of coffee! I'm sitting in a booth at the Old School Bagel Shop, sipping lukewarm  coffee and looking out the window at the traffic on Main Street. Hence, the black and white blur. The reason I can't hear the sound of rushing traffic . . . I'm inside, a thick bay window mutes the sounds of tires on asphalt, that whoosh!  speeding cars make.

The burger  at the Garage feel apart in my hands. But I'm hungry. A fork will do the trick. Mmmm, warm burger, cool avocado, lettuce, tomato, crisp bacon. Fuck it! The fork doesn't work, but my hands do . . .

David and I head for the car. "Look at that!" I squeal, a bit more of a girlish than I like people to hear. Fortunately, there's no one But David around, and when he sees it he lets out an astonished, "WOW!"

The sun's down going down on Main St. The dying light hits some windows (facing west) on the building's second floor, the reflection bounces off the windows and lands smack on the face of a brick wall across the street. Nice shot. I didn't know the sun was a pool hustler. Fast Eddie Felsen's got nothing on the universe.

We jump in the car and park down the street from the "sign from God." I grab my camera (hoping that I got enough battery left to get the shot) as David starts up the street toward the lights! Click, Click, Click! Man I get some great shots. Sort of made a rather uneventful day seem somehow . . . more important. Yes, I'm depressed and angry with the world today . . . but . . . this makes the rest of this awful time on Earth seem somewhat worthwhile.

And so ends this week's blog of gibberish. Yes, it's gibberish. Everything I write doesn't make sense. It doesn't even begin to explain the nasty mood I've been in this week. Hell, this whole year! But it does give me a tiny sliver of hope to hang onto. And that's enough to keep me waking up each morning. And I'll keep waking up, getting up, fighting the overpowering sense of natural gravity that drags at my body every moment of the day . . .and night. So, don't worry about me. I'm fine. Hey, I did write a poem some years ago that illustrates my point of view when it comes to ending this consciousness prematurely. Maybe my poems say more about me than my blog does. Or maybe my blog is starting to take the form of a poem. Hmmm, something else for me to worry about. {smiles}

'Tis True

'Tis true, 'tis true,

I am by nature an impatient man
demanding of my dreams, "show thyself!"
long before I’ve fallen off to sleepy-land!
I often sit a twiddling my thumbs
at an extremely agitated rate
or pace the floor and adjust my coat
while filling the air with unquotable quotes
when she decides to keep my spirits waiting.
What’s with all this hesitating?
She doesn’t see my agitation?
Can't she hear my mournful cries
belittling the darkest nights
while longing for her presence to arrive?

'Tis true, 'tis true,

mere blasphemy, some would say,
my cursing her and scorning her then all the day
hoping soon she'll smile my way.

But I'm a complicated sort of guy

who doesn't always try to reason why,

why this old world spins perpetually slower

when it comes to my desires.

Maybe I should retire from it all
with'a swift slit to the wrist!
No, that would be quite painful and harmful
to all those friends . . . who pretend to like me.

"Tis true, 'tis all true,

I love my misery far too much to give it up.
A dark, dank grave with no one to mourn
except those featherless crows, who heaven knows,
have forgotten the meaning of flight? No, not I!

But I have lost my train of thought. Where was I?

Perhaps I should take my dog for a walk
and clear this morbid rhyme from my mind.
Yes! I could walk my dog . . .  if I had one.
Woodie 5-23-08