The Daily {W}Rite April 2o16 WK o3

Saturday, April 16, 2o16

I've heard that the universe continues to expand, galaxies are moving away from us here on the Earth, rapidly leaving us in their cosmic dust. I can feel it pulling away from me, from me in particular. It's a personal grudge, I suppose. I have never been overly kind or concerned with the feelings of the universe.  So, it's fair that should get even by moving on, taking with it tiny bits of my . . . self. Some of  it physical. That pull of universe is what causes the wrinkles in an old man's face, the deletion of muscle mass that forces him to walk stooped over, His dependencyon a long piece of carved wood, or metal, or plastic to keep him from sinking even deeper into the Earth. Also, this acceleration of the Big Bye-Bye is what causing my memory to go. Yes, nothing left behind as the universe moves on, it must take my memory with it, leaving me here trying to remember  . . . well, it takes that too, the desire to even try to remember what life was like, what it might be, what it could be. And I'll close my eyes one day and think that maybe I'll dream up my past, I'll find my  whole history there behind closed eyes. But I'm sure I'll find nothing but that nothingness that has always frightened me.

A few years back I wrote this poem that I just found again last night. Something posted on Facebook made me think of it. Couldn't remember the name . . . but I did find it. Want to see? Please, don't say no because I'm posting it anyway.

Stone Butter

We were stone . . . once.

Or at least, we pretended to be.
For butter was far too soft, you see,
we’d never survive the heat
the raw looks, the pinches and punches
that nasty old summer administers.

Yes, stone it is to be for sure.

Much, better than butter unless,
of course, you chose to be toast.
You can butter toast, but cruel stone
will refuse to change its shape
no matter the kind of bread you bake.

We were monsters too . . . once. 

Monsters that ate gravel and grit
and sand the color of fine wine.

With time, though, we lost the will to growl

and screech and gobble up the world,
we lost ourselves  became again
that which once we skipped across the pond,
or used to beat each other down.
We did not choose to be stone
but we were, quite sadly, destined to be so.
Woodie o4-12-13 (rewrites) o7-28-14

Tuesday, April 19, 2o16

The rain pays very little attention to me, that crazy old guy in apartment #4 who stares out the window watching the kamikaze young raindrops splashing down on Trout Avenue. So many of them dying on cold asphalt, some of them forming small lakes in the potholes, others bombing the lawn making mud puddles for me to walk across tomorrow morning. I better not wear my best Chucks.

My sister's son-in-law goes into surgery tomorrow for a triple bypass operation. Heavy duty scare time for my niece and her kids. I told sis I'd go with her to the hospital to do the family watch thing. It turns out that the surgery will take about five hours, and my sister was kind enough to suggest I not come along. I'm a little ashamed about saying, "Yeah, maybe I should stay home." But I really didn't want to sit in a hospital for five hours.

Ten o'clock at night and it's still raining. I'm listening to my Ike and Tina Turner CD, drinking coffee, chomping on some nicotine gum. Yeah, I don't smoke anymore but now I'm addicted to the nicotine gum. I'm finally getting some writing done on the blog which would be good news IF it wasn't for the fact that I should be writing on my birthday poem. Writing on the blog is my excuse for not getting more work done on it. And now I'm sort of tired of writing even on these few stories. What kind of writer am I? A writer who doesn't really feel much like writing. What kind of writer is that?

Wednesday, April 2o, 2o16

A commercial jet, a clear blue sky, the light just right at 2 p.m. There are those moments when you see something that for some reason or other fills your imagination (spirit, if I may say) with a sense beautiful awe.  David's wanting to open the trunk of the car but all my stuff is sitting on top of it as I hurriedly take the camera out of its bag and get four beautiful shots of the plane as it heads towards . . . where? I don't know. Who's on it . . .? I haven't a clue but for some reason it all seems so important, it feels necessary to dream about it while standing there watching that big ass airliner climb higher and higher into the sky.

Sprouts, Sushi Wednesday. About the only thing I actually like about Sprouts. Hell, I don't even know what type of Sushi I picked up! Doesn't matter. I love Sushi!

I'm going to see Waiting for Godot with Michael and David Friday night at the Old Science Hall. A little nervous about it. Don't really want to see anybody. Not interested in small talk with theatre folk. But there's really no worry about that happening 'cause I've been gone quite a while. And I do want to see Beckett again. I wish I could act or direct again . . . but . . . that's not going to happen. I invented me a Beckett like phrase that's going into my B-day poem. You know about th B-day poem I write for myself each year. No? Well, on May 23, you can see the latest one. Here's a little taste:

So it begins and ends, as it begins and ends
again and again—

Bend, stretch, shape the darkness that digests me

into something, a something, into some “thing” more comfortable.
A dream, perhaps, whatever that might mean, a dream, perhaps,
a dreamy dream, perhaps, one my consciousness can crawl inside of.