BIRTHDAY MONTH 2o16 WK o2

I'm wondering where's the rain that the weather girl promised me this morning. She did much more than just forecast the weather. She did her best to scare the shit out of her viewers wanting them, no doubt, to take the damn weather seriously. But not a drop of wet. A brisk wind shook violently the leaves on the elm tress that line Trout Avenue, but even that wasn't much. In her defense she isn't forecasting the weather just for Norman-town, she's covering the whole state and I suppose it must be raining somewhere in Oklahoma just not here.

Started writing poetry about 2oo4- o5. Yeah I had written some before that but I didn't get "serious" until the 21st century while living in Las Vegas, NM. A lot of the stuff I wrote there was in the moment type stuff. You know, whatever was going on at the time I was actually writing. I think they call the style "stream of consciousness." Basically, you just start writing whatever is going on in your mind at the time and you write and write and write in one session until you just can't help but put the pen down. Then you let it rest for a week or two, go back and clean it up a bit because stream of consciousness writing can be pretty messy. Sometimes, when I go back in to clean it up, it's in such bad shape that I can't even tell what the hell I was trying to write about. Anyway, I'm in my BIRTHDAY MONTH and I'm realizing that ALL the poetry I've written has pretty much NOT been stream of consciousness, in the moment, but stories about my past! Ain't that funny? Yeah, there were moments the writing was  "in the moment" but the soul of my poetry is triggered by my past. "Everything old is new again."

Today was Mother's day. My mom passed last year. I did celebrate the holiday for my sister. She and I are all that's left of the original Woods family. Anyway, I took her out last week to see the movie Mother's Day. We had a nice time. I wrote maybe a couple of poems about my mother and father. I did write one each for both on their respective days, Father 's Day and Mother's Day are the poems names. I'll share with you the one I wrote for mom. You know, on second thought maybe not. Something else maybe but not that one. Lets see . . . Maybe tomorrow I'll think of something that you haven't yet seen. Until then.

Monday, May o9, 2o16
A gentle sunshower. I wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't seen the clouds gathering in the East. Beautiful blend of gray and white. I decided to go out  (barefoot) and catch a few shots of it. Surprised, my head bobbed and weaved frantically trying to escape . . . raindrops?! My body was confused at first wanting to run back to the safety of the front porch . . . but my mind calmed  it down. "Silly body! It's just a few drops." Finally, my entire being (mind and body) came to the conclusion that this little bit of rain wasn't a threat and that it actually felt good on my skin.

Wednesday, May 11, 2016

This evening I glanced out the window and noticed this big whole in the sky! My primitive subconscious turn away in fright. Well, surely a hole in sky is something to be horrified by. But my poetic minded beast that shares my subconscious with my primitive side immediately turn my eyes back towards the phenomena. It was only a matter of a moment before my civilized self, my

pragmatic snob of a rational being scoffed at both the poet and the primitive because there wasn't a hole in the sky at all! Just a little patch of sunlight that had found its way in the narrowest crack in the clouds formation. They were coming together. That was all there was to it. Winds from the south (and perhaps the north) were pushing the two cloud banks together. Nothing frightening or poetic about it. Just the "laws of nature." You know I will not chide my primitive or poetic thoughts for making something out of nothing. And neither will I rebuke my pragmatic mind for its lack of imagination. No, it definitely has served me well . . . at times. To be honest, my primitive and my poetic sides too often have gotten me in troubles both physical and spiritual. The two of them are sometimes more childish and headstrong, reacting to situations before they've thought things out. But I must admit that the Primitive and the Poet of my existence have always been far more adventurous than my Pragmatic mother who has, so far, kept me alive.

Thursday, May 12, 2016
Walked around The Corner a bit yesterday. It's starting to warm up outside a bit more than my pale, cancer prone skin cares for but that's why I buy the sunscreen. We sat outside the Starbucks and drank cold coffee. I got to thinking about the kite store that used to be in the space the Starbucks now occupies. The kite store was there back in the 80s. Lots of wonderful superhero kites, box kites, big kites little kites of all the colors you could dream of at that kite store. They even had this long (expensive) dragon kite that if you could get it into the air wiggled about on the wind like a giant worm! A beautiful thing but way too expensive for me. I think it was about $100.00!

I'm not sure how much I like being on The Corner anymore especially in the spring. Too many beautiful, young women. Not kidding. Norman-town may have the most beautiful women in the world! So, why is that a thing to be sad about? Dude, I'm sixty-eight years old (almost), and there's no way ANY woman would be interested in me. That's the only thing I really miss about being younger. I say younger because I was always the "older guy" when I lived in Norman-town. Yeah, I was only twenty-five years old when I started at OU Drama Department but everybody else was eighteen to twenty, with a smidgeon of twenty-one year olds. So, anytime they needed to cast somebody as a grandfather in a play I was they guy they came too. I wore so much white shoe polish in my hair . . . Hey! Maybe that's the reason I'm bald now, damn it!
I don't want to go on and on about it but I miss female companionship. being in love . . . if I ever was in love. Maybe once to an English girl. Yeah, I was for a minute or two, I guess. I wrote a silly poem (or two) about my "life in love." Here's one of them:

Rambo In Love

I've heard so many say,

"I'll never fall in love again."
I myself have said the same
at least twenty-seven times a day.

Yes, I confess I'm perpetually falling,

yes, tumbling head over heels in love
like... Sylvester Stallone as Rambo
in First Blood.

Remember?

When he takes that leap of faith
off a fifty foot cliff and lands in a tree,
crashing through branch after branch
until BAM! He slams to the ground with
that deep, beastie sound, "UGH!"

Yep, that's me.

Constantly re-stitching my
heart while running away from love's
baying bloodhounds.

I really can't help myself. Every time

I look into a young girl's blue eyes
or hear the ring of her sensual voice
or feel that gentle touch of soft hands brushing
'gainst mine, I'm gone! So hopelessly, so endlessly,
so recklessly... in love!

Totally devoted? Most true…

of course, for a moment or two
‘til something horrible happens. Perhaps
it's just a single word spoken out of tune,
a blemish appearing quite suddenly on her face
from some simple change in light... or fate.
Gad, what a fright! There's nothing more
loathsome than an imperfect lover!

So again, as before, I'm off, off to discover

another love that, hopefully, won't let me down.
Metaphorically speaking... I've had more wives
than Mickey Rooney.

Woodie 5-24-08

Saturday, My 14, 2o16
What are you saying?! Already? really, the last day in the 2nd week of my BIRTHDAY MONTH?! Alright, I believe you. I'm sure . . . well, pretty sure . . . you wouldn't LIE to me . . . or would you?! {suspicious frown}

What a glorious night last night! Art Walk at full tilt springtime. People everywhere and, of course, David knowing EVERYBODY had to stop and talk to each and every one of them. We spent three hours at Art Walk and two hours and forty-five minutes of it was spent waiting on David to finish his anthropological questioning of every old friend he ran into. "So, what's been happening with you since 1968?" And of course people being people. they told him everything that could possibly happen to a human being in forty-eight years, and not five years at a time, or even by individual years . . . more like day to day for almost fifty years! Okay, it really wasn't that bad. Or was it?! {smile}

Saw some wonderful digital art by a very young artist, maybe in high school but not even sure she's that old. But dude her "comic book" style surrealism is just gorgeous! And I didn't get even ONE pic of her work. Stupidest question I asked last night was to this kid. "Do you have a studio?" She stared at me for a moment and, "No, I just do all this in my bedroom and wherever I'm at, at the time. Don't need anything

but my computer." And she wasn't being flip to the old guy. She was sitting there all the time creating a new piece. There are brilliant children running around on the streets of Norman-town.

Here's the thing. As much as I love being an audience member watching other artists create their art, I am also feeling a real jealously towards them. Take this guy named Caleb (pic on your right). This dude rocks the blues better than most. I mean, this cat burns the lyrics in midair with his raspy dragon voice. And the audience eats it up. This guy is  . . . fucking good! And I dig the hell out of watching him perform. BUT I also envy him and all the other artists out there because in another life THAT was me. ME living the artist's life. ME, making music, yeah, I sang for awhile but I was never as good as any of these musicians today in Norman-town. Me creating theatre, creating art, living and breathing art. And now? Well, just a guy with a lot of time in who realizes  as far as being an artist goes . . . not sure I was ever, ever that good at it.

So, this sudden realization that my whole creative life has been a lie or at the least a waste of time, I've decided to either stop bitching about or get my grumpy butt in gear and get out there and BE the artist again.