Ten o'clock at night and I'm already dressed down for bed. My breathing has been a little rough today. Shortness of breath occurring by just walking from the living room to the kitchen. Damn it. Need to go to the doctor's and get a prescription for a "rescue" inhaler.
Reinventing one's self. What? at 70 years old you figured out that you're a life fuck up? And change, really? You believe it's possible to "change your ways?" I often hear that when a person has good conk on the head-bone that they lose all memory of who they where and it's possible when you have total amnesia that you can create for yourself a new reality. But without that smack to one's consciousness, can you forget who you are and create a new you? Maybe. But maybe there's not enough parts to totally restore a human creature to its . . . natural state . . . that time before the world shaped his existence into an image that more resembled its selfish self.
Sun, Dec o9, 2o18
Find a new tune. Sing it with all your heart. It will lead you to another tune, another song. Don't forget the old songs but continue to add to your song list.
I've trapped myself inside myself, inside this apartment. I have good reasons for not getting out of the house, out of myself . . . no, not reasons . . . excuses. "
It's too cold out there, I'm too tired to go out . . . etc." How do I create a better me if I don't venture out to find a new self? All I have in this room are a bunch of worn out memories, memories that have kept me here inside this . . . this . . . make-believe existence.
11:35pm
It begins quietly. Long strings of shadows from the setting sun peeking through the bare limbs, branches of the winter elms . . . a weaving of shadow threads that climb up the side of my apartment building to the window ledge of my bachelor's apartment. And there it sits watching me trying to say something . . . worth the time of the few friends who take the time to read my . . . words.
Tuesday, December 11, 2o18
Twisted by an internal wind . . . the human question mark . . . thunder beneath, above the gray rains stomp the dead into living, existence . . . rinse . . . repeat . . . I'm not half the man I used to be; I've never been half the man I used to be. Mother would spread the jam across the whiteface bread . . . a sip of cold Hamm's beer . . . on to the peanut butter layer . . . I skinned my knee once . . . odd phrase. I'll never be that. a hunter . . . murdering then skinning the already naked. I heard a song once. I heard a voice once . Male, Female? I've no choice in the matter. But I do hope it is a woman who searches with a whispered tune for that little bit of loose change, of love that this world still offers. The melting has begun . . . No. It began long before this moment on that day when my eyes opened . . . the dark mother . . . great waves of sweaty tears . . . the red nurse covering up her blemish . . . all in white . . . her hands cold . . . I may sleep now. I may stroll away as if all this, all this had never happened. I will follow the sand drifts . . . pilling up along the forgotten coastline . . . in silence, silently in slippery slippers . . . that cats wear on the colder mornings. I will touch their whiskers, gentle fingers floating towards the snout . . . they may well believe that my fingers are nothing more than passing clouds . . . on their way to whatever hell they're willing to drown in.
Wednesday, December 12, 2o18
David had to go have blood taken from him. I don't know what doctors actually do with blood, what can they see looking at a persons . . . blood? Oh, I'm sure they have their reasons, but they took a hell of a lot of redrum out of my buddy and they took a very long time getting it out of him.
While David busied himself giving the hospital vampires all his blood, I sat in the lobby, in an uncomfortable chair and read
The Handmaid's Tale . . . and kept falling asleep. I keep falling asleep every time I sit down somewhere to read . . . I mean, I feel fine at first and then . . . Zzzzzzzzzzz!
I don't like David's doctor's office. Too many old people in it. And most of them . . . seem very sick and fragile. One couple came out of the exam room area, the old man caught me looking at him and he stared me down to a point where I just couldn't look at him anymore. He was doubled up, bent at the waste, his legs wobbly from the weight of his extremely skinny body. If it wasn't for his wife propping him up, he'd have folded over and just laid on the floor. And she seemed to be older than him . . . but definitely not in as bad shape as her husband. They stopped about 4 ft. from the chair I was sitting in. The old man looked around . . . "
Where's the door to get out of here?" The wife raised her hand, pointed to the left. The old guy nodded and they . . . walked off. Yeah, the story is a little sad if not just down right depressing. But that's just if you see two old people and not two people who are helping out and caring for each other. When I thought about that, that . . . beautiful gesture of love and compassion, my initial sadness turn into a smile.
Thursday, December 13, 2o18
Loud rushing sound grabbed my ankles and dragged me out of the dreaming I was dreaming and . . . first thing I see when I open my eyes . . . the white-shadow expanse of my apartment's ceiling. That rushing sound again . . . a deep sigh jumps from my lungs . . . thankful that I'm not dreaming. To the west window . . . pulling the blinds open with one sharp, fast pull of the cord . . . and there's the culprit . . . a morning rain. Well, not the rain by itself . . . it's a gentle rain, a quiet rain . . . making the streets just wet enough that every time a car passes by . . . its tires make that rushing sound that woke me up . . .
like an ocean wave, as aggravating as a dripping faucet.
Thursday, December 15, 2o18
You know it's cold because I always seem to have the weather on my mind when I start an entry in the blog . . . because it's cold! December Art Walk was a bit of a bust because of it. I heard some weird gossip about Art Walk. Seems like the police have stopped the street vendors from setting up shop on the sidewalks, something about "public safety" they're saying. I mean, man, the Art Walk is all about the vendors on the street selling their art, their crafts . . . yeah, of course, there's the big whoopie with all the housed art galleries in the area . . . but the heart of Art Walk are the street vendors, the independent artists that don't get the fancy shmancy gigs The Norman Arts Council backs. Anyway. Here's the last post in this week's blog. Hope you enjoy it. {smile}
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