The Daily {W}rite December 2019 wk. o4

Christmas Eve! Sorry I haven't written in a while but the cancer  . . . you know . . . in and out. Feeing really good at times . . . barely hanging at other moments. But that's not what I want to talk about. Well, not at all sure I want to talk about anything . . . and that's exactly why I need to. {smiles}

1.  Often enough is often enough for me. Now and then is . . . now I'm waiting for then to find the right combination to unlock my subconsciousness and allow all the memory pixies to fly about in a flustered rampage . . . there always need to me the center of my existence . . . Bastards.
2.  I shouldn't say this but I am naked, very naked while writing down these thoughts. Stop reading if you wish. I understand how unnerving to know you're reading the thoughts of a very naked man . . . no, not just my shirt off . . . You're probably wondering . . . is he ALWAYS naked, very naked when writing on his blog.?! No, honestly, this is the very first time that I have sat at the computer and blogged naked . . . really naked.
3.  Pulled a shopping cart out of the rolls of shopping carts at Target. Though it wasn't a BIG pull, a tough pull it winded me a bit so I stopped and leaned against the cart  . . . "Excuse me!" some lady shouted on my right. I was keeping her away  from getting a cart . . . even though there were three other rows of shopping carts she just had to have one from the row I was standing in front of! I wanted to say, "I got cancer, lady, give me a break!" But instead I just moved the cart a few feet and went back to letting it take my weight as I tried to catch my breath.
4. Got 5 out of the 6 Christmas presents I wanted to get. David hates Christmas shopping. A bad experience he had when he was a kid. He bought a Christmas present for someone and he/she hated it! Now he just gives money.

Wednesday, Christmas Day, December 25, 2o19
Well, Christmas day . . . still at home. Suppose to go to David's daughter's house for turkey and such. But David is having a bit of a hard time getting up. I hope we make it. I wrote a Christmas poem this morning:

Christmas Day (2019)

Christmas day sits on the windowsill,

tapping lightly on the window glass.

Should I let it in? I bought presents

this year for friends and for family.

Not much I suppose but as I've always

heard them say, "it's the thought that counts."

"They" always say a lot and we always believe

them because they are the people we trust:

mothers in their kitchens cooking dinner, pop

plopped down on the couch almost asleep

watching the demolition derby cars trash

each other on Channel Five. And the giant

Christmas tree in the corner a ton of

Christmas presents stuffed under its low

hanging branches. Yes, the Christmas tree

with its pinecone and fir tree needle odour

attacking the living room with earthy smells

of goodwill and joy and love for all mankind.

Yes, the tree spoke louder than anyone, and

we kids listened and understood every, single

word that rose from the angel that topped

the beautiful tree . . . that would, unfortunately,

be dead in less than two weeks. 

Merry Christmas!

Woodie 12-25-19

Thursday, December 26, 2o19

Went to see Cats today . . . begrudgingly. David wanted to see it even though the word of mouth on Cats  . . . it was a dog of a movie. But we went knowing that we could walk out of it (as we did with La-La Land after 10 minutes of the first number) and sneak into one of the other movies playing. 

But we didn't leave. the movie was beautiful to look at and . . . Jennifer Hudson singing Memory at the end of the movie? Brought me to tears. Really. It was just moving. And me being a bit sick . . . a lot sick, I guess I should say. I'm feeling a bit emotional about everything. But that aside, Hudson's singing was just so stirring.

1.  Black and White. White and Black. Night and Day. Do my eyes open wider when the sun opens them? Darkness sometimes says means things to me as I wander across it's starry face without direction or concern for anything that day may conjure up to surprise me.  

2.  My hands shake a bit as I type. They're not cold . . . I believe they're not. The rest of me feel just warm enough to smile. Hands are strange creatures. They can write poetry, create art, scratch your ass, pick your nose. I do not know if they have too much pride or too little. 

11:07pm 

Sometimes I see myself. In a mirror, a reflection in a storefront window, in the eyes of the cute, black haired girl at Starbucks who always seems so pleased to take my order and finds it some what cute  when I tell her my name is woodie  . . . spelled with an "ie" at the end. Maybe I'm fooling myself when I say her smile means she thinks I'm cute . . . for an old man.

I wrote a poem once about how it is that we individually go through life and never really know what we look like. I mean, yeah, we can see images of our individual selves like I said above but we really can't see ourselves as others see us. Even a picture isn't the individual . . . it's a two dimensional image of the person. Not him, or her, or they.

Saturday, December 28, 2o19

 A New Year on Its Way

A new Year creeping up on all of us.

I can hear this passing year whimper

as it heads for the memory graveyard

dragging its months behind itself as if,

as if the months belonged to it and not

to the years to come.

We sleep and dream and pray

this New Year will bring more hope

than hopelessness, less pain than,

than the boney legs of 2019 suffers

through. We beg that the memory

of years gone-by will melt away,

forgotten in the joy of this New Year

this new life rising from the pit that

the past left us in without a teaspoon

to dig our way out.

Be a kinder New Year, be powerful

but just and honest and loving.

Be better than the shadows of the past

that still hovers above us.

Woodie 12-27-19

1.  Watched "my team" have its helmet slammed into the dirt against one of the best college teams I've ever seen. OU 28 - LSU 63. Yep, LSU spanked them good and sent them home to mama.
2.  I hate pretentiousness in people . . . when it's aimed at me. Academic bull-shitters who just love to make you look stupid so they can feel superior. I've listened to them my whole life. What little I have left, I am not wasting any more time on assholes.
3.  I've been dreaming a bit, and remembering what I dreamt when I'd wake up. Not as vividly as I used to, but I remember . . . like an abstract painting, like absurdist dialogue . . . bits and pieces. Maybe a fragment of an image or the sound of laughter. Interesting to try and piece it all together with my conscious mind.

Sunday, December 29, 2o19

I've spoke of this before, pretentiousness. Bullying if that makes it clearer. I've been bullied my whole life by people stronger than me. Stronger physically but also those who think they are smarter than me. That's the pretentiousness I'm focused on. People who try to make themselves look smarter (than they are?) by putting other peoples' IQ in question. Like I said, I've been the victim of both mental and physical bullying. And it stops today . . . well, a few months ago when I unfriended so "friends" online who just feel they have a right to bully me, troll me. Well, they don't anymore.

1.  Fighting fire with fire burns the whole world down.
2.  Racism is a myth, a lie. Don't be a racist. Don't fight racism with racism. That makes you no better than the thing you hate.
3.  Strength and courage comes from years of finding out what the fuck all that means.
4.  I'm too tired to write a poem today.
     My brain has put out a sign, CLOSED.
     My fingers are no help either. They just
     twiddle themselves while my eyes stare
     at the wall seeing nothing but white paint
     and gray cobwebs left by some transient
     spider. Like dogs or lions they mark their
     territory with urine and scratch marks.
5.  And just like that; I do what I couldn't do.
 8:44 pm
6.  I don't like the term, "think outside the box." I prefer to think that there is no box. AND if I thought that there was no box, I would never have thought to say, "think outside the box." I'm using words, the words I've known forever and I'm using them, I think, in a way that anyone can understand what I'm saying . . . and yet . . . they don't seem to get it, they don't get me. So frustrated with being misunderstood that I even stooped to using on them, those who don't get me, the phrase: THINK OUTSIDE THE BOX! 

We were gentler once
like an early spring rain . . . once.
But as we aged we did not age
gracefully, our wine not sweet
more the taste of vinegar. 

When I get in this somber mood,

there's always a friend saying,
"Cheer up! You are only as old 

as you feel!" in that case
I must be a thousand years old. 

Tuesday, December 31, New Year's Eve 2o19

Pretty much slept all day again today. Am going out at ten to do a little New Year's Eve celebration. But not much. Lazy today, too. This lethargic feeling through my body is truly getting stronger  . . . Oh, well. Anyway, no new, New Year Resolution. Maybe try even more to keep myself from getting mad at people that really piss me off! {smiles} Happy New Year!

The Daily {W}rite December 2019 wk. o3

I'm waiting for the end of Watchmen to begin on HBO. So, I thought I'd get the third week of December started on the blog:

My eyes. Old enough.
Stone they've become.
My face. Dried up.
A creek no longer
running wet with rain.
This is me these days.
A remembrance, 
a whisper on the air.
.Nothing more than
nothing . . . these days.

Tuesday, December 17, 2o19

So, I'm up and about after a transfusion yesterday. Yesterday. We spend a lot of our consciousness reliving yesterday . . . I say reliving not remembering. I refuse these days to remember yesterday. . . I stand with legs apart daring yesterday to make a move toward my present self. Go ahead. Try something.

1o:o7am
The singer I thought would win on The Voice . . . came in third. The guy I thought would lose . . . won the whole show. I'm not a good judge of talent . . . or character.

This is where the dreaming starts. A head full of caffeine, a memory or two poking at a headache that's simmering inside my brain housing group. My eyes will have no part in this blog I'm typing out . . . so, my fingers perform a perfect brail counterfeit move and finishes this entry blindfolded.

Wednesday, December 18, 2o19

Spent all day working on a major, super secret project. It didn't take as long as I thought it would but I did work on it for 2 1/2 hours. Turned out pretty good too.

Feeling good. Wonder how I can buy Christmas presents for everybody with all the bills I got to pay. Well, it will figure itself out. I have a bout 6 presents to buy.

Tomorrow we (me and David) will go out for a while. Maybe I can talk him into doing a little Christmas shopping . . . he doesn't like Christmas shopping. He buys a lot of presents for people, but  a Christmas present? Too much of an obligation. I mean, what if he buys the "wrong present" or something?

Friday, December 2o,2o19

Yes, today is my best friend, David Slemmons' birthday! This is the collage of pictures I've taken of David from 2o12 to the present, 2o19, and that's not half of the pictures I've taken of David. Yes, David is my best friend. Sound strange? He really puts up with a lot from me. No, seriously, I am an angry old asshole who is mean to everybody. But somehow, someway David has remained my friend even when anyone else would have just walked or ran away. And he's been here for me during this cancer scare. He drives to the hospital everyday (sometimes five days a week, and more than once a day.) for the chemotherapy, the transfusions . . . he's the best. I don't deserve a friend as good as David. But I'm glad he's here. Happy B-day, David!

Saturday, 21, 2o19

1.  I leave the TV on all night so I might sleep and not have to listen to the ghostly whispers of the many mice I've killed in the bathroom.
2.  8:42 and nothing to do except breathe and dream of falling asleep and . . . dreaming some more.
3.  Words have become atom bombs, and we throw them at each other with such childlike laughter,     laughter loud enough to cover up the tortured screams of our cruelty.
4.  My shadow has nothing to do when I sit in front of the computer all night long . . . so, it takes itself for a walk leaving me alone. I hope he wore his winter coat. It's cold outside.
5.  I have forgotten how often I have loved. I can't recall one time when I actually said and meant it, "I love you." Perhaps, I've never felt love at all. Maybe I'm fooling myself . . . making myself appear more human to myself than I really am. It's difficult to be honest with yourself when you don't know the truth.
6.  Some friends of David's (well, I guess the are my friends too) surrounded me last nigh in Othello's to tell me how sorry they were about me being "sick," and that they both (husband and wife) had battled cancer and . . . if there is anything, ANYTHING I need do call them. At first, I felt a bit embarrassed at them closing in on me tight like they did with their bodies . . . then when I realized how sincere they were being . . . I about cried.
7.  Christmas is bearing down on me, the Christmas commercials almost up to my chin, and my cancer bills? You know in the first Harry Potter movie when the owls are drowning the Dursley's house with letters from Hogwarts?

So that's this weeks blogs, the third week in December. The new year is almost upon us. I promised myself a to top ten movie review lists. Hmm. Hope I can do it.  {Smiles)

The Daily {W}rite December 2019 wk o2

You know, don't you. That feeling you get, that strange chill through your entire body . . . Not caused by a draft drifting through the cracks of the sash, the rails of the west window next to your computer. It's the explicable unearthly chill  that rattles you, brings you into an awareness, a fearful knowledge  . . . something is wrong. Some thing is here with me in this the last stroke of midnight. Some alien thing  . . . inside me.

7:30pm
Long day at the oncology lab starting at 9am with the last appointment beginning at 2pm. Looks like they're setting me up for another round of chemo shots. Oh, well. A little discomfort with the chemo, ugly rash too but nothing I can't handle.

Monday, December o9, 2o19

Well, the day at oncology really turned out to be light. Just a blood test and then . . . the evil chemo double shots . . . two RNs on either side of my belly and a count . . . 1-2-3  . . . and they stuck their needles into my sides at the same time and slowly press the plunger down . . . It doesn't hurt as much as it just annoying! Like two bees stinging you at the same time . . . but at a snails pace.

11:42pm
So, the chemo shots are getting a bit annoying tonight. Starting to redden, my flesh is heating up in the areas where they gave me the shots. But have felt worse. So, far it looks like the "treatments" are helping me.

Tuesday, December 1o, 2o19
Up and about already even though my appointment isn't until 2pm.

There are too many voices inside my head since . . . well,

for as far back as I can recall. Multiple voices, screaming, singing, whispering into the inside of my ears. Political voices, the cowards of democracy, capitalism  . . . they are the hardest voices to silence. But music helps deaden their hatred their lies. I must listen to more music and lessen the hold those voices inside my head have on me, on my dreams.

10:30pm
I'm feeling a little sleepy. After a shower. Hm. Maybe that's the cure for my insomnia. A nice, warm shower. Anyway, not much I wish to write about tonight. I'll try tomorrow.

Wednesday, December 11, 2o19

Living within the moment in which you are within . . . a difficult task. We really don't know how long an actual moment is. According to Wikipedia: Although the length of a moment in modern seconds was therefore not fixed, on average a moment corresponded to 90 seconds. Hm. I tend to think of a "moment" as an actor might think about it: a moment is a unit of action, the amount  of time it takes to finish an action. So, in acting, at any given moment, you have an objective . . . something that you are trying to accomplish. Simple example: suppose your objective is just to enter a room. the "moment" is the time it takes you to enter the room. Once you enter the room that's the end of that objective and a new objective emerges: you want to sit down in a chair. Again, the moment is the time it takes to sit in the chair. Sometimes finding the end of a unit of action isn't as straight forward as the examples above. But the basic equation for the ending of an objective/action: When the objective has been won or lost or when the objective is put on hold. So, a moment in real life can be defined in the say way as we define a unit of action in a play.

12:53pm
My song lacks a melody. Well, not so much that a melody for my song does not exist. It's more like the melody that there is to my song is sharp, sometimes flat, sometimes the rhythm's off, the time way out of time with the music accompanying it. My song to most human ears is not a song at all . . . only noise created for the sole purpose of torturing the ears of the listener.

Friday, December 13, 2o19

Man. Last night and today . . . a very bad turn for me. I won't go into it much here. But do you remember me talking about how the chemo shots were annoying but not all that painful. Yeah, A bit of a rash that itched. That was about all. But last night after the chemo session? Man, my abs felt like someone used them for a heavy punching bag. Hurt so much I could hardly sleep. And to day . . . ? I could barely get out of a chair and walk even with the use of my cane. I cried because it hurt so bad and because . . . I just did, that's all. I cried.

Saturday, December 14, 2o19
My best friend, David Slemmons, is really a best friend. We went out today for coffee as usual . . . but I was still feeling a bit under the cancer weather today. But we talked, we laughed a bit and then went home. This guy does a lot for me. Yeah, a damn good friend. P.S. wish I could spell better.

Have been slipping in a few poems here and there on Facebook . . . mostly one a night. mostly. Let me see if I can come up with one more the blog:

He dreams of streams and raging rivers
and he never knows which he prefers.
He listens for the sound of ice breaking
and wonders if the world is dying.
He doesn't know what grown up means.
But he's sure he'd rather not be grown up.
Better to be young and naïve forever.
Forever walking through the woods.

So, this is all for this week. Thank you for reading.  {smiles}

The Daily {W}rite December 2019 wk o1

The 1st day of December. Today. In a month we will be into a new year. 2020. If I can carry-on existing in this storyline, I will be 72 years old in May. 72. Hmm. doesn't carry as much metaphorical weight as 70 years old or even 71. Not sure why. Just another year . . . hopefully not like all the rest . . . it would be exciting to start off the new year as a new life, a new moment, seeing with eyes and heart and mind for the first time. Life is often dull, boring. Why do you think so many people wish to die? It's because we create a worn-out path for ourselves from the beginning of life . . . to the end of it. Sometimes that path is so worn,  so deeply carved into or life's mind that we can't see above the rim. Not a good way to live, I'm sure. Seeing those walls of dirt that confine our souls . . . like . . . like a greedy grandma who wants you to sit on her lap and give her cheek kisses for all eternity.

Tuesday, December o3, 19

Had a long day yesterday. The blood transfusion to replenish my blood after the chemo is lasting about four days. And since the transfusion is administered on Monday, the effects of the transfusion begins to diminish around Friday. And that's the rub. Monday mornings before the scheduled transfusion is particularly hard. This last one . . . I just couldn't walk even from the car to the doors of Target. It was really difficult to do anything except sit in the car as David went shopping for a plastic chair for his apartment . . . couldn't find one because plastic chairs like he wanted are considered patio furniture, and patio furniture are considered seasonal, and since it was December . . . no patio furniture available.

The art/poem on the right is another found poem written in 2o13 and rewritten today. It says a lot to me, I guess, right now, I think. As fragile as my body is, my thought process these days tends to stumble about looking for a idea worthy of its time.

You wake up one day. You realize that you aren't you so much as you are everybody you ever knew. You take on the beliefs of the mother and father, of their friends. You become an illustration of them . . . not yourself. But you think you are you and not them, you go through most of your life being what "they" created. But one day, maybe someday you reach a point where you realize that you are not yourself but the creature created by your Frankensteinian parents. And you start the rehab, the change of self  to something that are not your parents. But what do you become? YOU?! Or do you  just become another creature without a soul created in the image of your friends, the preachers, the TV set? Can you ever be you, or are you now and forever lost . . . to be or not to be . . . someone else's delusion  . . . never free enough to create your own monster.

Wednesday, December o4, 2o19

The Adventures of Chemo-Man!

Out and about a bit today. 68 degree weather. Warm with a cool breeze drifting through the open car door window . . . Coffee first and then to the mall for a 2 mi. walk. Me in the surgical mask, my cane, walking like a beat up drunk. Taking my time. Hoping to stretch out the transfusion so I don't wind-up like last Monday . . . all most dead on my feet.

Anyway, the walk was nice. Took it slow and just enjoyed breathing hard to make seem like I am getting healthier.

The kid playground in the middle of
The Sooner Fashion Mall was empty and David took a picture of me on the stairs of the mushroom slide.

Saw an extremely colorful hoodie at Hot Topics . . . really cool but costing over $50.00. No thanks. Just received some more hospital bills totally around $600.00 plus. A bunch last week too . . . and the week before. So, we'll see how long my money lasts.

Thursday, December o5, 2o19

Storage

Where do dreams go when we wake?

Is there some kind of dream drawer

that my subconscious stores them in?

A surrealist closet? I'm sure I have

more than enough dreams to fill

a large dressing-room. Or maybe

dreams are just tossed out,

discarded by a fastidious mind

that wishes not to clutter itself

up with data that I won't

remember when I open my eyes.

Sometimes memory has a way of invading the mind at a time that is most inconvenient. A speech you're giving to a classroom full of students who have no interest in even learning about the beauty of black & white movies. Making love? Yes, that's a time you wish you memory would stay at home  . . . "I'm so sorry! This never happens to me." "Ah, Professor Woods, are you all right?" Asks the kid in the back row who I'm sure was saying something very important while my brain freeze took over my consciousness. Let it go!

Friday, December o6, 2o19
Well, hope I'm not causing a relapse by saying this . . . it's Friday and I feel good. No shortness of breath, pretty perky though I am NOT running around as mush (Ha! I typed mush instead of much. I won't change it.),  I'm walking around . . . cane in hand, steady pace. Usually, the Friday after the transfusion I start going down into the basement. A sort of Jekyll and Hyde thing . . . spry old man turned into a bent over less than energetic old man. Which is the real me? Or am I both?

The alien is back and roaming around in my image, my vestige, pretending to be me. Oh, it's not so much a take over. My mind is in control . . . no alien brainwashing going on. To be honest, I somewhat enjoy the intruder's company. He does tell me things. Points out the character flaws in my, our human condition. We are a terrible species for the most part. Yes, yes, there are those of our kind who have figured it all out . . . or at the least, they try to do the right thing for themselves and for others in out group of beings. Sometimes they get it right, or wrong but they are always trying, learning how to be better Homo . . . Homo . . . whatever we are suppose to be. Because the majority of we Human Things never attempt to be more than just erectus assholus . . . a soul-less creature that only thinking of itself.

Saturday, December o7, 2o19

1.  The last day in the week and I believe I've written quite bit even though I did miss one or two days.
2.  I'm through talking about cancer and dying and  . . . all that lifeless stuff. At least, for today. {smile}
3.  The days are warmer than in past years at this particular time . . . of the year. My sister prefers a  good snow during December  . . . especially important to her is having snow on Christmas day. She seldom gets that white stuff in Oklahoma. Yeah, sometimes we get a little. But nothing like what you would put on a Christmas card.
4.  I prefer dreams that I remember. Mostly? These Days? I can remember a bit, the gist, you know? Like whether or not it was sad, happy, scary! Last night I dreamed of being a football player . . . I think.

5. Thoughts often enough ripple through my brain. A mellow ripple today. Gentle, kind thoughts that flutter a bit . . . at times . . . more like a small sparrow winging through me. No rush of a panicky Tsunami wave crushing all the other tiny thoughts who were just enjoying a summer vacation away from themselves. No, my thoughts this day are nothing but a blush of curiosity.   How well I finally wind-up? My ashes sitting in a jar on my sister's living room mantel . . . if she has a living room mantle. And when she passes also? Where the hell then will we both go?

The Daily {W}rite November 2019 wk. o4

I know. Where have I been? Well, the first of November, as you already know, I was deep into the chemotherapy. Most days I just felt . . . too depressed, too lethargic to write. However, starting about a week ago I started felt better. Yep! Two weeks now without an over abundance of shortness of breath. And to be honest, I was enjoying (am still enjoying) the feeling that I'm my old self again that I just didn't feel like writing on the blog. I have kept with the poetry, writing pretty much a poem a day (or night). But here I am back on the blog due primarily to David telling me I should get back to it. Let me catch you up:

Two dark nights ago I did battle with a ninja mouse that invaded my apartment. Actually, he was in the bathroom. I walked in on him and he just started running circles around me . . . It scared me . . . In self defense I grabbed a sturdy, plastic mop leaning against the bathroom door and wacked the little fucker with it . . . blood gushed out of him. A lot of blood. I felt awful. I picked the mouse up by its tail and put it and the weapon I killed him with in a plastic back . . . out to the dumpster I crept . . . my evil deed in hand.

Went to see the Korean movie Parasite yesterday. IF you are a lover of great, contemporary film making . . . see this movie. Don't want to say any more than that, which is a good sign.

Julia Roberts was being considered for the role of Harriet Tubman back in 1994. People just found out about it and they are mad. Julia Roberts didn't get the role. In fact, the movie Harriet was just released November o1, 2o19 with Cynthia Erivo playing the title character.

David and I have been getting up and out of our respective Apartments do a little walking for the exercise we both really need. Driving to the mall to walk, we saw this little old man all hunched over, big overcoat surrounding is rather plump body. We went walking and I couldn't get the old man out of my mind. I noticed I was walking a lot like him . . . hunched over, body feeling so fragile I was afraid of taking one step with out my cane for balanced. He, of course, didn't have a cane. But I felt so like an old man for the first time ever, I think. But magically, I regained a lot of my strength do primarily to me taking a stroll every day. I still carry the cane . . . just in case.

It's 3:52 in the afternoon and I'm listening to some New Age music. Very soothing, calming . . . a bit freeing of the imagination. Peter Pan poetry rummaging through my thoughts . . . looking for a way know doubt  . . . finding its way through the cluttered closet maze . . . my fingers pray for their swift journey.

Saturday, November 23, 2o19

Angry! My anger just doesn't pop up out of nowhere  . . . it is ignited by someone putting a match to my already short fuse of a temper. Anger is how I deal with "attacks" on me physical or mental attacks. I really have a hard time telling the difference between the two. But my angry response to what I perceive as hostile, an open aggression towards me always seems at the time to be warranted. But when I do defend myself against the aggression of others, they, the trespassers of my space (again, both physical as well as mental) look at me as if it's ME who is being unreasonable.

Friends of mine, really close, good friends of mine who feel it's necessary that they lecture me on how to act in public. I'm not suppose to say certain things around certain people because . . . well, because my opinion about things like art and politics are so "radical" that I might disturb the well being of others. Wow! I should be happy, I guess. I mean, I must be an extremely powerful person if my "opinion" can change the fucking world of those around me. What a profound, magical, mystical voice I must have that just the sound of it can destroy the world and all the people in it. Damn it. Now I'm angry again. {smiles}

11:09pm

November's Winter Breath
This is me. This is the me that winter carves from my flesh, pulls from my bone marrow . . . this is me the pink, anemic blood that runs like a crippled tortoise through the dry beds of my withering veins. And the rest of the world? This wadded up paper thin world, this pale white world as anemic as I am . . . And the other fleshers, the two legged, furless fleshers. To stone they've turned. Too long they turn away from the truth . . . stone is what you become when you refuse the life within you.

Sunday, November. 24, 2o19

The Story of My Life

a play in one act

by Woodie

Scene: At the order counter of a fancy restaurant.

OD: (Order Taker) Can I help you sir?

Woodie: Yeah, let me have a Rueben without sauerkraut. That comes with fries, right?
OD: I'm sorry sir. We just ran out of fries.
Woodie: (to himself) Fuck.
OD: We do have potato chips for a substitute side.
Woodie: Nah, that's all right.
OD: I'm really sorry, sir . . . About the fries.

Woodie: It's alright, man. We just reenacted the entire story of my life.

END SCENE
Postscript: A fancy restaurant with an order counter? Yeah, I know.

5:22pm

There is nothing to be done. Not at this moment  not in the moments to come. Not in a future world, an altered reality where human beings are kindly, warm, interested in other human beings and their fantasies, their hopes and dreams. Nothing to be said either. No words strong enough to open the minds of those who chose not to think beyond their own well being. The brain has gone on vacation. The mind is closed. Out to lunch. Only the crumbs remain for the few fat rats who are strong enough, ruthless enough to devour all in front of them . . . all of them . . . for a few crumbs.

I forgot yesterday and everything I knew the day before . . . yesterday. No trick to it. However, forgetting the future yesterdays before they're born . . . another discipline all together.

Monday, November 25, 2o19
Haven't been to bed yet. Got to be at the hospital in for hours, wake up David in about three. Oh, well. Extremely sad this morning. Why? Hmm, I'll think about it, write about it later. I got to at least try and sleep a bit.

Tuesday, November 26, 2o19 

Rowdy time at the blood doctor's. An RN that's been on maternity  leave for three months worked on me for the blood test. I didn't know her but she seem to know what she was doing. My blood was okay so I left the oncology office . . . and RN Kelly came running out   . . . "Oh, you need to come back for a blood transfusion today" Oh, sure no problem. David and I went to Stella Nova, got coffee, sat down and my phone rings. "Yeah?" "Robert, this is Nurse Kelly. We need you to come back in as soon as you can for another blood test, okay?" Okay, so gulped the coffee down, went back to the hospital and the same RN that took my blood earlier was taking it again. She apologized for the mess up and gave me a new blood test, I went home for a nap and returned at two for a blood transfusion. During the transfusion, I dozed off several times . . . waking up to see David sleeping in the small chair across from me. Sometimes I forget how good of a friend he is to me.

Wednesday, November 27, 2o19
I refuse to count the many shadows drifting into my apartment from the window. I, however, can feel  them counting MEs as I sit quietly at the computer and try to come up with something witty to say for my readers . . . and most times . . . I know I fail.

Thursday, November 29, 2o19
Having a difficult time tonight writing out my monthly (bi-monthly) bills. I keep wanting to make the date out as: 11-19-19. I don't know why. I'm sure I'll never know why.

Whoever said that people my age can't have new experiences sure didn't eat the pizza I had this afternoon at one of the "new" pizza places in town. The worst pizza I ever had! Way too expensive ($20-$23  a pie!), and it only came in an 18" size! AND it tasted like warmed over crap! Crust so thin it only had one side! (Thank you, I'll be here all week). I ate maybe three or four pieces of it because that's all I could get down. "Do you want the rest in a box to go?" Asked the cute little waitress. Her and the other waitperson fought over who was going to put my pizza in the box. AND the box was way, way BIG . . . the Godzilla of boxes. So, I took my pizza in its box outside, and as soon as I got out of range of the restaurant . . . I shoved it into a trash can, which was a bit of a chore cause the damn box was so BIG!

Saturday, November 30, 2o19 (December on it's way!)

Well, the transfusion they gave me on Monday sucked as bad as the pizza I had on Thursday. Yeah, I ate  . . . four pieces through the rest away . . . too late. I started feeling crappy as hell. Stomach upset, I kept tasting that fuckin' pizza all night . . . sleepy real sleepy. But I woke up Friday and . . . fuck. Dizzy, could barely stand up . . . And Saturday? I was back to feeling lousy from the chemo and the cancer. I could barely stay awake when David and I went to his daughter's for a Day After Thanksgiving Day Thanksgiving Day! Shortness of breath was back . . . big time. The dizziness too. Shit. I thought I was getting better.

The art/poem on the right I created from a lost poem I wrote back in 2o13. I do that a lot. Lose a poem, find it later and do a few rewrites on it. But there are some that never get found. Lost almost all the poems from 2oo5-2o16 when my thumb drive committed suicide. Oh, well. See you in December. {smiles} P.S. The art/poem needs more work.

The Daily {W}rite November 2019 wk. o2

So, went shopping, grocery shopping, and David needed this case of some soda  . . . scene: David tries to get low enough so he could pull a case of soda out. "Wait," I say. I bend down . . . and yeah, real struggle to get it out cause the cases were real heavy and pushed to the back of the shelf. But I got it out, tossed it into the cart and . . . fuck. I can't breath, I can't move. All I can do is lean on the grocery cart and try to catch my breath. Moral of the story: Get one of the grocery clerks to lift heavy shit into the cart.

Saturday, November o9, 2o19
Oh, goodness. Last night after the Smart Saver's Grocery Store Massacre I went to Art Walk . . . murder on me. Man, I just couldn't walk a few steps without stopping to catch my breath. FUCK! So, had David drive me home early. I just laid on the couch. I knew I needed to call the hospital "hotline" but I fell asleep . . . and woke up this morning feeling . . . pretty good. I called the hospital anyway and told the doctor on call what happened. She said if I felt ok then I should just take it easy until my appointment on Monday . . . BUT if I did feel really crashed I should get down to the hospital and get a transfusion.

Sunday, November 1o, 2o19 

"My anger woke me up. Well, no, not exactly. My anger woke itself up, and it could care less if I got up or stayed asleep. Unfortunately, anger doesn't understand the law of human physics. An emotion can't do anything on its own. Emotions MUST have their host's conscious permission before they go on any emotional tirade. So, here I am, wide awake with my anger, with my finger on the red button of the flesh bomb that I and my emotions live in." -Woodie

Yes, I did. Woke up angry about this country and its fucking politics. And I'm made that everybody thinks they know what America is all about, all those Facebook friends want to lecture me on what the USA is ALL about. Folks not Ameircan. I've listened to you rant and rave about America, about my generation, how my generation elected Trump, and how my generation won't do anything about global warming . . . and all of what you say is bullshit. Me and my generation have been actively working to change things in this country. n't feel wellSo, don't go on telling me what you know about this country I live in because you don't know shit. WE got Trump elected? Shit you attitude, your stereotyping me and my generaiton? Shit you sound just like Trump and his fucking mindless minions.

Monday, November 11, 2o19
Not writing much tonight. Lots to think about before I put my thoughts into the computer blog. Had a meeting with the doctor and I asked her the question I should have asked on the first day: "So, will I beat the cancer with this treatment?" She looked a bit shocked. "No." She said it with great authority. "You'll be taking this therapy for the rest of your life." "Oh." "I did tell you that there was only one cure for the type of cancer you have . . . " "Bone marrow transplant. "Yes, which at your age . . . " "I wouldn't survive the cure." "Yes."

Tuesday, November 12, 2o19

Lost . . . Reward

3:21 in the morning/and my caffeine haunted/mind cant help but/calculate just how/many 3:21s in the/morning my eyes/have left, how many/beats my heart has left?/My consciousness/will wander off someday,/will run off someday/chasing its shadow like/a dog chases a cat . . ./there will be a time/when I call after him, and/he doesn't come back.

Thursday, November 14, 2o19
Oh, boy. I barely feel like writing this disclaimer for not writing more. I don't feel well. Although some good, good news for David . . . I think. Well, will try to write about it tomorrow. This week? This is all you get.

The Daily {W}rite November 2019 wk. o1

A fall, a prat fall, a slow burn, a giant crash into November. I feel like November today. Breathing is  labored. The gasp for air . . . like the gold fish taken from its home. Its mouth wide open searching for that healthy taste of bowl water. Not another appointment until Monday. I think I can last that long. But should I? That is the ?

I don't miss being in love. I really don't. I don't really even miss someone liking me enough to call me on the phone, "What are you doing?" There are those few who seem to have an interest in me . . . well, that may be too boisterous. There are those select few who are curious about me. Yes, a bit of a curiosity . . . that's me. I'm a thick foggy day with grey wet skin. You're hands reach out . . . a simple cold touch on your finger tips . . . and you pull away.

Sunday, November 3, 2o19
The world warms up a tit-tat. 66 degrees outside. All week mother nature changes her demeanor . . . from scolding cold . . . to a chilly breeze. Nice to know that we have a few more days of autumn before winter comes rolling down the street, through the boughs of the elm trees, crawling through the cracks in the floor and walls of my apartment. Pic at right from November 29th, 2o17.

Tuesday, November o5, 2o19

The Not Paying Attention to My NRS' Instruction Blues.

So, Friday night it hit me. Went with Brendon to see the new Terminator movie (it was good!), I went to the restroom after the movie started and . . . fuck. Out of breath by the time I climbed the grade to the theatre exit. FUCK! And Saturday and Sunday even worse! Got to the hospital for my regular "cancer appointment" and told the RN who's been working with me from day one what happened and she nicely jumps on me, "No, no, no, no, no! When you crash like that you gotta phone us.

PHONE US! You got the emergency number . . night or day you phone us when you are in trouble." I also asked her about wearing the surgical mask . . . "All the time when you are around people. On the street, here in the hospital, and wherever there's a group of people who could infect you with there germs! Remember, your immune system is compromised, it's flu season!"  And let me say that written this out, it looks like she was mad at me and was reading me the riot act . . . no. She's concerned for me and I felt ashamed that I wasn't doing everything to please her AND save myself. Fuck. I gotta take this seriously.

Wednesday, November o6, 2o19
I was going to go have coffee at Starbucks on the Corner, but couldn't get David up. I could've gone by myself, take my bills down to the OU Student Union  . . . but a bit worried that it would rain on me, and after last weeks health scare I decided not to chance it. So, sat on the porch and waiting for the mailman to come by, and he did. . . he went right by me as I waved my two letters in my hand! Fortunately, he stopped two houses down, and I ran

(ran pretty good too) to catch up with him before he left the block. Got there fast enough that he hadn't even gotten out of his mail truck. He opened the door and froze when he saw this masked being standing in front of him. Then he smiled and apologized for not stopping to see if there were outgoing mail.

It was actually nice out. Had my sweats on, a long sleeves shirt and my jean jacket on . . . AND . . . a surgical mask! Like I said . . . not taking anymore chances. Oh! and I brought my camera out to the porch. Got a few good autumn shots . . . a nice day.

Thursday, November o7, 2o19
Not more to write today. Still feeling good and hoping that I can make it to my next lab without crashing. Did go out today with my sister to have dinner. Put the mask on and went. No one seemed to notice . . . except one little girl (maybe 4 or 5 years old) who keep staring at me as her mother dragged by the hand to another part of the restaurant. {smiles}

The Daily {W}rite October 2019 wk. o4

"You a**hole son'ama'bit**!! That'as me soft screaming at the jerk who just tried to cut me and David off when David was making a left turn onto Trout Ave. David smiles at me. "What?!" "You're really feeling better today." "Yeah, I am! How'd you know that?" "Because you're yelling at traffic." We both laugh at that. It's true. When I feel semi-healthy I start vocalizing my "hate" for all the political bullsh** that explodes out of my TV! Trump! That piece of overripe banana peel! And people! People! ON Facebook trolling every word I say! And people. People! Standing in my way when I'm trying to get to the Talenti Dairy-Free Roman Raspberry Sorbetto . . . I pint. Lady, don't you DARE touch that last pint of the Roman Raspberry! Yep. I'm feeling damn good. Which is also the problem. When I'm in the middle of chemotherapy and the cancer I'm getting the chemo for I'm too physically and mentally fragile to complain, rant about all the bullsh** well people have to put up with. I'm a nicer person when I have a life threatening disease.  Not from choice so much as from just being to weak to be mad about anything. So, the dilemma facing me is how can I stay a nice person and a healthy person. Seriously, this cancer stuff is not funny . . . this is a real life problem for me.

10:28pm 
Oh, before I forget . . . Remember I was worried about wearing the surgical mask in public because someone would think I had a disease that would infect them if I breathed on them? But really, the mask is worn to protect my damaged immune system (from the chemotherapy) from their coughs and spit and germy things that people carry around on them. Anyway, I though that what I could do is cover the surgical mask with another mask that would appear friendly, not threatening . . . and if you look at the picture of your friendly neighborhood Chemo-Man (up, left side of the blog). See? Isn't that sweet?

Wednesday, October 23, 2o19
I think we're going to dinner tonight. Haven't been to dinner in a bit. I need to force myself to just get out. Stop being a ghost haunting my own apartment. I feel better, I do. Oh, this feeling better not only got me to work on this blog. I've started back to writing A Poem Every Night . . . or . . . A-Poem-Every-Early-Morning-A-Day . . . if you're not into all that brevity thing. I mean, why write anything short when you can write on it for a long time. {smiles}

11:26pm

Moon Dreams

She never smiles when she's awake.
though I've caught her lips curving
into a crescent shape on those nights
when she falls away toward a dream
And I am still wide-eyed sipping at
a coffee and watching her sleep.

She caught me once. My shadow
drifting between her and the moonlight
bouncing through the torn curtains
in our small, one room apartment.

"What the fuck are you doing?"
"Watching you sleep." "you
know how creepy that is?"

Before I could say "yes" she
snored herself off into
whatever dream I so rudely
shook her out of.

Thursday, October 24, 2o19

There are days that go out of their way to make me smile. Yes, smile. Out of nowhere  . . . like the sun popping out from behind a hedgerow of clouds . . . not for long but just long enough to tickle a grin out of you. Or maybe there's a woman walking by . . . beautiful enough to at least force you into a pleasant memory about that Girl-Of-My-Dreams  . . . which actually existed once or is a total fabrication of an old man's lonely thoughts. Some times, it gets tricky trying to separate the imagined from the real.

Today was Halloween looking day! Went to Party Town that just reopened in a new building on the westside of Norman and . . . MAN! A gigantic space filled with PT's entire inventory! Yep! So huge  this new building that it can literally say, "What you see is what you get" cause it's all right there! AND checkout the Purge masks we found. AND only $3.99. Probably the best buy I've ever made (pic by David Slemmons).

Friday, October 25, 2o19
Wet universe out there this day, this Friday. And bone rattling cold.45 degrees at almost 5:00pm? Sorry. No outdoor activities for me. Not today. this cable music station I have with Cox Cable . . . Soundscape. Lots of head oriented music. Lots of pixies playing pianos. Some of the compositions are just Earth sounds put togather . . . wind, crickets, birds. My favorite is the sound of a woodpecker tapping at a tree along with a acoustic guitar solo. Dreamy music. Blog writing music.

I get lost inside the many storage compartments of my consciousness. Lots of things in there. Some very old memories. So, old some of them that I'm not even sure they are my memories. Maybe someone at sometime told me a really powerful story about his/her life, a story so profound it actually changed my life, and my life not always the brightest star in heaven may have thought . . . "I'll borrow that memory. I'll give a nice home here in Woodie's memory storage house . . . and a memory that was never mine . . . became mine.

 Sunday October 27, 2o19

Sunday afternoon after a steady paced walk around the block and back into the warmth of my small apartment. Interesting that my apartment is easy to get warm and more difficult to cool down during the summer months.

Ships passing in the night. I always liked that phrase. But I think of it more like I'm a ship and the rest of the human race is the shorline. And some shorelines are unclutterd, beckoning the lone ship to come and drop the anchor for awhile. Other areas of shoreline are less hospitable. No trespassing signs everywhere, rocky walls forbidding any frail boat-craft to even try and land. Alone. For the most part alone we all are. Always searching for that friendly bit of shore line where we can remember what it was once to walk upon earth.

Monday, October 28, 2o19

 

The Disneyland Syndrome Massacre

Scene: 7:45am. David picks Woodie up for his 8am chemotherapy appointment.

David: You doing alright?
Woodie: I didn't get much sleep last night. Disneyland Syndrome?
Davie: What?
Woodie: When I was a kid . . . well, even after I grew up . . . Disneyland was my favorite place to go on vacation. We'd go there, the family, maybe once every other year, I would get so excited that the night before we'd leave for Disneyland that I couldn't sleep.
David: Wait . . .  Are you saying that having chemotherapy at eight in the morning on the coldest f***ing day we've had this year is equivalent to a trip to Disneyland.
Woodie: Well . . . it sounds different when you use a lot of words . . .
David: Man, you're weird.

Thankfully, David's heater works better than his car's air-conditioning because it was super cold out. I dressed in three layers and stil the morning chill got through it all and attacked my skinny-ass arms. So, the warmth of the car heater was a wonderful surprise.

10:23pm
The stuff about me not getting much sleep the night before I went back for another blood test and maybe another chemo session or blood transfusion . . . very true. I try not to be too worried about having cancer (or on the borderline of having cancer) most days cause I know it doesn't help me get better and may well help in making me sicker. But the night before I go back into treatment . . . I can't help but be a bit nervous about it. And that uneasiness won't let me go to sleep.

Tuesday, October 29, 2o19

Damn cold out there . . . and rainy! You know my friend David, right? He loves this shit weather. Me? Too hot, too cold NOT all right by me. Spring and the beginning of fall . . . just right for me. I suffer from a acute case of the Goldilocks Syndrome when it comes to weather.

Got my first bills from the cancer therapy. Actually, not too bad. Medicare seems (so far) to be taking care of a large amount of it. Thanks, Medicare. But there are more bills to come . . . a lot more and the price tag will probably be extremely high . . . but better than not being here anymore. You Can't Take It with You. No you can't because it will all be gone when you pass on, spent trying to keep yourself alive. A good chunk of our existence is spent trying to get as much mileage as we can out of life.

Wednesday, October 30, 2o19
My soul is cold. Not all the layering, t-shirt, plus a sweat-shirt, topped with my magic hoodie can warm up that which has been touch by a single drop of winter sadness.

Forsaken

the abandoned the old chair
at the curb. Just left her there.
How many good years did that
beat up piece of furniture give
to those who just now threw
her away with a single thought?
I would've rescued her
If it hadn't started raining, raining,
raining so hard it drove the legs
of that old easy chair into the muddy
grass so deep that when I tried
to pick her up . . . she wouldn't budge.
So, I left her there in the rain, rain, rain.

At the computer, I glance out
the window . . . she's still there
waiting for someone to save her.

Savior. Hands full of bloody regrets. Cold, dangling six feet above the ground. Lighter than gravity. As grave as the grave. Pulling the shadow from his flesh, the pocket-pickers sing the song there mothers sang:

When I sing the wind sings too
When I weep the broom stops sweeping
And when I sleep death comes calling
I will never ever sleep again

Thursday, October 31, 2o19
YES! It's Halloween! Woo-hahaha! I'm not gonna write much today because it is Halloween! In fact, I'm not going to even proof read this week's entry. I know. Bad writer. But it's Halloween and I leave you and October with this: