The Daily {W}rite The Birthday Month Edition May 01, 2019 wk o1

I know!  How pretentious! Taking the WHOLE month to celebrate YOUR birthday? Yep! You got it. Hey! This will be my 71st b-day and I plan to celebrate it every day I can. {smiles}

I think I'm changing in some profound way . . . I mean, I've been changing my whole life, right? Every day . . . I change . . . my thinking, I cut my hair, I grow facial hair, I fall in and out of  love . . .  sometimes change is painful . . . sometimes you're the victim and sometimes you're the victimizer. Sometimes evil, other times a saint . . . or at least not evil.

But yes, I am in the middle (or maybe it's just the beginning) of a tremendous change. I've been changing into whatever I am now since . . . I was 6o? That sounds right. Yeah, I'm just now realizing that I am not what I used to be  . . . in anyway.

Thursday, May o2, 2o19

But . . . the problem with changing years and years of bad habits . . . you still have to deal with people jumping out at you right when you think you're on your way to that moment of profound change.

The Garage Burger Joint Avengers: Endgame Massacre

Scene: The Garage. Brendan, Woodie and Mabry in line to order burgers for themselves and David and Marian (seated at a booth by the front doors.)
Brendan: So, I'm taking Robin to see Avengers in IMAX tonight.
Woodie: Oh! You get good seats?
Brendan: Yeah. I bought them a couple weeks ago.
Woodie: Me and my sister saw it on Sunday . . . it was really good seats . . .

Woman in line turns arms waving at Woodie and Brendan

Woman: No, no, NO! Don't say anything about the movie. I haven't seen it yet!
Woodie: We're not saying anything about the movie we . . .
Woman: (To Brendan) you know what I'm talking about, right?
Woodie: (loudly) Lady, I know what you're talking about but we are just talking . . .
Woman: I don't want to hear anything about it . . .
Woodie: (LOUD) LADY, SHUT THE FUCK . . . .!

END SCENE

So, for the rest of the time at The Garage, I was shaking with anger! So mad. Mad at that stupid ass lady, mad at myself for allow my anger to just pour out at her. FUCK. Oh, well. A few hours later after yelling and screaming at the lady in the privacy of my own home (I hope the neighbors didn't hear me) I finally calmed down. But still . . . damn it. So hard to change. {not happy}

Friday, May o3, 2o19

It's raining again . . . study, Gatling the asphalt road with raindrop shrapnel. The thunder rumbling around behind the clouds . . . nothing to see lots for listening. I'm drained, drowned by a flash flood of anger that still lingers inside my head. Just like that thunderous rumble sneaks about behind the clouds.

5:07pm
David called. Wanted to know if I was alright. The conversation boiled down to . . . "Yeah, I'm okay." But am I? Well, I'll bounce back okay . . . no real damage down to my head . . . still a bit depressed. I'll get over it. But what about the next time? And the time after that? I can't keep diving into the deep end of the emotional pool forever. I know the equation by heart: It's not what the world does to you but what you do to the world. My response to people trying to control me, beat me down . . . I shouldn't be like them, the victimizers . . . I should respond with a positive action against a their negative actions that are aimed (or perceived to be aimed) directly at me.

10:47pm
Still, a little off balance . . . mentally . . .  spiritually . . . spiritually  . . . if there is such a thing. Still, I can't keep my mind from pulling up some decrepit memory about personal abuse by some unknown person, some slug I meet for the first time in a theatre, a restaurant, someone who has some self-serving reason for wanting to give me as much shit as they can. Why? Well, because I'm an easy target, I guess. It used to be that the hoods in the hood (hee) loved picking on me because I was a tiny, skinny little fuck that couldn't fight back even if he wanted to. A sort of joke. I always told myself that the neighborhood bullies used to have a day calendar: Monday, 3pm. Rob liquor store. Tuesday, 8:30am, catch the Woods' kid on his way to school, kick the shit out of him . . . Yeah, a joke that wasn't a funny fucking joke. It's the joke that's been pretty much the story of my life. {I'm smiling. Sort of.}

Saturday, May, o4, 2o19

Well. A little progress with the mental health thingy . . . Today, I did actually change from my "sleepwear" into something more . . . daywear . . . ish. Yeah, it would be a hell of a lot easier and faster if all I had to do to feel better about life was to change clothes. But maybe that really IS all there is to it change into some clean (almost) clothes and just . . . I did write a poem about the incident mentioned above. That helped a bit in getting me back to an emotional balance . . . of sort. Keeping that balance and not falling off to the right or left is where the real work comes in.

Sunday, May o5, 2o19

How people act towards me . . . has nothing to do with me. So, if I can believe that . . . well, then whatever way they act towards me, friendly, loving, hostile . . . that's on them not me. That's all them. All about them. So, If they are nasty to me, I don't have to be nasty to them, hateful to them. I can smile, be pleasant and, hopefully, helpful to their own mental health reform.

I got off this Facebook site for Game of Thrones. The people on their are way too negative about the show and other site members. Anytime someone disagrees with them in any way that fan gets reamed  . . . called stupid, a f***ing idiot and so on. I just had my full of the nastiness and "unfriended" the site.

Monday, o6, 2o19

Me. This is a copy of me from a photograph . . . of me, which is also a copy of me from a copy of a shadow of a stranger . . . a dream that refuses to dream. This is me being me dodging shrapnel from a shattered memory or two . . . perhaps three? I can't recall. This me. As I am, and am not. Schrodinger's cat in'a meat box . . . cold storage for the perishables. This is me. As I am, as I wish I were . . . as I'll never be . . . less than a thought . . . more than everything, the total sum of nothing at all . . . becoming what I never was, what I'm not now . . . rules. Whispered in our collective ear . . . our hole existence . . . not worthy of the dirt it takes to fill the grave.

Tuesday, May o7, 2o19 (2:37am)

I decided to go ahead and write this last paragraph or so . . . so I can post these beginning of the month blog entries. I'm still feeling a bit off center . . . still conjuring up a few hateful moments where I get a chance to tell off the mo-fos from my history who tried to beat me down . . . and I let them. I hate myself for letting people just treat me like an old dog . . . beat up on the old dog . . . all you want. I got to learn to fight back . . . without fighting back. That make sense? It does to me. {smiles}