The Daily {W}rite August 2019 wk. o2

The Daily {W}rite. I have forgotten what this meant, what this blog was meant to be. I'm not sure I even know now exactly what the intent was when I started this blog some . . . seven years ago? My. Well, never too late to pick up the spiritual slack and get back to the original business of writing, printing myself on this non-paper space and . . . seeing where it takes me.

I don't remember the thrill, the soft, electrical shock of love. But I remember that I once was deep  in the sweet mud-bog  love disguises itself within. I remember, yet I don't remember the physical warmth of loving someone, the cool touch of a lovers hand braille touching my face, and her always smiling once her fingers brushed up against the coarse hairs of my thick goatee. I take back all of what I said. Her laugh. Her laugh I remember so vividly that I laugh with it whenever, wherever I remember it.

Sunday, August 11, 2o19

Art Walk. Extremely warm . . . not hot but an uncomfortable warm. But fun as always. The people. They're the real heroes of Art Walk for me. So beautiful in there humanness, individuality. I take tons of pictures and mostly of the people. The people. Bob and Dog on the right there. No matter how hot, Bob and Dog are there, Bob playing and Dog . . . well, dog watches the money that folks drop into the beat up guitar case next to Bob's chair. {smiles} Like I said . . . people.

3:28pm
Last Night's Dream
A large swimming pool outside a very ritzy Hollywood home, L.A. skyline a few miles away, bright and

shiny. A girl in a very sheer jump suit . . . like I Dream of Jeannie . . . a very thin girl talking on the phone, pacing back and forth. I'm talking on a cell phone on the opposite side of the grand swimming pool. I see the girl faint, I run over to her. Lay down beside her, hold her as smiles at me and says thank you . . . she dies . . . me holding her in my arms.

What is so important about this particular dream for me to mention it on The Daily {W}rite? Well, number one reason? I remembered this damn dream! Seriously, for the last few years I haven't remembered a single dream. No, really. For the last three years (or so) I haven't remembered a single dream. Just a fragment of an image, which is  . . . well, just enough to let me know that, yes, I dreamt a dream . . . but that's all I know about it! And as the day wore on, I would lose even that fragment Yeah, creeping me out just saying it.

So, Quite an exciting thing to wake up this morning and have a full, unedited dream in my mind, and not only do I remember the dream but I remember the circumstances of the dream. The girl was dying from cancer. This was the last night she would be alive, and she wanted to spend that time at her own house . . . not in some hospital. I was her friend. She decided to invite me (and only me) to keep her company while she waited to  . . . pass-on down the road. I was on the phone with one of her other friends when she collapsed. And . . . you know the rest. When she died in my arms . . . I woke up.

Tuesday, August 13, 2o19

Learning is hard. You know, the old dog new tricks theory. But this change in me is not a trick, no sleight of hand, no illusion, delusion, confusion over the plight that faces me, turns me around every day and confronts me . . . "this moment is  your life. What the fuck do you plan to do wit it, this moment?"

A dream smile floats across my lips. I'm old, I'm tired, all night and most of the day I feel the pains of my aging-self . . . and yet I find a rare, exotic feeling forcing my withering-self to dream a bit longer on this page . . . write the words that just can't find fault, no matter how hard I try, with this life . . . my existence in this life . . . my moment of peace in a raging ocean of ranker, black storm cloud-like thoughts. The eye. I'm within the eye. I hope it will not close  . . . for a moment more.

Wednesday, August 14, 2o19
I should get out today. I should slap on sunscreen lotion so my arms won't burn up, a dash on the tip of each ear . . . my hair too thin to protect them and my riding hats cling too close to my head to afford my ears any comfort. Yes, I should go out, ride about town, wave at the neighbors as I soar past them on my hearty mountain bike! But I won't. Why? I tell myself that my body just isn't up to it, my lungs agree because they huff and puff at just the thought of exercise!

I'm drifting. A philosophical cloud pushed about by whatever pipe smoking theory is on the lips of the young intellectuals I run into . . . greet with a skeptical smile and handshake . . . my age and physical appearance on some kind of metaphysical/new age autopsy table . . . "Let's see if the old geez's got under the hood!" My years in on the mud both inspiring and horrifying to those who have not of yet contemplated the idea of death . . . and dying. "Death? Isn't that a plot device in all of Tarantino's movies?"

10:32pm
Gravity, the sleeping giant, pulls at my tired spirit . . . But do not wish to dive into the darkness with the hope of latching onto a dream as I fall, fall, fall . . .
No, damn it not yet! Get back! I will not enter that . . . that emptiness . . . that black hole inside my imagination. I will fill it with stars, bright thought stars burning up what gloominess you throw at them.

But it is time to end this second week of The Daily {W}rite, August, wk 02. So, I will say goodnight to you, reader, and hope you dreams and  . . . well, what much more to wish for than a good dream? {Smile}