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?