May The Daily (W)Rite wk1

The New Daily (W)Rite

wk o1

Thursday,

"The month May was named for the Greek goddess Maia, who was identified with the
 Roman era goddess of fertility, Bona Dea, whose festival was held in May. Conversely, the
Roman poet Ovid provides a second etymology, in which he says that the month of May is named for  the maiores, Latin for "elders," and that the following month (June) is named for the uniores, or "young people" (Fasti VI.88)." -Wikipedia

   Yes, it is May 1st, May Day! honestly, I had forgotten all about it being a "holiday!" I remember celebrating May Day in elementary school, though. The school erected this giant May pole in the middle of the play ground and the WHOLE school came out and dance around it. The WHOLE SCHOOL. We never knew as a kid why we were doing it. We just knew it was fun.

 But May is most important to me because my birthday is in MAY! Yeah, hitting the big six-six this month, 66 years old! Yeah, I'm not quite the Beast (666). However, a few old girlfriends might say, "Close enough for us!" I think birthdays are important. It is the ONE time of year when we celebrate the individual. One day a year it is all about that one person you know who was born on a certain date. It's a good thing to celebrate the birth of a person. For one day they are celebrities, people recognize their existence. Yeah, a very good thing. And mine is coming up! I always do something special for my birthday. I take myself to a movie, maybe dinner, or to the zoo or something. Yeah, sometimes I share my birthday with others but . . . I always like one day for me to just celebrate  . . . me. The biggest thing I do on my birthday is write myself a birthday poem. I've been writing the poems for ten years (or more)! Here's the one I wrote last year:

… At 65

I count the change inside my pocket with my left hand,

my fingers know instinctively the weight and size            
of quarters, nickels, dimes… a delinquent penny
that tries so hard to mask its absolute unworthiness.
But it can’t fool me; Lincoln’s beard is far too prominent.

With eyes half closed I watch the sparrows picking

through the spring-green lawns outside the window.
An extended winter for them; famine and cold,
a darkness so thick the barn owl refused
to hunt at night. Even the sturdy crow refused—

Well, that’s not quite right, no, not true at all.

Crows would never miss an opportunity to stir-up trouble,
taking what they want without a thought for
self-inflicted harms, surviving one worm at a time.
But they hope, crows do, and they pray and so
often they sing when they  really shouldn’t… off key,
most times… boy, how we wish that they wouldn’t.

I once believed myself a crow. A dark, black creature with

enormous kite like wings, sculpting brutal midnight
from the skin of the sky with my ferocious Ginsu beak.
All the while Her Moon-ship screamed at me, “Stop that!”
But I ignored her, didn’t care to hear, never notice all the tears
forming on her cratered face, dissolving into desperate stars.
Selfish little girls are crows, oh, yes, that’s what we are.

According to my fingers there’s exactly sixty-five cents lost somewhere

within the gravitational folds of my black-hole pocket. Should I take
their word for it or count it myself? No. Not once have they lied to me.
Well… Except that one time when I desperately begged them to do so.

Written for Robert R. Woods

on his 65th birthday

May 23rd, 2013

Friday, May o2, 2o14

 

  

  

   Did this interview for a blogger a few weeks ago. He was doing all kinds of interviews with Vietnam Vets for VV Day, which I wasn't even aware existed. Anyway, He wanted a picture of me and we went outside, I stood against a brick wall, and snap, snap! See ya later. I posted a copy of the picture on my Facebook page and David commented that " Man, it looks like the same pose you used in the poster for Cuckoo's Nest!" And he was right! It was almost the same pose! The Nest poster was around thirty-eight years ago. I guess it goes to show that some things don't always change that much, maybe physically, maybe, but thoughts, attitude, dreams, they take longer to dissolve . . . yeah, the memory holds on for most of us. Not sure that's always a good thing. There's a lot of things I've done or have had done to me that I wish I could forget, like that time the drunken stepfather stuck a shotgun in my gut, or the time me and Adcock broke up, her leaving me all alone in L. A. where I didn't want to be in the first place. Yeah, shit like that. I could do without the memory. You know that "wise" saying, "Those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it."? Well, when it comes to bad things in one's life, I don't think it holds true. I think the MORE we remember, the MORE likely we are to repeat the same mistakes over and over again in an attempt, I guess, to get it right. That's a laugh.

   Went with David to his physical therapy today. Not sure what's wrong with him, and it's none of my business anyway. As the physical therapist took him to the exercise room, I said, "I expect you to

come back 20 years younger." Everybody in the waiting room laughed. Most of them were even older than me and David so I guess they kind of related to the idea, at least. It's not fun to sit in a physical therapy waiting room because a lot of seriously fucked up people come in there. This one kid, who looked like a high school football player, was all hunched over, clinging to one of this four pronged canes, and, brother, every move he made just trying to get into the building HURT! And day before yesterday this really, REALLY old guy came in for a massage and he had to have three caregivers to walk him in. I was wondering why they didn't just roll him in, in a wheelchair. I guess, he needed to keep walking even though it took three people to help him walk AND sit down. I think I fear that most about getting old. Can't move around, do my thing. Mind going? That's bad too, but not as bad as not being able to go anywhere, do anything without all kinds of folks to help you.



Saturday, May o3, 2o14

 

  It's a beautiful Saturday afternoon outside my window. But for me it's still morning. I didn't even open my eyes until 11:30 AM.  I gotta get out of this habit of staying up until five or so in the A M. Not sure how I got into it in the first place. Maybe because when I was working, I always had to jump out of bed by six every morning. Now I don't have to. But I should. I need to get up early, jump in the shower, get dressed and head out to The Gray Owl and WRITE. I'm getting back to the idea of writing . . . but not enough. Why am I so lethargic? Am I sick? Yeah, you start worrying about things like that when you get older. Normal aches and pains, normal when you younger, start taking on symptoms of something more serious like the dreaded (wait for it) CANCER! Yeah, I try NOT to worry about that too much, however, I am well aware that it is possible. So, the big plan is to start getting up in the mornings and . . .  WRITE, DAMN IT! Write anything, anywhere! Just friggin' WRITE! Coffee, nicotine gum, paper and pen (or computer). I haven't really written much lately using the ancient tools of our ancestors . . . pen and paper. Hell, I am as addicted to using the computer as I am to nicotine and caffeine. I'm a computer junky, I'm mainlining the internet, YouTube, Facebook, Wikipedia! Thank God I can't afford Netflix!

Sunday, May o4, 2o14



   Yes, May The 4th Be With You. I learned awhile back that there is a "holiday" for just about everything, and, yes, a holiday for every day of the year . . . Yep, pretty much. Most of these "holidays" are obscure and not actually "sanctioned" but who cares. Holidays are fun! And to think of each day as a holiday, a day for celebration . . . well, there are worse ways to live one's life. Some of my hardcore Star War fan friends are spending the day watching ALL the Star War movies. Some, less hardcore, are watching only their favorite SW movie. I myself . . . Well, I watched Jaws last night. I know, sacrilege. Although I do appreciate the Star Wars series . . . I only liked the first movie. I know, I'll burn in hell. However, I do  sincerely wish my SW friends a wonderful 4th Be With You Day!

   I was suppose to go do laundry today. I got up at 8:30, YES! I actually got up before

noon, and I had plan to go to the laundry, got all my dirty clothes (well, not all because I don't have a big enough bag to put them all in AND be able to carry it slung over my shoulder . . on my bicycle.), my laundry detergent, my Clorox, quarters already to go the night before . . . and then I just decided not to.  I know. I SHOULD do laundry . . . and clean the house . . . and shower more often. But I'm comfortable with my rather slovenly life style. Not sure I'm using the word "slovenly" right . . . but bad vocabulary works well with my way of living. The good thing is, as I said above, I got up at 8:30 in the morning! Now maybe I can get some order back in my life and do all those boring chores I need to do in order to be accepted into society.

Tuesday, May o6, 2o14

Yesterday, David and I went to see THE AMAZING SPIDER-MAN which wasn't quite as amazing as the director and Sony Pictures probably wished it was going to be.

But then again, the box office take will be outrageous enough that they (probably) don't care if it's a good flick. I got friends who don't care. They're "happy" with the film! In fact, I got a bit chewed by one of my pals because I didn't like it. Yes, I'm a "hater." That's very true. I HATE movies that aren't good, that aren't well produced, movies directed by hacks who don't yet have the skills to direct a major motion picture. And the primary problem with this film is the director, and, of course, Sony Pictures, the company that HAD to get something out there (good or bad) because they were about to lose their lease on the franchise. Can't let a chance to make money go by. Hurry up! Throw SOMETHING out there!

   As grumpy as I sound I do like going to the movies. I like "planning' the outing to the Warren:
Me: Okay, David I'll wake you up at 9:30 am. That'll give you enough time to shower, drink

coffee.

David: What time you want me to pick you up?

Me: Hmm, well, the movie starts at 11 am. 10:30 should be good . . .

David: But what if it's crowed?

Me: On a Monday morning? No, there probably won't be anyone there but you and me.

   And I love haggling with the ticket girl: "Got any discounts for old people?" "No, sir. Only at night. But we do have a matinee discount, $7.50." "Yeah! Two at $7.50, please."

 Getting popcorn and a large ice tea is also fun, and going into the huge, dark auditorium, waiting for our eyes to adjust and meticulously picking our seats for optimum viewing pleasure. AND previews! Love to see what's coming up and discussing with my viewing partner which movie to come looks good, and which do NOT! It's all fun!
And it's particularly fun if the movie is really good. Not so much fun when it sucks. But even that has an enjoyment factor. At least I can bitch about how BAD it was and complain on Facebook and my blog about it! (smile)

 

 





 

 

 

 

  

   

   

 

 

 

 

 

The New Daily (W)Rite April wk 1

The New Daily (W)Rite

wko1

Thursday,  April 3, 2o14

 

So March 29th was Vietnam Veteran's Day. I have to be honest and say . . . I didn't know we had a Vietnam Veteran's Day! It may be a new thing. Anyway, a Facebook friend (Rustin Sparks) writes this page, Oklahoma, The Way I See It, and he decided to do this Vietnam Veteran Day special where he interviews vets. And I got in touch with him and we had lunch, well, HE had lunch. I just sipped on an ice tea. And we talked a long time about Oklahoma and Norman Town . . . and when we finished he took my picture . . . and we never got around to talking about Vietnam! However, when I got home, I received an IM from him asking me to write down some stuff about my experiences. He asked me some specific questions, and I wrote a LOT! When I get talking about 'Nam, I write a BIG LOT! He only published a bit of what I wrote. So, I thought I'd share the pic he took AND the stories I told him on my blog.

Marine Corps Cooks

In Vietnam
(Semper Fi, Stir and Fry)

 

1. How old were you when you went to Vietnam?
I was 19 years when I hit Vietnam. When I got to the staging area to catch a convoy to whatever unit I was assigned, I saw a couple of black Marines sitting in the dirt listening intently to a portable radio that was broadcasting the news: “Dr. King has been assassinated.” So, that was either the 4^th or maybe the 5^th of April of 1968. I would turn 20 years old in May.

2. What did you do in the war?

I was a Marine Corps cook assigned to a headquarters unit at Camp Carroll. Yeah, being a cook was not very glamorous. In Nam people respected us okay because you don’t fuck with the guy who cooks your food, but stateside? We were the lowest of the low. I wrote this monologue about being a cook in Vietnam. Most of it is true:

Nam ‘69

What you see before you is a United States Marine,

the finest fighting man in the entire world today!For a cost of three hundred fifty-two dollars and… thirty-two cents

my Marine Corps gave to me this fine

M-16 rifle. For an additional cost of

eight hundred and forty-seven dollars

my Marine Corps taught me to fire this fine M-16 rifle

with such speed and accuracy that I’m capable of knocking

a fly off a shit wagon at about’a thousand meters.

For a total expenditure of three thousand, eight hundred,

ninety-nine dollars and… thirty-two cents

My Marine Corps successfully transformed me

from a puky civilian… like you…

into a lean, mean, fighting machine!

And then do you know what my Marine Corps

in its infinite wisdom did? It sent me to Vietnam

as a goddamn cook! This was embarrassing.

When I came home from Vietnam and

I would walk down the street in my fine,

Marine green uniform, people would stop me

and ask, “Hey, man, are you a Marine?!”

And I would answer, “Sir, yes, sir!”

And they would say, “Hey, man, were you

in the Nam?’

And I would answer, “Sir, yes, sir!”

And they would say, “Hey, man,

what did you do in the Nam?”

And I would answer, “Sir, I was a cook, sir!”

“A cook?! Why, boy, you ain’t shit!”

If you are a cook in the Nam… no one will write to you.

Your mama and daddy will not write to you.

Your mama and your daddy if asked by a neighbor,

“Hey, man, where is your son?” would rather say,

“ Oh, he’s a draft dodger up in Canada…”

Than admit that you’re a cook in the Nam

‘cause they are embarrassed!

The only people who will write you

are the ugly girls who advertise

for pen pals in the Stars and Stripes.

Still you do not tell them you are a cook

for they are ugly  and have enough

to be embarrassed about already.

There is a brother in the Nam

from San Francisco and of Oriental descent.

For the price of five American dollars

he will dress up in black pajamas and

you can have your picture taken capturing

a genuine Viet Cong  to send

to the ugly girls who advertise

for pen pals in the Stars and Stripes.

Sooner or later they will send you

pictures of themselves…

And if they are too ugly,

there’s another brother  in the Nam

who will write them back and say,

“Dear Suzy Q, Joe Blow will not

be writing you anymore for he has stepped

on a landmine and killed himself.”

Now, this may sound cruel to a civilian… like you,

but as all good Marines know, war is… embarrassing!

 

3. Give me two or three of your most prominent memories of the war.

   a. Once I was in the mess hall storage area stacking some C Ration cases when an enemy rocket landed just outside the mess hall. Damn thing hit so close it knocked me off my feet. I lay on my belly with my arms wrapped around my head. I could hear the shrapnel flying right above me. I waited for the sound to stop, got up and ran for the nearest bunker.

 

   b. As I said before, I worked for a Headquarters unit which was made up of a bunch office pogues. I don’t know what they did. Just a lot of paper pushing, sort of Marine Corps accounts, I guess. Anyway, the pogues hated it when the grunt units would roll into town and wanted to use “their” mess hall. And the grunts hated the pogues because they acted all high and mighty. It was sort of like the Sharks and the Jets except with bigger guns and not much ballet dancing (hee!). Anyway, I was chief cook this one time, and one of the pot shed grunts told me there was a problem in the mess tent

where the pogues and grunts sat to eat chow. So, I go rushing in there, and sure enough there’s this grunt on top a picnic table yelling at some office pogues, "I’m gonna kill you motherfuckers!” He pulls a grenade off his flak jacket and pulls the pin! Fortunately, his buddies talked him down, got the pin back into the grenade and quickly got the fuck out of there. I went over to the pogues (they were all cowering in a corner of the tent) and asked what the hell happened. Well, turns out they were all pissed ‘cause the grunts were there, and they started picking on this one kid saying stuff like, “Boy, you smell. Don’t you ever take a bath?” This pissed me off and I told them that if they wanted to use my mess hall again (it wasn’t MY mess hall, but what the hell) they better not fuck with anybody anymore!

c. Cooks got along with the grunts. We respected them. One time me and this other cook were shutting down the mess for the night when this group of nine grunts came out of the jungle! They must have been on some kind of patrol. This one grunt asked if they could still get chow. We couldn’t heat anything up because the stoves were all off, but we could get them some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and some milk. They said that was fine, so we feed them and then we finished shutting down the mess for the night.  An hour later, me and that other cook go to the club for a beer and there are the grunts we fed sitting at a table. The head grunt motioned us over. Him and his pals wanted to buy us a beer for feeding them. Well, you learn real fast to NEVER turn down a free beer. So we sat and that head grunt pushed his chair real close to us and thank us again for feeding them. And then he said, “Is there anybody giving you any trouble?” And me and the other guy laughed and said, “Yeah, our Staff Sergeant is a real pain in the ass.” AND then the grunt got even closer and said, "Tell me where his hooch is. He won’t bother you again." And it dawned on us that this cat was serious. We said it was okay. We didn’t want that kind of thing. And that grunt just looked at me and said real soft and gentle like, "Are you sure? ‘Cause I’d do it, man. I got nothing to lose. I’m not gonna make it out of this country alive, anyway.”

4. When did you come home, and what was your transition back to civilian life like?

Well, I left Nam on April 18^th, 1969. But I didn’t get out of the Corps until ’71. I did get a 30 day leave that I got to spend with my parents. And I learned that in civilian life, at the dinner table, you shouldn’t say, “Pass the motherfucking mashed potatoes, please.” I did go on a blind date with some girl that an old friend of mine had set up for me. We were walking down the street, a car backfired and I jumped down into the gutter with my hands over my head. The Girl didn’t know what to make of that. Needless to say . . .  no goodnight  kiss. In the 80s I was working at the Library Bar washing dishes on a Saturday afternoon, and it was hot, and the kitchen reminded me of the mess hall at Camp Carroll, and there was 60s music playing, and one of the cooks threw an ice cream scoop into the empty metal sink next to me as he yelled, “INCOMING!” and the sound that scoop made when it hit the sink? Well, it sounded like a rocket hitting so I hit the ground. I thought it was so funny that so many years later my body had not forgotten what to do when the rockets come. 

5. What is your favorite thing to do now, and why?

Well, take pictures, write poetry and watch TV. Sometimes I write about Vietnam. Not much though. I did write a play about Marine Corps cooks in Vietnam. Actually, I got it produced through the Street Players Theatre back in the 90s. It went over pretty good, I think.
 
4:56 PM

Believe it or not, David and I were out of our respective holes by 9 AM! Yes, it's true. He called about 8:30 saying he had some "chores" to do around town. I'm not sure if he was still up or if he had gone to sleep for a few hours . . . but I jumped at the chance. I shaved fast, brushed the old teeth and was waiting for him to call me on the phone.

First stop was the library. We just walked in the doors and BAM! The lights in the library went out! No big thing 'cause the library has BIG windows. The cute librarian told us about a sort of contest they were having. Each library worker picked 5 (?) books and created a short poem from the titles they selected. And the library users were voting on which poem they like the best.

Next stop . . . the tag agency. He needed to get his tags for the car renewed. I went in and the girl doing the picture taking for the licenses asked if I need any help. I said, "Naw, just waiting on this guy." "Were you in the military?" she asked. I'm sure she was reading my blue jean jacket with all my Marine Corps patches on it. I was waiting for the "thank you for your service" cliché that folks like to say to anyone they suspect was in the military. "The reason I asked," she continued, "is that if your driver's license has a "Veteran" tag on it, you can get free stuff around town. You can get the tag for free." So, I took her up on it and then she added, "Oh! I need proof that you were really in the military . . . " I showed her the "war wound" I had on my finger. Not enough to get the vet. tag. She needed something in writing. Oh, well.

And then it was coffee time. Lights were out in the Gray Owl . . . but again, not too much problem they had the BIG windows too. And fortunately, they had coffee already brewed. We both got iced coffee to make sure. While we were there an old friend of mine, Norman Hammon, came in. "Hi, guys," he said to me and David. Norman was once a really good friend of mine. But that was way back in time. These days, we just give each other a friendly, "hi" and a fast handshake. Too much bullshit had happen for us to call ourselves friends anymore, I guess.

So, after coffee, we went out to the car and David had a ticket for expired tags. Hee! Turned out he should have put the tags on the car right after he got them. And that was our day. Tomorrow we are heading to the  Medieval Fair. Lots of picture taking tomorrow! :)
 



 

March The Daily (W)Rite March wk 4

The New Daily (W)Rite

wk o4

Sunday, March 23, 2o14

March 23, 2o14

Afternoon sits on the windowsill
along with Dead Elvis,
Dexter and the other guys.
I'm sure the spring sun's surprised
to see the plastic snowman smile
as he dances on the window ledge
in greetings to the spring ahead.
My Peeps won't last the summer
if I leave them there and the window ledge,
and that's somewhat of a bummer.
I want the world, the trees
in the Energy Center parking lot,
the gray squirrels that will spend
their warm summer days
eating nuts and things beneath
the shade of those wonderful trees,
yes, I want them ALL to see
the tiny creatures that haunt my apartment.
rrw o3-23-14

Yes, it certainly is spring! However, it is a bit chilly and rainy. Folks are still out on the streets in their stocking caps and heavy winter coats, and the trees haven't begun to give birth to their lovely green children. But the birds know it's spring. I know it's spring by the winds breath. Yeah, still a bit cool but there's something gentle to the touch of it on my cheek, in my hair. No doubt . . . it's spring!

Tuesday, March 25, 2o14



March 24, 2o14 (Spring Poem No. 5)

"May I climb on top of you?
I'm very hot . . ." she said.
David just finished brushing
the toast crumbs from his beard,
I stared like a dead eagle at her tattoos:
A wild stallion outlined in black
galloping up a green, bicep hill side,
a drunken Donald Duck
posed for a fight
on her muscular, bare shoulder.
Caption: WHAT the FU***
you lookin at!
"Sure." I'm sure I said sure.
I know I was smiling.
She leaps up, no
flies like Superman,
up, up, and away
onto the booth seat,
one hand playfully, skillfully
turns the thermostat knob down
to sixty-five degrees.
"Ah, that's better."
She then waddles past us
to the table that needed clearing
leaving David and me admiring
the heroic acts
of the tip driven waitress
who served us spring breakfast
this lovely afternoon.

 

Yep! Yesterday I did get David up and out of his apartment just in time for breakfast at The Diner. He ate pretty light, bird like. I, of course, scarfed down a plate full of scrambled eggs wrapped in a hot flower tortilla and home-fries (back in NM we called them papitas!).  Bette Maffucci was there. We said hi as she passed our booth. We didn't notice until we were finished eating that she was sitting alone right behind us! So, we went over and apologized for not inviting her to sit with us, and we sit down to chat with her. Bette owned and ran the old Town Tavern back when I worked here. She's the one who gave me my first job in Norman Town. A feisty woman even now with lots of opinions. VERY disappointed in me when I told her we were getting ready to go to Wal-Mart for groceries. She doesn't like Wal-Mart. She thinks you should buy only local. It was great to see her. It was great just to get out of the apartment and visit with the world . . . even if it was only for a little while.

Thursday, March 27, 2014

March 26, 2o14 (Spring Poem No. 6)
 
Spring rain brings hope.
You can see it on the sidewalks,
in the leisurely stroll
of those passing by.
No hurry in a spring's rain.
Even the cars that usually rush
passed my window . . .
patiently gliding along,
their engines sigh like . . .
like a newborn waking up
after a midmorning nap.
The sparrows too
seem somewhat subdued
when a clean spring rain
comes calling.
No yelling, no screaming,
no honking of horns.
We humans . . . a strange species.
Quite gentle we can be at times.
rrw o3-26-14

Sorry. Got busy doing . . . well . . . nothing actually. I just missed a day. It's late. Very late. I'll write something tomorrow.

 

 

March The Daily (W)Rite wk3

The New Daily (W)Rite



wk o3

Monday

David and I went to this last weekend's Art Walk. I know, every town or city that has an art community probably has an Art Walk of some kind either like ours or just like ours. I know Tulsa's Art Walk is almost identical to ours except theirs happens on the 1st Friday of the month and ours
talks place on the 2nd Friday of the month. So, all Art Walks are set up about the same . . . but each is its own experience, its unique self made up of artists from the area that they live in! Yes, there are some artists from other places, but for the most part the art you'll see is by local artists. The nice thing about Norman's Art Walk is that it gives you a chance to "mingle" with every type of human beings Norman has to offer. You can meet starving artists (is there any other kind?),  rich patrons, community  leaders, rich folk, poor folk, musicians, OU students, locals the young and the old. If you want to see Norman Town, the people that define it, our Art Walk is a good place to start.

Wednesday, March 19, 2o14

Finding it difficult to write. Well, finding it difficult to do anything except sleep and eat and watch TV. Takes all my will just to sit here and try to think of something worth putting down in my blog.

Could be a mental block. It could be physical in part. I am feeling rather tired, light-headed. Could be a combination of the two. More than likely it is both with a smidgen of depression which is always here inside me. . . or maybe the depression is caused by the mental and physical fatigue. No way to know for sure.

I have no ambitions of any kind. I don't care about anything . . . at least not today. Just don't want to write poetry, feel like there's nothing worth writing about . . . and yet I know there is plenty to write about. I just can't see it clearly. As I said before, I've been looking over my old poetry and find it hard to read . . . It's horrible writing, nothing but a bunch of clichéd observations . . . poorly written all of it. So, here's where I am right now: ABSOLUTELY NOWHERE. Hope I can pull it together soon. I think I'll signoff for awhile. Maybe later I'll have something more interesting to say. :(

Friday, March 21, 2o14

Yes, it's Friday. Even more important, Friday night! Well, Friday night use to be important. Back when you couldn't wait to get out to the bars to drink . . . and maybe pick up somebody for a little "after hour" partying. Yeah, you remember how it use to be. At work in the glass plant. Counting down the hours until quitting time. Jumping in the shower as soon as you got home 'cause the glass plant is a hot and greasy and you by working in it for 12 hours today is beyond filthy. Takes a good hour just to get the stink off  you. Lots of soap and hot, hot as you can stand it, water pumping out of the shower head. And then dry off with one of mom's fluffiest towels, shave, brush the teeth and slap on the Friday night threads . . . sometimes a tie but never knotted tight . . . loose, that's the way to wear a Friday night tie. And then to the bars. looking as you drink for that one set of eyes that continues to look your way. An maybe you both look at each other at the same time and maybe you go home (her place or mine) together and . . .

Well, that's night Friday nights any more for me. Mostly . . . well, mostly it's just watching TV and listening to the cars drive don Trout Ave. THEY re moving towards the bars. And if I stay up past 2 in the morning, I get to hear the college boys who live next door whooping and laughing their way into their house. Yes, sometimes I'm jealous of them. Jealous of their energy, their hope that something good will happen . . . if I can just get drunk enough.

6:17 PM

So, Spring in our humble Norman Town came to visit yesterday, and somehow that inspired me to write a poem about the "first day of Spring." AND that inspired me to write ANOTHER Spring poem today! So here they are. The first writing I have done in a while.

Spring Poems

 March 20, 2014

The first day of spring
as warm and comforting
as the thick coats,
the wool hats
we gratefully sling
into the darkest corners
of the cluttered closet.
The birds too conservative
with their happy cheeps and chirrups
they've known the warmer skies ...
that had transformed quite suddenly
into a harsh winter storm
the one they'd experienced
just the day before.

 March 21, 2014

Sparrows do not care for coffee.
This one is curious though.
Adventurous enough
to hop over to my cup,
jump up on its rim
and dip his beak in!
With a shudder
he flutters away.
I could never be a sparrow.
I love the bitter, bitterness
of black, black coffee
and the shady shadows
of a shadowy spring morning.

 

March The Daily (W)Rite WK 2

The New Daily (W)Rite

wk o2

Wednesday,

Here's my dilemma: I want to write everyday, but I never do it! Why? Hmmm, that's a damn good question. I tell myself I'm too tired, I'm too sick (sometimes), it's too cold, too hot, too "nice"  a day to not go out . . . Sometimes I tell myself there's nothing to write about. Of course, that's nonsense. There's always something to write about. Sometimes, I tell myself, you're not a good enough writer. That may be true. I've been looking over a lot of my poetry lately, and I really don't like most of it. The poems are just not right. Lots of clichés, misspellings, and the phrasing is just B-O-R-I-N-G! but I'll never get better at it unless I WRITE.

Things I Don't Like:

1.   I don't like the chubby little girl who pours my coffee into a paper To-Go cup but doesn't put a sleeve on it OR a lid. A new deal at the Gray Owl, I guess, that I must now put MY own

sleeve, MY own To-Go lid on the cup of coffee you just handed me! Why? Do you not know that the paper coffee cup is HOT and I burn my fingers as I try to carry it over to where the sleeves are stored on the condiment counter . . . five feet away? And when I ask her to kindly put a the lid on my To Go cup, she's so put out: that disgruntled little smile, that crucified sigh she makes as she begrudgingly slaps the plastic lid on.

2.   I don't like MSNBC talking about race all the time! Everyday there's something about race. Yesterday, the nice MSNBC news host, Joy Reid, showed her audience a bunch of people (white people) wearing pseudo-traditional African clothing, in different colored make-ups (gray, blue, red,) but not black, and then asks her viewers, "Do you think this is raciest? I think it's raciest." I don't know if everything is raciest. Just because a white person takes pictures of themselves dressed in African like garb and paints their faces different colors, doesn't mean their raciest. They may be insensitive to other people . . . but who isn't insensitive these days . . . or in any period of American history. Take the picture above that I worked on. Is it raciest because the skin color is brown? It's not. Doesn't have anything to do with race. I was just creating a fantasy TROLL character. But some would see it and see me, and because I'm "white" and I created it, I must be raciest. I know race is a touchy thing for all of us. But sometimes things we may create have nothing to do with race.


3.   I don't like myself much. Particularly when I go off on some rant and become totally unreasonable. And I do that a lot. It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't get so angry about it and express that anger in mean ways. But then again, is there anything wrong with being angry with current events, frustrated with other people? Of course not. Hell, we all have opinions, things we feel deeply. Most art is based on our views of the world, and a lot of that art is not pretty, not kind. I guess I'm not upset with myself for getting angry about life . . . I just need to find a "positive" way to express my feelings.

Thursday, March 13, 2o14

I'm thinking a lot about writing today. It's pretty simple. All I need to do is write. Yeah, but you know that old fear of failure troll that strolls around inside my brain housing group? That little turd ball can be quite intimidating. But I need to write. I need to do something with what little life I got left.

Way back in the 70s and 80s there was a photographer name Cindy Zimmerman - or as she called herself, Cindy Zimmerwoman, which we at The Tav shortened to just "ZIMMERWOMAN! -

decided to document The Town Tavern days when Bette Maffucci owned the little restaurant on Campus Corner. A great place for food, art and conversation. it was home to us "locals" and students. Some of the best times (and the worse times) of my life were spent at The Tavern. I worked there as a cook and . . .  an actor for Street Players Theatre. Anyway, The Tavern closed sometime in the late 80s. Just recently Bette started a Friends of The On & Only Town Tavern page on Facebook, and Zimmerwoman appeared with all these wonderful photos from The Tavern days . . . and I guess it inspired me to get started on documenting my "Life in Norman Town" through poetry and pictures. Yeah, I really want to do this. I mean, I gotta do something with my life, right? Something more than watching TV, staring out the window, drinking coffee and spending to much time wondering how the hell my existence got so . . . screwed up. if you want to know more about The Tav., try this site: https://www.facebook.com/groups/170260288976/

Friday, march 14, 2o14

 

Great art is the outward expression of an inner life in the artist, and this inner life will result in his personal vision of the world.

Edward Hopper

Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/e/edward_hopper.html#jxlTaccG6zDzOwWX.99



Great art is the outward expression of an inner life in the artist, and this inner life will result in his personal vision of the world.

Edward Hopper

Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/e/edward_hopper.html#jxlTaccG6zDzOwWX.99

"Great art is the outward expression of an inner life in the artist, and this inner life will result in his personal vision of the world. No amount of skillful invention can replace the essential element of imagination. One of the weaknesses of much abstract painting is the attempt to substitute the inventions of the human intellect for a private imaginative conception. The inner life of a human being is a vast and varied realm and does not concern itself alone with stimulating arrangements of color, form and design. The term life used in art is something not to be held in contempt, for it implies all of existence and the province of art is to react to it and not to shun it. Painting will have to deal  more fully and less obliquely with life and nature's phenomena before it can again become great."

Edward Hopper

Yes, I'm thinking a lot about art today, about writing, about photography as an art form. Where do I belong in art? What am I writing about? What do I wish to express?
I got turned on to Hopper because of a comment made on Facebook about one of my pictures I posted, "Where's Edward Hopper when you need him?" I took that statement as a slam. Of course I take everything as a slam. I wrote back, "Who's Edward Hopper?" ANOTHER friend spoke up, "You don't know who Edward Hopper is? Shame on you Woody!" And again I took offense to that remark . . . plus the fact that my friend spelled my name wrong. IT'S W-O-O-D-I-E, damn it!

But after I threw a private fit - my "friends" can be so pretentious sometimes - I decided to do a little research on the guy, and yes, I know WHO the guy is . . . okay, or least, I know one of his paintings, Nighthawks. And, yes, it is a favorite painting, though in all honesty, I don't think about it all the time.

And having read his biography, I realized I have a lot in common with this artist. His attitude towards art, his rather reclusive behavior . . . yeah, a lot in common with this guy. I found that Hopper quote about art on Wikipedia. Even though it's about painting, it really hit home to me about art in general. I need yet to discover my point of view, my 'voice" as a professor once said to me.

So it's Art walk tonight. Got my camera already to go. Taking shots tonight with the conscious 

idea of making pieces of art. Not just what I "see" but what my heart and mind see. Does that make sense? You see, I've been caught for awhile now between what I think an artist should create and what I as an artist want to create. For example, I want to take pictures that are not just pictures of a thing or a person but expresses something more. I like the idea of distorting pictures, using black and white, and color, and a mixture of both color and monochrome. like in this picture on the left.

So, my goal is to start discovering my voice as a photographer AND a poet. I wanna start doing things my way and not the way everybody tells me I should do it, DAMN IT! :)
 

March The Daily (W)Rite wk 1

The New Daily (W)Rite

wk o1



 Saturday, March o1

   Yes, Saturday. The first of March. Not an exceptional day. Cold, yes. A little drizzly out their in Norman Town. Not really wet, more slimy than rainy. Sort of like a snake. Not even close to the entrance of the lion that someone, somewhere, some time ago labeled the month as being. But it's understandable. The weather patterns are changing drastically . . . but NOT due to Global Warming (smile).
  
   Days are beginning to fade into each other. Months are too. I'm finding it difficult to keep up 

with time these days. One minute, an hour, a day . . . they're all blending together forming a giant blob of aging existence. Hmmm, okay. A bit too heavy handed with the bleak imagery, the metaphors, the similes. But I'm a poet struggling to find his real voice. So, going overboard with the phrasing . . . should be expected.

   If you haven't guessed yet, dear, reader, I am feeling a bit fragile today. Well, no surprise there. Fragile seems to be a constant state within me. But today . . . well, today . . . The past is creeping up on me taking its sweet time too rummaging inside my head looking for . . .  what? Actually, it is probably more truthful to say that I'm stalking the past because the past can't do anything . . . it's the past. Only I can conjure up all the misery of my life . . . or should I say, "lives?"

   I'm a bit worried about my friend, David. Has had a lot of different surgeries and "procedures" these last two weeks. Had a couple root canals . . . a battle with cancer . . .  cirrhosis of the liver . . . and just getting old. Time hasn't been that kind to either of us. Or maybe we just haven't been that kind to time.

Sunday, March o2, 2o13

Okay, so here's the big scoop for Norman Town today  . . . It is frigging cold! Yesterday it did climb up to somewhere in the 50s. But today? Holy crap! 14 degrees, snow, sleet, THUNDER and LIGHTING? The way you love me is frightening! Yea, I'm well aware that other states have it much worse. But no matter what it is in Minnesota, Alaska, New York . . . IT'S FRIGGING COLD HERE!

It is rather nice to sit all day in my semi-warm apartment (I do have my ratty blue sweater on, of course.), the coffee is warm and the view from my computer table window is rather exciting. Yes, I'm excited about watching people suffer through the weather. The neighbor with the very cute girlfriend spent about a half hour outside (thick gloves, winter hoodie) scraping an inch or so of ice off ALL the windows of his girlfriend's car. She hid out

in the apartment while her man slaved. So much for equality. AND as usual, I saw Bicycle Girl riding her mountain bike down the snow and covered street. I should change her name to Mail Girl 'cause nothing stops her from riding that damn bike!

So, what have I been doing all day? Nothing too exciting. Didn't get up until 11 AM. Yes, I know, I'm a mess. I need to get up earlier and DO SOMETHING. I haven't felt much like it. I have been writing a bit (as you can tell). Not just here. I have been "think" writing. You know what that is? It's just writing sort of stream of consciousness only. . . conscious that I'm doing it. I've come to the conclusion that I suck as a poet. I'm out to make myself less of a sucky poet. So, I write a lot and watching how I write it. I am going to be an important poet! So, I need to work for it.

Monday, March o3, 2014

 

Spent most of yesterday (12:30 PM to 11 PM) watching the Oscars festivities. I find it odd that I love shows about fashion considering I have no fashion sense at all. T-shirts, jeans, sweaters and chucks that's about all the fashion I care for when it comes to my personal dress . . . Oh! And hats. I do love a good hat. So, I'm a simple man, and there's nothing wrong with that. But I do love watching celebrities during the award season, I love listening to the self-proclaimed fashionistas gab about what the "beautiful people are wearing. And I DO love the Oscars because . . . well, I love movies, actors, directors . . . all of the performers in performing arts.

 

What I don't like, however, are all the criticism I heard today about last nights Oscars ceremony. All these wannabe artists, all those political movers and shakers had nothing but distain for a show I found to be very pleasant and fun. The worst was Rush Limbaugh as usual.  He disrespected the winner for best picture, 12 Years a Slave, without even seeing the movie. Why? Well, because Rush like a lot of other people knew that this movie would win ONLY because it had the word "slave" in it. And we know what he meant by that. But to be fair, just as many people on the Left had things to say about it too. MSNBC "experts" said it was good that it won, but there's still not enough movies made with African-Americans in the lead roles. Both sides got highly political about the Oscars and Hollywood. Which is the way it needs to be right now. Equality in America for ALL her citizens won't be achieved unless we keep fighting over it. But some time in the future the color of skin, the gender of a person, the political beliefs of individuals won't be as big a deal as it is now. Things are changing on both sides of the argument. It just isn't going to happen overnight.