July The Daily (W)Rite '14 wk1

The Daily (W)Rite

Sunday

Alright! Got my picture app. back! Now let's get down to the business of writing.
Happy 4th, America. God love us. As messed up as we seem to be with immigration issues, civil rights issues, gay rights issues, religious issues . . . ! Well, the list of troubles go on and on! But we gotta keep hanging in there. Doing the right thing when we can, fight the good fight at all times with a sense of integrity, honesty and care for all Americans including those that we don't agree with on ANYTHING! Yeah, I know. Why  or how do we love and care for those idiots! Hee! Well, there's the rub, huh? But be caring to all as you strive to make this country worth living in. Make it worthwhile for ALL its folk.

6:24 pm

Well, last month I got to go to my first comic convention, Sooner Con 23. I had been wanting to go to one for a long time. The Diego one, the most famous one, I could never

get tickets for, and I didn't really know about one in the Las Vegas, New Mexico area. But this year due mostly to Facebook and my friend David's kids, I learned about Sooner Con, and I lucked out. one of my friends here in Norman wanted to go and he invited me along. Great! It was so much fun to see all these folks dressed up in costume, talk to fans and writers about horror, fantasy
and, of course, comic books.

The best moment of the whole journey was attending one of the forums on voice acting. It just so happened that an ex-student of mine, Jamie Marchi, was talking about her experience writing scripts and voice  acting in anime. When I came into the workshop, she introduced me to the crowd as her acting coach. People applauded and one guy shook my hand. I turned a bit red and said something stupid, but it was really nice of her, and she did a great job talking about being a working actor. I'm really proud of her.



 

June The Daily (W)Rite wk3

Monday

On June 9th (or maybe the 10th) My mother died. She had fallen down and broken something. At the hospital they said it was her hip and that trying to fix it would probably kill her. Then they decided it wasn't a broken hip but a fractured pelvis. This was treatable, a minor surgery which she would pull through easily. . . but it must not have been too minor. In recovery her heart just stopped. She died. She was ninety years old . . . almost ninety-one.

Mom was one of the original Rosie the Riveters back in WWII. When I was  6 or so she was still working a punch press at this metal shop across the street from where we lived. She also tended bar. Beer bars. She met Dad in a bar somewhere in San Diego, I think. Pops was in the Navy. They hit it off because they were both big drinkers. I don't remember too many times when Mom and Dad didn't have a beer in their hands.

I remember having the chicken pox when I was little. I was scared bad. and Mom took care of me. Chicken soup! Yeah, lots of chicken soup (for chicken pox) and the miracle elixir for all sick kids in the 1950s, 7-UP! Mom had all kinds of home remedies in her apron. She cured my brother's warts by rubbing them with a dirty dish cloth then burying it in the backyard. It Worked! Next morning my brother woke me up (we slept in the same room, shared the same bed for a long time) to announce that his warts were magically gone.

When I got back from Vietnam, I sat down in front of the TV at my Mom's new apartment to watch the Ali fight. The fight started, Mom came into the room from her kitchen (It seems that most memories of Mom are her in a kitchen), stared at the TV for a second, and then walked over (actually she stomped over) and unceremoniously shut the TV off. "Why'd you do that," I asked. "You can't watch that man in my house." "Why not?" She turned around and stared at me. It looked like she was going to cry. "Because you went to Vietnam and he didn't."

We had this ceremony, the Woods Clan did, ever summer. The Smashing of the Black Cat. Mom  bought this ceramic black cat "piggy" bank. All year long we kids would put pennies, dimes and nickels, all the loose change we could dig up and deposit in the  cat's coin slot in the back of its head. And when it got close to vacation time, we would gather in the living room (me, Mom, Dad, my sister and brother) and break open the cat with a hammer, count all those pennies (mostly pennies) and nickels and dimes and decide where we could afford to go on summer vacation! Of course, we kids always voted for Disneyland, but we went other places too, like Yosemite, Las Vegas ( not a lot to do for a kid in Las Vegas), the beach . . . Well, I'm not sure there was enough in that damn bank to really take a family of five anywhere. Mom and Dad knew that. They always paid for some really cool vacation someplace. That cat didn't pay for anything. It was just a fun thing to do all year, putting found coins in the cat, like we kids were actually paying for something.

When I heard about the passing of my mother I didn't really react to it. My sister who called to tell me the news was disappointed that I didn't make more of fuss, scream and pound my chest, yell something like, " WHY,WHY, WHYYYYYY?!" I never have reacted to deaths

much. I just sort of shrug my shoulders and thank God it wasn't me. However, that night after I talked to my sister . . . it hit me. I'm sitting in my apartment, in the dark, and I just start to cry. Not big tears, not wailing, no gnashing of teeth . . . just a gentle, soft . . . weeping. I realized that I had lost my mother and most of my immediate family, my father, my brother . . . it was sad. Even though I feel estrange from my family . . . they are still my family. Yeah, I'm sad about it. I miss them I miss them all. I wish we could have been closer before they died. Close like when I was a kid with the chicken pox, or when it was my turn to take my dad's roofing hammer and smash the big black cat open, and share a giggle with my sister and brother as we counted all the coins that fell out.

My Mother’s Day

Sundays were always a lazy day

around our house. Dad would lie
on the couch drinking beer, watching
the Figure Eight races on TV, nodding
off every now and then. A single snore
from his open mouth would wake
him with a start. He’d take another
sip of beer, wipe his eyes and fall
right back to sleep without even
noticing that car 56 had just been
rammed into oblivion by a Plymouth Fury.

Mom busied herself in the kitchen. Doing what?

I don't know.  Motherly things, I suppose.
It seems she was always scurrying about
all day long from the kitchen sink to the
refrigerator. Always looking for something
but never finding whatever it was she kept
looking for.

Me and Brother Dennis would sit on

the back-porch listening to Mother
banging around in the kitchen and
mumbling to herself.

We never talked my brother and me.

We just sat digging into the dirt with
the heels of our tennis shoes quietly
dreading school on Monday. We hated
school almost as much as we hated each other.

And my sister? She moved out long ago

to our Aunt Ella and Uncle Ace's ranch  
in the high desert. I never knew exactly
what she was doing up there so far away
from her family, her real family. I never
understood my sister or her moods.

Come to think of it, I never understood

any of the women in my life. It’s
probably the reason why I live alone.
 
Anyways, it’s Sunday, Mother’s Day. As I write
this poem I wonder what my mother’s doing.
Probably walking to the refrigerator, finally
remembering what it was she was looking for
all those many years ago.
rrw o5-13-12 
Saturday, June 21, 2o14
Had a hard time writing on the blog these last few days. And when I finally try to write something, my site seems to have mad some changes so I can't post pictures. I'm writing this just to see if it will at least post my words. Let's see. (after save) Okay! At least I can post my writes. Now, let's see what happens when I try to post a picture. Wish me luck! . . . . . . . . . . .  Nope. Can't down load a pic! What the heck. This is very disappointing. I really like the pictures, they influence my writing just by being there. Well, tomorrow I'll try a "new" post and see if I get anywhere. Tonight . . . . just too tired to write. Hell, I've been writing all day on this dang blog ad couldn't save a thing. may have to find a new site to work on.
 

June The Daily (W)Rite wk1

Monday,

Finally got this poem pretty much where I wanted it. I submitted it to this Facebook site I'm on and the administrator deleted it from the site. No explanation, just deleted it. So, I got myself and my poetry off his damn site. Hee! I know, I'm being a bit pretentious about it. But I didn't have many people actually interested in my poetry on that page, and not many of them ever left a comment.

Kimm, called me up and invited me up to Tulsa next weekend. Probably going which means I really need to go wash some clothes! God, why do I keep putting it off?! She's gonna pick me up on Friday. The only bummer is we don't know how I'm gonna get back or when I'm gonna get back. I don't like that uncertainty. Don't like the idea of being stuck. Don't like being away from my home for long.

Kimm also told me that she's planning to move to Washington state! Her mom moved out of state (Texas, I think) to get closer to Kimm's brother, and Kimm's son is in Seattle, so . . . It bothers me, her leaving. I know, we don't have a "thing" but I was hoping that we might have one. No, nothing like that! Or quite like that. I just like her a lot, like being around her. Hell, I don't see her that often now, and we're in the same state! I'll NEVER see her EVER again if she moves to the west coast.

Thursday, June o6, 2o14

Well, so Tuesday at 2 in the morning I'm on the Facebook, and I get a strange comment from someone I don't know: Your mother's in the hospital. Call your sister if you want more information. Hmmm. That was odd. since it was late, I didn't call my sister here in Oklahoma. I went to bed. And sure enough, at eight in the morning my sister calls telling me this horror story about mom falling and the doctors saying she busted her hip, and they can't operate on her because she's old and that there's only a 50/50 chance she'd survive. The wanted to just put her in a home right away. But the guy who sent me the comment (found out he's the "boyfriend" of my other sister who lives in Cali) said not with out the family talking it over first. So, my sister and I spent about a half an hour or so talking about it. Found out she didn't have a broken hip, but a pelvic facture which is the better of two medical situations. So, I called Kimm and cancelled going to Tulsa this weekend to make sure I'm around town in case my sister needs me.

You know, for better or worse, I'm not that much into the family thing. Pretty much I've been "on my own" most of my life. I never fit into the family life style. Not sure why, but not sure they really ever liked me much either. But when I thought about it, I am the oldest. So, I should at least try to be a good son and stick around this weekend. Help out if I can.

On Facebook everybody goes on and on about family, how much they love them, how much they mean to them . . .  and although I don't hate my family . . . well, like I said, I've been pretty much on my own my whole life. I don't have the same feelings that my other friends have. Sometimes my insensitivity to the social order of things makes me sad, makes me feel less than human.

Saturday, June o7, 2o14

Here it is the end of the first week in June . . . and I've barely written anything on this blog, and pretty safe to say what I have written . . . is insignificant! I look at blogs of my friends, Angel Davis in particular, and they are saying things . . . important . . . thoughtful . . . sometimes funny. And me? Well, nothing I've written seems to be even slightly interesting.

I've start working on a new poem. That's something I guess . . . Here's what I've got so far:

Lonesome Thing

Too lonesome a thing for me, this midnight.

The shadow train slinking slowly along
the grind of wheels against rail
whistles in the dark
the rattle of its fright cars
makes the dog next door howl.

Too many midnights stacked up

in the corner of my one room apartment
old newspapers yellow and brown
old news wrinkling and worn-out.
Once bold, crisp, black on white pages
my hands refusing to throw them away.

 


. . . And my voice lies to you

and I hear that deep, disappointed sigh
you breathe into the telephone
when you realize I’m not paying attention.
I’m counting the cracks around the ceiling fan,
the number of holes I punched in the wall last night.
I need to run some errands tomorrow before lunch.

 Yes, midnight is far too thick a thing for me.
Hard to breathe it all in, swallow it all that down.

It’s difficult to imagine that any amount of daylight
could be strong enough to crack open this colorless silence . . .

This may or may not be the "whole" poem. I haven't decided on length. I'm trying to take the advice from a writer online and just concentrate on each, individual line AND how to best connect each line to create a whole. it's going to go through a lot of changes before I say it's "finished."
 

May The Daily (W)Rite wk4

Sunday

Spent most of the week working on the birthday poem and a movie review so I didn't keep up with The Daily (W)Rite. Sorry about that. Also, I worked on a few "dark" pictures that I thought to post here. I feel a little weird posting them on Facebook. You know, A bit weird. BUT posting here I don't think would be a problem.

I've always enjoyed the dark sides of art. Love reading, writing and creating art pieces with a bit of "edge" to them.

 Had a great birthday on Friday. 66 years old. My friend Moe and his family took me out for dinner and a movie. It was really fun. Eat a lot of popcorn that night. Maybe too much! Anyway, it was a good, quiet celebration. I'll write more later on. Promise.

 

 

Thursday, May 29, 214

 

Sorry that I have been away from the blog for a few days. Maya Angelou died yesterday. A great American poetic. Yes, she was. I didn't really know her work until 2o11 when I had a poetry class over at Oklahoma City university. Here's one of her more famous pieces for you to look at:

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
by Maya Angelou

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky....

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill for the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

 

 

David and me went over to the Gray Owl yesterday for coffee. We were suppose to go for his physical therapy around 1:30 PM, but he was feeling poorly. Just way out of energy. I worry about him. Hell, I worry about us both. We are a pretty sickly pair.

We go over to the Owl quite a bit for coffee and such. I always take my camera with me. You never know when you see someone you like to get a shot of. Most times I try to get candid shots of people. Don't like the posed stuff. People get too self-conscious if they know a stranger is taking a picture. Not sure taking folks pictures without their knowledge is highly ethical, but I do it anyway. No, not a pervy, just like to take pictures to play around with on the editing sites on my computer. I usually don't take more than one shot. Don't need to most times because I can play around a it with the image. On the left is some of my work. The interesting thing about the Owl is that people don't really talk to each other.

Well, some do, of course, but most are busy on the computers. Doing what? Who knows. It is a place for students, though. I guess they're doing homework or something. But most are just Facebooking or E-mailing or something like that. It's a shame in a way. People should talk to each other more not spend all day staring at a computer screen. Yeah, but look who's calling the introvert and introvert. All I do must days is watch TV, if I'm not doing that I'm on the computer.
I really like this pics I took. I LOVE the manipulation I can do with the editing sites I'm on. Think I'm getting better at it.

 

Tomorrow (or today, actually) I have to figure my Medicare and see if the VA can take me on as an out-patient. I got sick last December and again in January and the Medicare didn't pick up a bit of it! So, maybe the VA will help me out. I am a Vet. but I was always under the impression that they only worked with Vets. whose illness was long term and contracted during active service. My fellow Vets., Monte and Moe says that's not true. I'm hoping to get some medication for my COPD.

 

 Saturday, May 31, 2o14
Well, I've got about 30 minutes before the end of this month. Thought I better get a little writing in. I want out tonight. Yeah, big surprise! When I was younger and living in Norman Town, I would go out all the time on the weekends. Well, of course, I was drinking and chasing the girls back then. Now? Not so much. I did decide I needed to get out and try taking some night shots. Night shots are difficult because you have to constantly change the settings. But I did get a few cool ones.

I've been working on this poem about the P.A.B. who went on a killing spree because girls didn't like him . . . . Boo-hoo! I'm taking my time with it. Doing a lot of rewriting. Here's what I got so far:

Section 8

I’m full of shadows tonight
the thick kind the itchy wintery-sweater kind   

 Folding my white socks up into tiny flag shapes

arranging them in straight lines along the  back of the couch

Too many bloody dreams the gunman has

his face baked pink underneath the California sun

A gentle breeze sways the palms behind him
a car rushes pass a  momentary windshield glare

The killer blinks once twice three times

stainless steel eyes burning crazy brown

A winky-wink to the camera

a lifeless smile blooms then fades

My apartment’s air-conditioner

screams summer in Oklahoma

California pleasant weather year around

‘cept on those nights when the monsters come out
 





 

May 23rd HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Writing my annual "birthday poem" was extremely difficult this year. I'm not sure exactly why, but the difficultly probably has to do with the negative feelings I've had about my poetry for the last year or so. I don't know. Doesn't look right,  I read it and it just doesn't move me. It's not close to the work really great poets put out. But I did get something down on paper, or I should say, I got something down on the flash drive.

The birthday celebration is going along pretty well. Got up really early, eight in the morning, had coffee and jumped on the computer to see who wished me "Happy B-day." Of course there were the usual suspects, people who are friends primarily from Facebook. Sally Martinez  sent me a quickie pic with a note of best wishes. It made me feel sad in a way. When I taught at NMHU, Sally worked at the bookstore and ALWAYS remembered my birthday. I'd walk into the store and there'd be a huge banner over the casher's counter "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ROBERT!" and I'd get a big cake and a Spider-Man toy of some kind. One year she got me a "Spider Robert" t-shirt. So wonderful!

I said it made me sad to think about Sally, the bookstore . . . I got fired from the job there at NMHU and that's what makes me sad. But you know what? I gotta stop this bullshit sadness, this depression. Yeah, my life has always taken a turn I didn't like. But a lot of it was my own fault. I just don't deal with life in the best ways. So, at least for today I'm gonna stop being so negative, accept where I'm at and what's going on in my life. At least for today I got no worries. I mean, hell! It's my birthday.

May The Daily (W)Rite wk3

wk o3

Thursday

You may have noticed that a lot of the picsanimations I post are rathar dark in nature. Honestly, I'm not a weird guy . . . well, yeah, I am weird but harmless. But I'm definitely not a psychotic . . . Weeeeell maybe a little . . . but still, harmless. I've loved the "dark side of art" since the days when mom and dad would leave me all alone at night in a really spooky, Norman Bates like house, so they'd go out drinking on Friday and Saturday nights. My brother and sister would be away during the summer up at our Aunt and Uncle's ranch in the Mojave Desert. Since I wasn't much of a cowboy (my brother and sister both were real goat ropers, I mean really goat ropers), I mostly opted to stay in Lynwood (where I was born),

which meant that on the weekends I had to babysit myself. I was maybe 6, 7 or 8 at the time. Anyway, we did have TV and I would stay up as late as I could at that age and watch horror movies. It was love at first sight! Well, not really. The first horror film I ever saw was Dracula (1931) and it scared me so bad! I called my mother at the bar she and dad were at and begged her to come home! They wouldn't. So, there I was watching this scary old Dracula sucking blood out of everybody, and the old house we were living at was creaking and moaning . . . there was no going to sleep. So, all I could do was wrap a blanket around me . . . all kids know that a blanket wards off ANY and ALL monsters . . . and wait to just pass out. And I would, finally. And then the next night when I was left alone . . . I was right back there in front of the tube  watching Frankenstein! I was scared, yeah. But I was hooked. Horror movies, horror literature, comic books . . . yeah, man!

In my early thirties I started going to a shrink. Head thingies, you know. Nothing too bad. More neurotic than psychotic, but still bad enough that I thought I should seek some help.  And I asked her, my shrink (actually, I called her my brain duster. Always told my friends that I was heading to the brain duster to get my head clear.)  if my liking horror films were causing my problems. She said no. She said, "Most children who are abused seek out monsters and scary films. It's a way of protecting themselves from the real monsters in the real world." Hmmm. I didn't, at the time, think of myself as abused. Totally honest I still don't. Or maybe I do, I don't know. The thing about abuse of a little kid is that he or she doesn't really know that they are being abused. They think . . . well, I should say, that I thought all the shit I went through was normal, and that I became a "normal" adult. But it wasn't and I wasn't . . . normal. It took me a long time to realize how fucked up I was as an adult. And it didn't have anything to do with movies, it was just . . . a fucked up childhood. And it may have been movies may that saved me . . . or at least, they may have saved enough of my humanness to make me realize that as an adult I was really, really fucked up. Hmmmm. May I'll continue this later. :)

Monday, May 19, 2o14

Well, did go on Saturday to see Godzilla (2014). Was so "inspired(?)" by it I decided to finally start my own move review blog. But damn, it took me all day and night Saturday to come up with a title for it. All the names I wanted were already taken. Man, there are a lot of movie review blogs written by us ordinary folks. BUT it's something I always wanted to do so . . . I DID IT! Yeah, fun to be getting down to writing something. And I am working a bit on the "Birthday Poem" but that's going slow . . . very slow. But no worries. I still got 4 days to write it. FOUR DAYS?!Okay, NOW I'm panicking. Saturday was fun and game of Thrones last night was awesome! Best episode . . . ever!
http://smalltownidiotmoviereview.blogspot.com/2014/05/godzilla-godzilla.html

Tuesday, May 2o, 2o14

Spent a lot of yesterday and today trying to write this damn "My Birthday" poem. I don't remember it being this difficult to write when I started this annual celebration (for better or worse) of my life twelve years ago. But no worries. I'll get it done.

You probably noticed the newest "gross" animation that I posted above. Yeah, I know, "Ewwwww!" To be honest I'm not sure there's enough "torture" in it. But as I said before, I'm not a psycho killer, just an artist that gets into playing with all the apps on the photo editor sites I use. Anyway, I need to get back to the poetry. Maybe I'll write some more later.


 

May The Daily (W)Rite wk 2

wk o2

 Thursday, May o8, 2o14

   Having a three day old panic attack. I can't write. I never could write. Three nights ago I was shaken awake by an earthquake. Not being able to sleep, I decided to look over some poetry that I had planned to publish on Facebook. And I'm drinking coffee and reading and  . . . I realize all of a sudden that this poem sucks! Not sure why (all of a sudden) I had that realization, but I most surely did. It was horrible writing. That's when the panic began. I opened up my flash drive, looked at every poem I had ever written . . . and yes . . . it was true . . . All of it, every poem . . . sucked. I was screwed! How could I have been so stupid as to think I could write poetry that was worth a damn?!
  

Of  course my Facebook friends tried to console me:
"Oh, your poetry isn't THAT bad."
"Maybe you just need to do a little more rewriting."
"There wasn't an earthquake in Oklahoma last night. You must be delusional."
I'm not sure how the last one was suppose to make me feel better . . . but the others didn't help either, so . . .  As David and I had dinner I told him about my sudden epiphany, "I suck as a poet." He just laughed saying that that happens all the time to writers. It's growth. It means you are strengthening your art, your craft . . . you're becoming a real artist. Well, his words were a bit more comforting than my other friends' assessments. Even though I'm still not sure if I can write anymore, or if I ever COULD write.

   So what do I do? Do I continue to write this crap in hopes that I'll find my way to "the good stuff" ? Should I just quit, give up, go sit on a park bench somewhere and feed the birds and shout at the kids when they pass by, "Turn that damn music down, you punks!" Well, I can't do that. They have i-pods now.

3:30 P.M.

   Forcing myself to sit down at the computer and write. Write what? Hmmm. That's the haunting

question. I'm taking a step back and looking at my intentions. I mean, I know I want to be a writer, but I'm not all that sure I have anything to write about! Or at the least, anything that people want to hear. I guess that's the my problem. I'm trying t write for an audience instead of writing for myself. But then, I'm back at the same place with, "what do I want to write about?" I feel like I'm lost in an imagination blackout. I'm not finding anything interesting to write about. Oh, it's there, I know its there . . . I just can't see it. So, I'm reading some other poets. Mostly famous poets to sort of get my observation skills back. No, I don't want to "copy" some famous writer. I just want to me inspired.

   Here's a writer that I truly admire. His skill and his artistic thought process is something I feel like I lack:

Cuttings (later)

This urge, wrestle, resurrection of dry sticks,

Cut stems struggling to put down feet,
What saint strained so much,
Rose on such lopped limbs to a new life?
I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing,
In my veins, in my bones I feel it --
The small waters seeping upward,
The tight grains parting at last.
When sprouts break out,
Slippery as fish,
I quail, lean to beginnings, sheath-wet.       
-Theodore Roethke

  Roethke does so much with this piece, he sees and expresses so much  . . . and that's the problem with me lately. I can't see it, the art, and I have no craft to express it. I can't see and I can't express.
So, the journey begins. Reboot my creative self. Start over, or at least, move in a different way, see the world in a different way and improve my skills. Learn to crawl before I can walk or run or . . . write.

Saturday, May 1o, 2o14

Driving down Boyd, crossing the tracks, the car in front of us stops flipping on it's left turn signal.
And there we are, David and me, in his little car, on the railroad tracks.
"What the fuck are you doing, David?! Get of the fucking tracks!"

"There's no trains coming!"

"Get off the tracks!" 

 Yeah, I was having a panic attack. David didn't appreciate it at all, pretty pissed at me for the rest of the Art Walk we were driving to.

 

  As we were walking along on Main St. looking for a place to eat, we started to cross the tracks and I stopped to take a picture. Well, David really let me have it! "Hey! Get off the tracks! A train might hit you!" We both laughed and I apologized for being such an old lady about it.

   I have had them all the time, through out my little life. Panic, I mean, real run for your life panic. It happens any time that I feel unable to control my life. I don't think about it, it's not a conscious choice, it's primal, I guess. And, be as truthful ass I can, it has fucked my life. I've lost friends, lovers, hell, even jobs over this manic state I get into anytime I feel threatened.

   Other than me almost destroying the only friendship I have . . . the Art Walk was extremely relaxing and fun. Took quite a few pictures, and David walked around for a few good hours before his body started to tire out. But he's getting better. The physical therapy seems to be helping a lot. He needs to exercise after the therapy is over or his body will probably go back to it's original daily pain. Hell, I need to exercise too. "Use it or lose it."
   Oh, the animation above depicts one of the many street musicians you can find on Main Street during the Art Walk. Particularly interesting about this animation is the reflection of the traffic passing by the big bay window behind the guitarist.

 

Monday, May 12, 2o14

   Yesterday. Mother's Day. Most of my Facebook friends paid tribute to their moms yesterday. Some showed old photos back when mom was a kid, or mom as a very young mother with her children hanging off of her like leaves on a tree. Some pictures showed mom today. Much older, fragile but smiling, though. My friends love their moms. They all testify to the good nature, the caring nature of their individual mothers. A few years back I wrote a poem about my mother. . .  sort of:

 

My Mother’s Day

Sundays were always lazy days

around our house. Dad would lie

on the couch drinking beer, watching

the Figure Eight races on TV, nodding

off every now and then. A single snort

from his open mouth would wake

him with a start. He’d take another

sip of beer, wipe his eyes and fall

right back into whatever dream he was dreaming

without even noticing that car 56 had just been

rammed into oblivion by a Plymouth Fury.

Mom busied herself in the kitchen. Doing what?

I don't know.  Motherly things.

She scurries about all daylong from the kitchen sink

to the  refrigerator. Always looking for something

but never finding whatever it was she kept looking for.


Me and Brother Dennis would sit on

the back-porch listening to Mother

banging around in the kitchen

and mumbling to herself.

 

We never talked my brother and me.

We just sat digging at the dirt with

the heels of our tennis shoes quietly

dreading school on Monday. We hated school

almost as much as we hated each other.

And my sister? She moved out ‘long ago

to our Aunt Ella and Uncle Ace's ranch  

in the high desert. I never knew exactly

what she was doing up there so far away

from her family, her real family. I never

understood my sister or her moods.

Come to think of it, I never understood

any of the women in my life. That’s

probably the reason why I live alone.

Anyways,

it’s Sunday, Mother’s Day. As I write

this poem, I wonder what my mother’s doing . . .

probably walking to the refrigerator, to the kitchen sink,

stopping to fold and refold the dish towels, the cloth napkins

her mother had willed to her two years ago. She searches still,

I suppose, for that something she could never find.

—rrw o5-13-12 (rewrites o5-11-14)

Wednesday, May 14, 2o14
Watching the news this morning, I got a bit of a start when they said, "If you are lethargic, it might be a symptom of early dementia." Well, that's me for the last year. Don't feel like doing anything other than laying on the couch and watching TV. What the hell, man, I don't want dementia! I'm forcing myself to do things write, damn it! I know. If I have the big D, me writing everyday probably won't do anything. But I've got to try. I will not:

Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night

-By  Dylan Thomas  

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Damn, here it is nine days before my birthday and I haven't even started on my annual birthday poem! I've been writing one every year since I turned 55 (or so), and don't want to stop now. So, the business of the next nine days is . . . write that damn POEM!

3:13 P.M.

David didn't pick me up when he went to his physical therapy. I feel jilted! Hope he's not mad at me. I was looking forward to going down to the PT gym and watching all the old people and the young jocks on crutches and in wheelchairs struggling to get inside. I can't help but try to figure out what happened to them. Was it a car accident, a football or soccer injury? Was there a fight? The old people, well, you can figure out pretty fast their reasons for being there . . . they're old. I also miss reading my book. I know, I could just as easily read it here at home, but there was just something about going to that comfortable chair I claimed as my own in the waiting room, sitting in it and reading until, that is, my eyes began to close . . . reading makes me tired these days. A lot of things make me tired. I wake up ready to go back to bed.

Still haven't come up with my birthday poem . . . yet. A few ideas pop into my head, but I dismissed most of them. I am a bit worried that I won't find an idea. I need an idea . . . NOW!