The Dailt {W}Rite April 24, 2o16 WK o4

Sunday, April 24, 2o16

Last Friday, Michael dragged me and David to Waiting for Godot at the Lab Theatre on campus. Honestly, I wasn't all that interested in going. Really didn't want to "run into" a few people. Worry was for naught. I ran into them anyway. It wasn't really bad to see them. They were pleasant enough. Did give me a compliment or two on a show I directed when an adjunct at the School of Drama. Anyway, the show was . . . just wonderful. Production was right on, on all counts. The directing, the acting . . . I've directed this show while at New Mexico Highland University and, as I said

above, directed another Beckett play, Endgame, while at OU and nothing I've done with a Beckett script, whether directing or acting, has even come close to the perfection I saw last Friday night with this group of undergraduate actors. So, since my "depression" over being belittled by ex-friends was waylaid by smiling faces and compliments, I'm happy to report that this excellent rendition of Beckett's masterpiece really did drive my mental health to a bleak and private hell. Yes, these actors, this director put me to shame! Nothing I've ever done in theatre matches up to even one moment in this production! Damn, it was good. So, I wallowed around in self-pity for the night, going on about how terrible I am and was when it comes to theatre. I wasted a whole life dedicated to an art form that four young actors totally destroyed with one wonderful performance last Friday night. {not smile}

But that was Friday night. Now, of course, I have things back into a perspective that is more conducive to me getting a good nights sleep. It did wake me up a bit, this show did. There are still things for me to learn about art. And I plan to do just that. Maybe see if I can pick up an acting class, get back to the basics. But cost of classes may hold me up a bit. Well, I figure something out. {back to smiles}

Tuesday, April 26, 2o16
All day long the newscasters, the weather people were going on and on about the "dangerous" storm that was headed our way! And it did arrive not at 3 p.m. as promised but it did arrive a few hours past that and it rained, rained hard! And then it was gone. Sort of disappointing considering how worried all my friends were for me. "Do you have a plan incase a tornado touches down?" "Make sure your windows are closed, and if it hails!" I noticed the neighbor had covered his car with a heavy, fluffy blue tarp. I suppose it was there to stop hail damage to his hood, the roof of his brand new car. And that disturbed me a bit. I was wondering why I hadn't thought of getting a tarpaulin sheet to protect my bicycle from "dangerous" weather . . . but then realized I always park my bike inside the house. Anyway, a lot of fuss, a lot of worry  . . . for no reason. Okay, Maybe somewhere in Oklahoma there was some scary weather . . . but not here in sweet Norman-town. It got wet, for sure, but didn't amount to much more than a flash or two of lightning and some extra water for the almost dried up Duck Pond.

Wednesday, April 27, 2o16
The sky is blue. I read an article today that said that the color blue is a relatively new description for the sky. No kidding. Supposedly, that the sky is recognized as being blue only started about 4,000 years ago! What color was it? Well, it wasn't a color. This weird hypothesis is based on the fact that all the writings up until that time never mentioned the color of the sky. So, they believe that the sky wasn't blue until someone said that it was. Mind blowing? Yeah. Hard to believe that the color didn't exist until someone named it. How did they do that? Hell I don't know. All I know is I'm glad that they discovered the color blue when they did so I can sing the blues and not the greens or plaids or some other despicable color arrangement.

Another thing crossed my mind today, "The Why" of things. There's a frivolous debate going on, on the Dancing With The Stars page I visit. There's a Celeb dancer on there named Nyle who started a little controversy by saying that he didn't think any of the other Celebs were  his competition, the only competition he has is one of the Pros, Val. Well, this caused a firestorm! Some fans started posting hate comments saying stuff like Nyle is "an arrogant . . . Blah, blah, blah! He should be disqualified and kicked off the show!" And of course those who like Nyle fired back saying stuff like, "He was only kidding! He's a deaf guy and his interpreter translated what he said badly." Oh, yeah! Nyle is deaf . . .and on a dance show! AND he's pretty damn good! Anyway, the battle lines were drawn and the fighting went back and forth until one of the site's mangers told everybody to stop . . . which they didn't. So? What the hell does this have to do with "The Why" of things? I don't find what the people are saying about Nyle very interesting. I mean, it's all clichés. What is interesting is "The Why." Why do people defend or brutalize a person who's a contestant on a damn TV show? And again there are plenty of cliché reasons why people do things like that. But I think that people react the way they do for more personal reasons, reasons that are specific to themselves and the experiences they've had in life. Hmmm, just something to think about.

Thursday, April 28, 2o16

Finally, I got David out of bed before noon . . . or after! Totally honest, we both were feeling the lull of our late night philandering on Facebook. But we DID get up and out before noon and that's a start. Hopefully we'll build on it. Who knows. We may be able to get out of our hovels BEFORE 10 a.m.!

There's a carnival of memories twirling around in my mind tonight. Each popping up into my consciousness for a moment or two then slowly slipping back into the muddy bog where 68 years of "life lived" sleeps. Very few or them are good memories. I wonder why that is with me? I tend to remember the bad experiences and can barely recall the good things, the pleasant, loving moments. Surely after 68 years you'd think there'd be at least two or maybe three "fond memories." But they don't come out by their own accord. I always have to dig them out of my memory basement. Can't toss the bad memories away, though. You know how it is with things! You just don't have the heart or the desire to throw them out even if they appear to be of no use to you anymore.

Friday, April 29, 2o16

Sirens went off around four or so. I looked out the window and already cars were lining up on Trout Avenue trying to get into the Energy Center parking lot. A stream of people were scurrying down the sidewalk. Like the occupants of the cars, they were hurrying to the tornado shelter in the lower depths of the Energy Center.

"I don't care what happens to these people, I just hope my lab survives." The taller science geek said with a girlish giggle. He's friend, another science dick, joined in. They were frustrated, I'm guessing, with all the people in "their" building. And to make a stormy day even worse, these "refugees" brought their pets with them. Most of the dogs, German Shepherds, Labradors, and a mixture of big, silly looking mutts were having a fit. Lots of dog whining going on. I'm guessing that the

combination of being underground, around a bunch of strange people (and strange dogs) made the domestic beasts a little worried. The funniest thing was that it was mostly bigs dog causing a fuss. One couple had their Chihuahua stuffed inside a backpack, he/she was calm and cool taking it all with somber look and a shrug of its shoulders.

About five-thirty, it was over for Norman-town. Lots of rain and hail but no tornadoes. Slowly, the people started to leave the shelter. I waited long enough for the rain to drop to a drizzle so I wouldn't get my camera wet. Oklahoma takes its weather seriously. Me? Well, I could have stayed home . . . but why take chances. Besides, the shelter is just across the street and I do like to watch people. If I hadn't have gone I never would have heard the bad joke by the science geek.

Saturday, April 3o, 2o16

The last day of the month. "The Last Day." It makes me sad somehow, the ending of the month. Not sure why. Maybe it's because I feel like I haven't done enough with my art. Damn, a whole month's gone by and I've hardly created anything! AND what little I have created . . . well, it was just so hard to get anything done! And it seems to be getting harder every single day!

But the good news about this end of the month is that the NEXT month, May, is my birthday month! What?! You take the whole month to celebrate your birthday?! Hell, yeah I do! And if I thought I could get away with it I'd make every month in the year, every day in the month my B-day! {smiles}

So, since May is my B-day month, I plan to write EVEN MORE than I have in the last month. But I never know how much I'll honor my own word. Well, see you next month!

The Daily {W}Rite April 2o16 WK o3

Saturday, April 16, 2o16

I've heard that the universe continues to expand, galaxies are moving away from us here on the Earth, rapidly leaving us in their cosmic dust. I can feel it pulling away from me, from me in particular. It's a personal grudge, I suppose. I have never been overly kind or concerned with the feelings of the universe.  So, it's fair that should get even by moving on, taking with it tiny bits of my . . . self. Some of  it physical. That pull of universe is what causes the wrinkles in an old man's face, the deletion of muscle mass that forces him to walk stooped over, His dependencyon a long piece of carved wood, or metal, or plastic to keep him from sinking even deeper into the Earth. Also, this acceleration of the Big Bye-Bye is what causing my memory to go. Yes, nothing left behind as the universe moves on, it must take my memory with it, leaving me here trying to remember  . . . well, it takes that too, the desire to even try to remember what life was like, what it might be, what it could be. And I'll close my eyes one day and think that maybe I'll dream up my past, I'll find my  whole history there behind closed eyes. But I'm sure I'll find nothing but that nothingness that has always frightened me.

A few years back I wrote this poem that I just found again last night. Something posted on Facebook made me think of it. Couldn't remember the name . . . but I did find it. Want to see? Please, don't say no because I'm posting it anyway.

Stone Butter

We were stone . . . once.

Or at least, we pretended to be.
For butter was far too soft, you see,
we’d never survive the heat
the raw looks, the pinches and punches
that nasty old summer administers.

Yes, stone it is to be for sure.

Much, better than butter unless,
of course, you chose to be toast.
You can butter toast, but cruel stone
will refuse to change its shape
no matter the kind of bread you bake.

We were monsters too . . . once. 

Monsters that ate gravel and grit
and sand the color of fine wine.

With time, though, we lost the will to growl

and screech and gobble up the world,
we lost ourselves  became again
that which once we skipped across the pond,
or used to beat each other down.
We did not choose to be stone
but we were, quite sadly, destined to be so.
Woodie o4-12-13 (rewrites) o7-28-14

Tuesday, April 19, 2o16

The rain pays very little attention to me, that crazy old guy in apartment #4 who stares out the window watching the kamikaze young raindrops splashing down on Trout Avenue. So many of them dying on cold asphalt, some of them forming small lakes in the potholes, others bombing the lawn making mud puddles for me to walk across tomorrow morning. I better not wear my best Chucks.

My sister's son-in-law goes into surgery tomorrow for a triple bypass operation. Heavy duty scare time for my niece and her kids. I told sis I'd go with her to the hospital to do the family watch thing. It turns out that the surgery will take about five hours, and my sister was kind enough to suggest I not come along. I'm a little ashamed about saying, "Yeah, maybe I should stay home." But I really didn't want to sit in a hospital for five hours.

Ten o'clock at night and it's still raining. I'm listening to my Ike and Tina Turner CD, drinking coffee, chomping on some nicotine gum. Yeah, I don't smoke anymore but now I'm addicted to the nicotine gum. I'm finally getting some writing done on the blog which would be good news IF it wasn't for the fact that I should be writing on my birthday poem. Writing on the blog is my excuse for not getting more work done on it. And now I'm sort of tired of writing even on these few stories. What kind of writer am I? A writer who doesn't really feel much like writing. What kind of writer is that?

Wednesday, April 2o, 2o16

A commercial jet, a clear blue sky, the light just right at 2 p.m. There are those moments when you see something that for some reason or other fills your imagination (spirit, if I may say) with a sense beautiful awe.  David's wanting to open the trunk of the car but all my stuff is sitting on top of it as I hurriedly take the camera out of its bag and get four beautiful shots of the plane as it heads towards . . . where? I don't know. Who's on it . . .? I haven't a clue but for some reason it all seems so important, it feels necessary to dream about it while standing there watching that big ass airliner climb higher and higher into the sky.

Sprouts, Sushi Wednesday. About the only thing I actually like about Sprouts. Hell, I don't even know what type of Sushi I picked up! Doesn't matter. I love Sushi!

I'm going to see Waiting for Godot with Michael and David Friday night at the Old Science Hall. A little nervous about it. Don't really want to see anybody. Not interested in small talk with theatre folk. But there's really no worry about that happening 'cause I've been gone quite a while. And I do want to see Beckett again. I wish I could act or direct again . . . but . . . that's not going to happen. I invented me a Beckett like phrase that's going into my B-day poem. You know about th B-day poem I write for myself each year. No? Well, on May 23, you can see the latest one. Here's a little taste:

So it begins and ends, as it begins and ends
again and again—

Bend, stretch, shape the darkness that digests me

into something, a something, into some “thing” more comfortable.
A dream, perhaps, whatever that might mean, a dream, perhaps,
a dreamy dream, perhaps, one my consciousness can crawl inside of.

The Daily {W}Rite 2o16 April WK o2

Sunday, April 1o, 2o16
Friday my sister and niece joined me for Art Walk. Always a lot fun to walk around Main St. and see the art, the different vender's stalls, the street bands.  But extra special to go with people who haven't been before, watching them enjoy the walk around. Particularly interesting was watching my sister around the jewelry and knickknack tables.
The wood-carvers' store was maybe her favorite. She bought a carving of a tiger, ( I think that's what it was) and gushed all night about how beautiful it was. Sis was made for Art Walk.

Right now I don't have much to say on the blog. It happens. I'll have a prolific blog one week and the next, not so much. Maybe I'll write something later on tonight.

Tuesday, April 12, 2o16

Went on a road trip to OKC with my sister Judy (pictured above). She had some kind of doctor's appointment and it was nice to get out of Norman-town and go adventuring in the "wilderness." Okay, okay! Oklahoma City isn't the wilderness. But it was an adventure. I don't get out of Norman often. Really. Maybe it's just that I'm old . . . er now'a days, but I have no desire to travel very far from my home. Besides, Norman-town has everything I need close at hand. I have no reason to go beyond the city limits. I know exactly what you are going to say, "Listen, Geriatric Man, you ALWAYS go beyond Norman-town! You go to the movies at the Warren WHICH is in Moore, you senile old fart!" Oh, okay "technically" Moore IS another town, BUT to my mind it's just a suburb of Norman-town. Besides, the Warren is a great theatre, big screens, plenty of seats for MY viewing pleasure . . . so . . . As King of Old Fogeyville, I here by declare Moore and the Warren Theatre a territories of the Norman-town Kingdom.

Sis: Who the heck is singing that song?
Woodie: Oh! I know who that is!
Sis: Who is it?
Woodie" It's oh, it's . . . oh, damn (thumps his head), it's in here somewhere!
Sis: It's Marvin Gaye.
Woodie: No, that's not Marvin Gaye!
Sis: Is it the guy who was shot dead by his father?
Woodie: No . . . that's Marvine Gay . . . I think.
Turns out that it was Jackie Wilson who, yes, was shot at least twice by outraged girlfriends. Shot two different times. However, he died at 45 of a heart attack. His song, Higher and Higher, was playing over the radio in the dermatologist's office. It was replaced with Who Wrote the Book of Love?

Woodie: You remember that song don't you?
Sis: Of course I do. It was my favorite. (Sis starts to hum along). Dog gone it! Who wrote that one? Do you remember?

Before I could say, I don't know, the cute little receptionist called my sister's name and off she went. I picked up the book I brought, About Time: Cosmology and Culture at the Twilight of the Big Bang by Adam Frank.  Just started to get into Einstein screwing everything Newton came up with when he started talking about space-time. Yep, I'm no smarter than Newton 'cause I don't quite get what Einstein was talking about. I stopped reading cause science gives me a headache! I took a few mirror shots in the huge mirror in the doctors waiting room and . . . "Okay, let's go," my sister said as she walked out of the examination room. "Boy, that was fast." "Yes, it was!" Uh-oh! She's pissed.

Me and sis haven't spent much time together. She works a lot at Walmart. But we are getting out now and then to visit, go to a movie . . . do something. We need to do more.

Thursday, April 14, 2o16
Not much writing this week. I know, horrible. I felt a little "under the weather" today. Under the weather. What a strange saying. If you live on Earth you are always "under the weather." I mean, even if you live in a hole 1o miles below the surface, you're still under the weather. Maybe if your an astronaut on the moon, in a spaceship and you got sick then . . . wait . . . especially then you couldn't say, "I'm sick, I'm under the weather," because you would be "over the weather," literally. On that not I will say goodnight and good week and I'll see next time here on The Daily {W}Rite.

The Daily {W}Rite April 2o16 WK o1

April Fools' Day! Alright, I don't know if that's the right way to say it . . . WRITE it I mean. maybe it's April's Fool Day, or April Fool Day, or . . . hell, I don't know AND . . . I don't care! There, I said it. I don't give a damn how you say it! I know, I'm horrible, going my own way without consideration for the past, tradition. I mean, why do we even have an April Foolish Day? What good is it? Yes, I understand what your saying, I should look up it's history then I would know why it's important. But again, I don't want to. I love my ignorance, and I don't wish to mar its natural beauty with slashes and stabs of factual information that it are unimportant. I'm a deep thinker, not a contestant on Jeopardy. I'm steam punk wizard, Vietnam Vet, a U.S. Marine with a bad attitude towards silly knowledge. My stomach hurts. Too much junk food at the Medieval Fair today. I shall write a ton more later tonight . . . maybe! {smile}

Sunday, April o3, 2o16 3 a.m.
People get to me. Politics (again) gets to me. I told my Facebook friends
NOT to put anymore Bernie propaganda on my timeline. If they keep doing it,

I'm ending my relationship with them on Facebook and any relationship I might have with them in REAL life. Puts me in a bad position, yes. I'm libel  to lose my BEST friend over this. Well, not my BEST friend, my ONLY friend. I can't get through to these guys, so okay, I don't talk about politics with them. But they just keep going on and on posting all kinds of horrible stuff that's not true, but since it's on the "internet" they use it to demean the person I'm voting for. Yes, I say some things about Bernie, but none of it is based on internet "gossip" but based solely on what Bernie says about things and nothing more. They don't see Bernie, or they don't wish to see Bernie's faults even when they stick out like a gigantic sore thumb! So, I'm taking a stand against these "friends" of mine. They can choose to keep their eyes shut and lose me as a friend or they can wake up and at least start seeing that Bernie isn't God's gift to America.

But enough of this stuff. Friday was Medieval Fair in Norman-town for me and was it glorious fun! Nice, warm spring day filled with hundreds of costumed people, booths full of toys and fantasy clothing, hats, staffs and, yes, knives, swords and all kind of steampunk paraphernalia. I know, steampunk isn't Medieval but still loads of fun. Finally got me a pair of steampunk goggles and I'm looking to go back today (the last day) and maybe pick up some steampunk style gloves. All this to get a costume ready for SoonerCon which starts in June!  The only problem right now is that I don't know if I can afford to buy all the stuff I want for my costume. Well, I'll get what I can and keep looking for things I need and maybe buy later on in the months ahead!

One of the highlights of the Medieval Fair was Brendan and Mabry's  "Living Chess Board." What fun! They have two opposing kingdoms that hold battles on this big chess board, and the battles (broadswords, staffs, etc.) are choreographed beautifully. They also create wonderfully detailed stories that are full of humor, AND the costumes! That is the icing on the Medieval cake! ALL the characters in this play are costumed brilliantly. I'm really proud to know these kids. How creative they are.

1:48 p.m.
A stinging ache (if there is such a thing) in my neck kept me awake much longer than I wished to be. Finally I guess I just passed out . . . sometimes that's what going to sleep is for me . . . and the morning sun through the kitchen window blinds woke me up.

Okay, so I do finally get up and call my friend and he read the part of my blog where I'm steaming about the way the Berniers are treating Hillary and he takes exception to it and I feel bad now and also depressed because my Liberal idea of right and wrong is being compromised because people don't think that there are any rules to running for political office, they just want their guy to win. Yes, I'm mad and I'm unhappy because of something that happened after I got out of the Marine Corps. Yes, I know, I'm fuming over something that happened over 45 years ago?

When I joined the Marine Corps, I went in, under a program that put me in a group of other new recruits from my same hometown, La Puente, CA, and we as a group were together through boot camp. I'm guessing that "My Marine Corps" thought it would make boot camp a little easier if guys from the same hometown went through "Green Hell" together. Yeah, it sounds like a good idea but there was one problem. I was a little bit older than most of the guys in my hometown group. Most of them were straight out of high school and I'd been out of high school for two years. So, I really didn't know any of these guys. Anyway, we get through boot and we find out what our jobs were going to be in the Corps and then we went off to our different schools and . . . I never saw any of them again until about a year after I got out of the Marines.

I was sitting at the bar of one of my favorite watering holes in La Puente. "Hey, you Woodie?" I heard this voice behind me ask. I turned around and there was this tall, husky jarhead standing behind me, no smile on his face just a bunch of nasty looking scars starting at the hairline and exploding out in long jagged lines around his eyes and all the way down to his chin. It was a bit scary, but I did get out a shaky, "Yeah, I'm Woodie." And then the guy smiled real big and introduced himself. He was one of the guys I went into boot camp with. I smiled back. Okay, I didn't really recognize him, but why would a guy lie about something like that? I told him I was sorry but that I didn't remember his name and he said that's alright, that his name was . . . and I still, right now, can't remember his name. Anyway, he motioned over to a table and said he was having a beer with some other guys that where in the same boot camp platoon as we were and would I like to join them and of course I did. I hadn't run into any Vets since I had been out of the Corps so it was cool to sit with a bunch of Vietnam Survivors.

There were three others at the table. All four of these guys had been grunts in Nam. The guy who I met at the bar had got a face full of shrapnel from . . . well, I don't remember from what. Another dude was missing an arm, another had a mangled right hand, and the last guy  . . . the last guy . . . his body was intact but he seemed real nervous and he couldn't look me in the eye and he talked real softly IF he talked at all. Mostly he just sipped at a beer and smoked cigarettes. So, we drank and shot the shit about Nam, we laughed a bit and now then someone would be telling a story and the table would get silent and everybody would shake their heads as to say, "Yeah, I know, man." And then the worst thing happened. "What did you do over there, man?" Shrapnel Face asked. "I was a cook, man," I said. And all of 'em smiled at me. "Good for you, man. Yeah, good for you. You missed that shit, that's good." A while after that I left, jumped on my Honda and rode around. Not sure where I went. I just drove until I barely remembered talking to them guys that day in that bar.

So, what does all this have to do with what's going on now with me? What does that moment in time, in a dark bar, drinking with guys I never really knew, how does it connect to this anger I feel over politics? I don't know. Guys go to a war and they come back all fucked up either physical or mentally or a combination of both. They change from what they were before, young guys  fresh out of high school into very old men sitting in a bar drinking beer, smoking cigarettes and discussing the thing that changed them so drastically, made them older than their real age. I don't know. When I see people misuse politics, when I hear them lie and cheat and berate someone, one of the people running for election, just because they want their "guy" to win. I don't know. It seems to have some kind of relationship to that day with those guys in that bar.

Monday, April o4, 2o16
Energy gets trapped inside a knot of thoughts, of forgotten memory, somehow thought and memory collide causing a emotional train wreck. The first responders stand away, smoking cigarettes, drinking cold drinks in paper cups, they gossip about last nights ball game, the politics of the day, they wait for the wreckage to burn itself out, cool off a bit before searching for any survivors, which looks doubtful. Who could survive a crash as big as this, as red hot as this has become? Hours later they sift through the debris, and to their surprise they discover survivors! Not only a few but all the passengers have made it without a scratch, not a nick. A miracle is what it must be! A miracle!

Thursday, April o7, 2o16

A couple of hawks, a vulture too. All three drifting on gusting winds. No complaints from them. They sail like ships, hovering, diving deep towards the wild grass, looking I'm thinking for a field mouse, a rabbit perhaps. Very little effort on their part the gusting breeze appears to be doing all the work. Norman is a pretty crowded town particularly during the semester when the students are still around. Even more populated on Saturday Game Days. But if you feel a little claustrophobic during the year, it's only a twenty minute (or less) drive down East Alameda  to Thunderbird Lake. Oklahoma  countryside is just 11.6 miles (or less) from my Trout Avenue home. I'm not much for the Nature thing, you know? Always felt that "She" was out to get me and every other human being. Yes, for bears and hawks and fish and such Nature is natural. But for human beings? A city, sidewalks, paved roads, a convenient store no more than a block walking distance is MY natural environment. But now and then it's nice to get out of town, take pics of wildlife (when possible) forests, and . . . and  . . . hawks drifting against a clear blur sky. Yeah, that kind of nature I like, once in a while.

The Daily {W}Rite March 2o16 WK o4

Wednesday, March 23, 2o16
My eyes aren't quit ready to shut even though it is 4:30 in the morning. The air conditioner is keeping me awake, the bastard. It's bulldog growl keeps ponding at my eardrums. I'd turn it off, but then it

would be too warm in my small apartment. So, I just wait and write while I wait for my brain to click off . . . and then turn itself on again, switching to the dream channel for a few hours. I don't sleep much anymore. I'm told that old folk need less sleep than when they were young. I believe it's true. I've been reading up on time, how time has changed over the years. Interesting read. David doesn't think so, though. On the drive back from Walmart I told him all about how people once believed that nighttime was the time diseases like cholera and the black plague would travel from person to person if they were unlucky enough to be outside. the called the phenomena the Miasma theory. He laughs. Doesn't believe me. He sometimes makes me think he believes I'm a little stupid. Naw, he's probably just kidding.

Anyway, my eyes are starting to cross. That's their single to me that it's time to go to bed. I'm such a slave to my eyes. So, more tomorrow about this . . . this . . . this existence I have been forced into living by a person or persons unknown. Goodnight. P.S. I think Miasma would be a good name for a horror or fantasy character. What do you think? {smiles}

10:35 P.M.

Wow! Energy abundant! Rushing rivers of it drowning my hands and fingers, flooding pouring out of my fingers and flooding the key board with words, words, words. I did sleep most of the afternoon away because I didn't get to bed before 8 a.m. I woke about two hours after I went to bed . . . well, wasn't really awake . . . more like Zombie Consciousness! Anyway, cut a few more Zs and finally bounced out of bed around 2 p.m.

David and me kind of jousted on the Facebook today. Was sort of fun:
ME: So, I'm starting to see these
trailers for the live action movie of
Warcraft? Anybody psyched up for it?
David: I think it is the same as that other comic book one - "Batman vs Superman: Civil Warcraft" only Scarlet plays Lara's sister War - or is that Croft... They had to cut the Jimmy Olson/Robin scene. I heard it isn't as good as the others because Groot isn't in it and the CGI of the pegging scene isn't as good as Walking Deadpool. So I guess I have to take you to see it Friday because your bicycle isn't fixed. Warren or Regal? Is it supposed to get lots of Oskies?

ME: Warcraft is NOT Batman vs. Superman. Civil War is the soon to be released third movie in the Captain America series. You have learned nothing from me, Grasshopper. AND yes! Batman vs Superman, Friday at 11pm . . . but if you don't want to go . . . I can go by myself. {fake cry}
David: Wake-up at 9 then?
ME: Sounds good to me!

Thursday, march 24, 2o16
I've no friends as constant as the air around me. And it is created by artificial means, a wad of interconnected wires, red, white, blue . . . I wonder what that lone, purple No. 2 AWG  wire that goes so deep into the brain of my air-conditioner . . . I wonder what's it for? It must be hooked up to the memory. Yes, that's it. It connects the outside world to its memory. Hmm, interesting enough hypothesis can lead only to a much darker question:  Do machines think? They must. Of course they must. How else would my Mr. Coffee, coffeemaker know to begin brewing my coffee at exactly 6 a.m. each morning? My electric razor remembers the shape of my face, I'm sure of that. How else could I get a perfect shave each and every morning if  my razor did not have a consciousness? Because I'm pretty sure that I don't wake up until 11 am and my face is always clean shaven, so, therefore, someone or some thing must have performed the operation because I sure as hell didn't.

Unless, of course, I'm also a robot, a robot thing like my air-conditioner, like my Mr. Coffee, 12-Cup Coffeemaker . . .  or as the handbook calls it: Cafetera de 12 trazas. Perhaps, I'm less human than I am aware of. I, Robot! But no, that's been contemplated way too many times in way too many bad Sci-Fi movies. I'm not a robot, I just act like one. And while we are add it, about Sci-Fi, why is it robots want to be human so much? Why when a robot finds out that he is a robot and not a "human bean" he/she gets all sad and stuff? What the hell? Being human is an asshole job. Being a toaster, at the least, does something worthwhile . . . making toast!
But I'm ranting, like a Scarecrow wishing he had a heart . . . or is that the Tin Woodman? But does it matter? I am human, I have the faults all humans carry with them . . . granted, maybe more than most, my sins are many. But alive I am.

Friday, March 25, 2o16
Retreads. I stepped on sticker today and I felt it on my foot. My shoe's sole is thinner than an old man's skin. The heals are worn-out also. The shoestrings once white are now a chimney soot gray. "Toss them out," I tell myself, "you have three more pairs that are in far better walking shape." And it's true. Yet, we've traveled so many miles together, in the snow, the rain, that one day through a muddy bog down by the Duck Pond. What a mess that was. And how many sweaty summer trips did we make to the Regal to see some dumb-ass movie nobody with a car wanted to go see with me? Nicotine gum runs to Walmart, kicking at some crazy ass dog that chassed us. Maybe not always a fun time with these shoes. But when you share a life for as long as I have with this faded blue pair of Chucks, it's hard to let go, to say goodbye.

Saturday, March 26, 2o16

I sat down in front of the computer and wrote a movie review, a whole movie review without stopping except for a lunch break and  quite a few bathroom breaks . . . the coffee was already made so all I had to do was walk to the kitchen and pour me a cup. But other than those few necessary breaks, I wrote straight through 'til the end of paper. I don't do that often sit down and just write.

The other day a person from the university that I've known for a few years Facebooked me and ask a simple, straightforward question, "Do you believe human beings are basically good or basically evil?" My answer was, "Yes." The friend understood what I meant without asking more questions. It's probably best to go through life thinking people are basically good . . . however, always leave room for the possibility that you are wrong. {smile}

I busy myself. Poetry, my mind on politics, writing the blog, watching a favorite movie, I busy myself. I don't fight the end of light, the dark in night, I accept my single minded dreaming. Drift through the oil slick as if it were cleansing waters. I do not drink from it, that is a certainty. The stink is enough to warn my lips that that way is toward the infinite, the dreamless dream saved only for the security of the grave. I don't think on it. I don't stomp around inside it, splashing its mud on my shoes, in my eyes, I don't think on it. A numb buzzing around the inside of my balding head. A whispering hiss from the plastic, metal monster behind me. But I don't worry on it or about the cyclops perched on the corner table. He never blinks never takes that one red eye off of me. Most times I don't pay attention his scornful gaze. Now and then I do place a red scarf over his lidless orb. Sometimes my skin screams, it's bright stare burning me. But I do not mind it at all.

Sunday, March 27, 2o16
Watched Easter movies all day. King of Kings, Barabbas, The Silver Chalice. Thought a bit about Christ, about my religion and how pretty much I must be big disappointment to . . . I don't really try to be the good Christian. I keep promising Jesus that I'll do better, every night in prayer I asks for forgiveness of my sins, and as soon as I wake up in the morning I repeat the same sins that I promised Him I would NEVER do again. Hmm. Well, I keep trying with the hope that sooner or later I'll get it, get the whole holiness thing.

I can feel the sleep fairy rubbing the back of my neck, my shoulders, her breath on my eyes making the lids slowly close. So, it's off to sleep, I hope. Don't want another night like last night where I didn't get to sleep until 9 a.m. Wish me luck.

Monday, March 28, 2016
1,000 miles an hour. That's how fast and how far the Earth spins. Okay, from the equator but it still spins almost as fast in Norman, Oklahoma. Some times I can feel that spin. My head notices now and then that it's dizzy. I have to sit down until it passes. No, that's all an illusion. We really don't feel the earth move . . . I think. But sometimes, I'm pretty sure, Do you ever have those days or moments where you just keep bumping into things or you do weird, physical actions that  you've never done before like shutting the door to David's car and not realizing until you try to take your camera out of its pouch to take a few traveling picks that the lanyard you keep your keys on, that you usually wear around your neck, but today for some godless reason you put around the handle on your camera bag, that the whole lanyard didn't make it into the car and your KEYS are dangling outside the car as you drive at 70+ miles an hour to Oklahoma City?
Me: Fuck! My keys are outside the fucking car!
David: What?
Me: My fucking keys are swinging in the breeze, I closed the door without realizing that the strap I carry them on . . . oh, hell! Just read the description above, David!
David: You want me to stop?
Me: No. We'll be at the hospital soon, right?
David: Yeah.
Me: Naw, don't stop. If they're gone, they're already gone!

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

Politics. The murderer of my peace of mind. No. Not really. Just my excuse for NOT allowing myself to be peaceful, to not fight, to relax and let the world churn in its own gravity. I want to explore without thought this existence. With out labeling it I want to smell and taste and touch and hear and imagine this consciousness adrift in a sea of consciousness. There are so many other entities wondering in this ocean of air. So many shapes, sizes, colors. Every now and then one of those ocean creatures sparks your interest. Its gravity drags your attention towards it. And you watch as it moves to the register, smiles at you hands the coffee you order. And you pay it and smile and it reacts with a smile that turns into a blazing galaxy of light.

But politics. I need to stop thinking about it. I need to allow the universe to unfold all by itself. I keep thinking that my gravity can change the momentum, the trajectory of the other things who are just like me. I think that my thoughts can somehow lasso their beliefs, change them, brand them with my symbols of right and wrong. But it never happens. I can't change existence.

11 p.m.
All day the weather stations has been warning us: a powerful thunder storm traveling through Oklahoma. And parts of OK have been hit. Rain, lightning, and a few tornados all around us. But not IN Norman-town, at least nothing bad . . . yet. Too far south, I'm guessing. JUST heard a rumble! No, a train passing by! Ha. I'm fearful of a stormy night. And yet, I long for the storms to come. An interesting dichotomy within the soul, to fear something an event and at the same time long for it. All of my existence has been filled with horror and delight to a point that it's difficult to tell sometimes which is which.

Thursday, March 31, 2o16

My eyelids whimper a bit, well,  as much as eyelids can whimper. The fingers on my left hand scratch gently at my forehead. Body warped into a question mark, the legs shaky. Each "last day of the month" is a small funeral for my physical being. It's like my body's aware that the end of the month signifies one more step towards that eternal darkness. Maybe my eyes don't recognize Big Daddy D marching slowly in front of them, but my nose can still (even in old age) sense him  smell him . . . just up the road, just around the bend he walks, and too soon my feet (and the rest of me) will catch up to him.

The Daily {W}Rite March 2o16 WK o3

My battery running low. Just enough energy to open my eyes. Just enough desire to move out of bed and stagger to the kitchen. Coffee on. All I need to do is press the "brew" button. Done. Bouncing off the hallway walls to the bathroom . . . done. Life in mud. Thick cold mud. This body shivers a bit, its bones would cry if they had voice enough to do so. It's ending. You feel it ending. The climax of this play came and went a long time ago. Nothing left but resolution.  Just a tying up of the loose ends. No extra bow, no encore before the audience disappears and the stagehand drags out the ghost light and shuts the doors. Darker than night the closing of a show.

Random thoughts:

Machina
The Robots had taken over.
One by one the humans gave in. Those who did as they were told were sold into slavery. Yes, even the Robot Kings needed someone to change their oil pans once a month, dust off their internal workings (easy enough to do, human hands being quite tiny). Besides, humans were cute, particularly the smaller ones, the ones they called "babies." And if any of the walking "water bags" got of line, easy enough to dispose of them. The robot authority had no qualms about offing any Flesher who defied the will of their metal superiors.

Death Light Saving Time

Hmm. The news just reported that when Daylight Saving Time kicks in on Sunday "old" people's chances of having a heart attack increases by 23%! Damn you, DST! Damn you to HELL!

Dog Freedom
We make mistakes. Hopefully we learn from them. Sometimes we keep repeating ourselves, the same response to an action. Others find fault in our limited ability to ever "get it right, damn you," but have even less respect for us when we do change. Ignore them. That flip-flop congregation: "Thou shalt not change. And even if you do, we will treat you like dog." I'm tired of being the dog. Scratching at a gang of flees who I can never, ever please. I break the leash you strapped on me. I run free, free through this wilted word. You will never catch me again.

Sleep Herder
A sheep herder's sun, its hooves pounding out dusty clouds of desert sand as it rounds up the strays that gather haphazardly along the dreaming river, red with sleep. My mind won't comply tonight (or is it already morning? What does that matter.) running free upon the muddy banks running wild through the brush, the grass where the sparrows roam and the crows stampede whenever they are startled. You cannot tame my mind, break my mind.

Restless

Oh, I hate the rowdy memories that always start rattling around inside my head right before I've decided to go to bed. Too much life cluttering my thoughts. It's a wonder that I can recall anything at all that didn't happen in the distant past. My bicycle pump, my wallet and sunglasses! I lose them all the time in the apartment because my elderly mind is too busy remembering that lovely day in 1984 when we got caught-up in a hellish Oklahoma spring rain two miles away from home. We didn't run, we didn't bother to cover our heads with our hands, we just strolled along laughing and dancing just like Gene Kelly in that movie you always loved. Funny. I can see all that with great detail as if it happened yesterday. . . and still I can't remember where I put my damn house key!

Wednesday, March 16, 2o16

Trapped in the house, in the apartment for three days. Afraid to look out the window, afraid that if I pull the blinds up, the world will have disappeared, vanished as so many friends have in the past when I didn't pay proper attention to them. Hell, Rapture could have happened and I'd never have known it. Afraid to raise the blinds and stare oblivion in its black, cold face. I don't know why. I lived in a void of my own making for the last three days! Why is this nonexistence that I created for myself less disturbing than the one I imagined just outside my door. My door. Too many doors in my life. Too many keys to carry, too many steps down the stairs to the white, freshly painted portal that leads out into . . . what? Time has caught up with me. Time forces me to think in ways that defy the natural order of things, of life. Time is a demon that sits on your shoulder from the day you are born. Time is a circling vulture waiting for its moment to strike.

Thursday, March 17, 2o16 4:00 a.m.

I've accepted this late hour in same way that I have accepted that of the matter. Yes, matter doesn't matter anymore or less than it did before I decided to not sleep. As young man I feared sleeping. Not so much did I fear the idea of going to sleep and never waking up. My youth could not conceive such a thing. Death, dying was something old people did when they grew to tired to wake anymore. No, that wasn't my reason for hating sleep. I was just afraid that I might miss something. A party. A chance to see, to experience something . . . grand and glorious. Life was such a wonder when I was a younger man. I know what your thinking. Be positive. Life is what you make it. There still wonders to be experienced. I'm sure you're right, you are always right. Maybe that's why I can't sleep. Sometimes I feel that punk kid inside me desiring to recreate itself, take charge burn the fucking candle . . . no the cigarette at both ends! Hell of a way to try and smoke. Smoking! I miss smoking. Yes, I've gotten use to the nicotine gum, I grown accustom to the lack of stink my fingers produced when I changed smoked my way through time. BUT I still miss it. I miss holding a cigarette between my fingers, letting the grand ghostlike smoke drift up into my nose . . . inhaling, exhaling . . . yes, I miss it. The whole ritual. The friendliness of tar and nicotine.

And I do miss love. Or at least, what I thought was love. Yes, a very bad bringing up from parents who never cared much for each other. That's probably not fair. They loved each other . . . once. Drinkers they were. Met in a bar somewhere in Long Beach, CA during WWII or just after it. There was a portrait of my mom and dad taken when they were very young. Mom's red hair was blinding, dad in his sailor suit. The portrait had been touched up a bit, the colors added after the picture was taken in some studio, close to my father's base. But they were beautiful. Children of the '40s. the "Greatest Generation." I shouldn't be too hard on them. They lived their lives the best they could. Besides, that my life sucks or doesn't suck is due only to my actions my way of thinking. It has nothing to do with my parents.

Friday, March 18, 2o16

There's a beautiful eeriness that Bowie's last album, Dark Star, hits me with. A Fist of Sound made even more powerful with the knowledge that it was Bowie's last album and that it was released on the day of his death. Bowie, quite the showman to the end.

I've come to a cosmic conclusion about my existence. You've heard it before from someone, somewhere: "I am what I eat." I know, don't get all over me about it, it is a cliché. But saying it and realizing that, for me, it's totally true, well, that's two different things, isn't. Just recently I found out that I feel better, have more energy, am clearer in my though process IF I eat "light." No burgers and fries, no fried chicken, no ice cream, no heavy, heavy food intake. A salad (light on dressing) makes me feel better. Apples, pears and other fruits are just good for me, AND veggies, lots of veggies. A little yogurt is okay, but like potato chips . . . I have a hard time just eating a little.  Popcorn is actually okay as long as I don't use butter OR oil with it. A little salt is also okay. So, the thing is can I make this adjustment to "healthier" living through "healthier" eating? We'll see.

Saturday, March 19, 2o16

A cool breeze almost knocks my Porkpie hat off my head. I shouldn't wear it. It's a little small for my head these days. My Bowler has suffered the same fate. Sad, they are really good hats, I paid a lot of money for them. I'm hoping that my wearing them will stretch them out a bit. I'm pretty sure that they have tightened up a bit since I bought them, and It's not that my HEAD got bigger. I need to find a hat stretcher. But if it is my head that got bigger, maybe a headshrinker. {laugh}

Anyway, a good day. Finally got David out of his cave and we drove around a bit. Every time the girls at Old School Bagel see David come through the door they head off to get his "special order coffee." They don't ask him. I feel jealous. They always wait for me to tell them what I want even though I always have the same thing, toasted bagel, pimento cream cheese, toasted and a large cup of coffee.

Like I said, a cool breeze today. I wore a long sleeve shirt and a hoodie. The sun not too bright. We ramble along Main St. stopping at Sprouts to get David some muffins. After that we head to the Speeding Bullet Comic Bookstore. There's a local artist there hawking his computer created comics, $5.00 a pop. I buy four. "Do you want the author to autograph them?"
the teenage cashier asks. I look back at the author and he smiles a giant comic book smile and, yeah, I want him to sign them.

Monday, March 21, 2o16
Last day of the third week in March, and I haven't written much that's worth much of anything. Sadly, the imagination is taking a ghostly holiday. The Muse too has gone abroad to find another writer to bless. Damn them! To hell with them! I still have fingers, I still have consciousness, I can write without the gaudiness of an imagination, or the sexual foreplay of an artistic Muse. I can write, damn it!

Had the weirdest dream last night! Yes, I had a dream! Well, one that I remember, at least. I was at this mansion somewhere talking to a kid (18-20) that (I'm guessing) lived there. And I'm trying to talk him down . . . about what? I don't know . . . well okay, me in the dream knows but "I" the dreamer hasn't a clue. Anyway I'm saying something like, "Look, if you're having problems, you can always talk to me . . ." He slams the door in my face, I start to walk away and then the door opens and the kid I was talking to has a handgun and he starts shooting me and I'm yelling, "DON'T!" and waving my arms in front of me trying to swat the bullets away before they hit me and at the same time I'm kicking at the gunman and . . .!  I wake up, my arms and legs flailing about! I think I actually said, "DON'T!" out loud.  Scary? For a moment, maybe. But I started to laugh uncontrollably! I haven't had as vivid a dream as that in a very long time.

So, his the end of my blog for this week. I'll try to be better at this next week. You know how it is. You write and write and write some more, and like that monkey at a typewriter, sooner or later you'll write "Hamlet." [smiles}