BIRTDAY MONTH 2o16 WK o3

Sunday, May 15, 2o16
Sundays. A lazy day traditionally for the Woods clan. A very sad day as I remember it, it's like your whole life ends with the end of the weekend. I don't know if that's grammatically correct or poetic that last phrase,   . . . your whole life ends as the weekend ends.  Any better? Maybe not. I'll keep it anyway. Yes, Sundays seemed like graveyard time to me as a kid. Still does. You know that feeling you get sometimes when you feel as if all eternity, all existence is slowing down, that if it stops (and sometimes it feels like it will) all life will also stop. Sundays. A mourners' parade to the gloomy days of Mundane Monday . . . Tortuous Tuesday . . . Wistful Wednesday . . . Theoretical Thursday . . . but resurrection on Freedom Friday . . . I wrote a poem about my family that tries to capture that dreary existence we all call Sunday:

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, I suppose.
She'd scurry 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 on the back porch steps
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 before I was born.
She still searches for that something she could never find.
Woodie o5-13-12 (rewrites o5-11-14)

Thursday, May 19, 2016

So, I've had this idea of creating a comic strip based on my friend Michael. Michael is a recent graduate of OU! Yes, he is now one of Dylan's "Twenty years of schooling and they put you on the day shift" generation. An interesting kid living in one of the most interesting towns I've ever known. I know, I can hear the eyebrows raising and the skeptical voices shouting out, "What about Paris, New York, London?!" Well, I am sure that they are very lovely, creative and absolutely cool places to live . . . but when you look at them in the cold, hard light . . . Brother, they ain't nothing but glitter dust compared to good ol' Norman-town.

Went to dinner with David and his family. Got invited to go with Brendan to go see a movie this weekend! Highly honored. Brendan's a interesting guy. Don't know his whole story but a very creative guy, smart. He has a movie review blog, The Norman Nerd. He writes really "beautiful," very creative reviews. He's a hell of a lot better writer than I am. I'm jealous.

A few entries back, I talked about love, about how I missed being in love. I may have misspoke a bit. To be as honest, as it is possible to be honest when writing a public blog . . . I'm not sure I've ever been in love. Does that sound odd, maybe callus? Probably. Look, I've been told my whole life that "love is the answer." Never mind what the question is because nothing matters other than, "love is the answer." , I mean to say, people have demanded that I love other people, and I'm not all sure I ever have. Damn it. Am I just too self-centered? Too much a loner? Maybe I'm sociopathic. Nah! I'm not all Silence of the lLmbs. I'm crazy but not QUAZY!  YET! I need to think more about this . . . I'm guessing. But let me leave on this bit of thought. Maybe love is an illusion, a shadow within a ghost or a shadow within a shadow of a ghost.

2:17 p.m.

I am having an alien moment . . . day. It's true. I've never quite felt at home here on this planet, this plane of existence. I could never get my physical balance quite right. Oh, I tried but put me in a crowd of you  . . . you Earth Thingies and all the instructions given to me by . . . those in charge . . . just escape my body and computer chip brain leaving me a stumbling, mumbling mess of  . . . flesh . . . well, simulated flesh. I rather admire you . . . you Earth Thingies. How you are capable of keeping your balance on only two legs! And seeing with only two eyes? How do you manage to see anything at all. No wonder the other . . . beings . . . from other . . . worlds consider your species to be nearsighted . . . if not totally blind.  No wonder we can run around among you with you barely realizing that we . . . are . . .  here!

Friday, May 2o, 2o16, {2:06 a.m.}

I can't force it. There are no magic words, there's not a lullaby with a soothing enough melody that can lull me to sleep. My fantasies, my stories that I always visualize when I close my eyes for the night . . . I mean, the morning . . . work like counting sheep  . . . but not tonight . . . I mean, this early morning. I'm hoping that by three my body and mind will have had enough consciousness. My poetic-self is waiting to stroll the shadows, speak to the many fantastical creatures that live there. Perhaps I'll dream but it's not necessary. This "waking life" is dream enough for me. I prefer the darkness, the empty void of a dreamless sleep. It always makes opening my eyes into another day a BIG surprise! like rising from the grave, waking every morning is small miracle of resurrection. Jesus must of smiled when he rose and strolled out of his tomb. I bet he appreciated life even more than before.

4:42 a.m.
My eyes have betrayed me once again selling me to the deaf darkness morning brings. Night has become my master and no amount of pleading seems to move her highness to show me any pity. I am doomed to an eternity of sleep depravation. Unconsciousness is nothing more than fairytale, an empty equation that proves only that science is a myth and all the heroes that Ancient Greece produced were nothing more than smoke caught in the wheels of the ceiling fan above my head. Might as well make the coffee, slap in a CD (Blind Faith is playing on the laptop) and await the inevitable dawn to tap at the window blinds.

Saturday, May 21, 2o16

I'm surprised that I made it through all of Friday with only 2 hours of sleep in my gas tank. But I did. No nap, no closing the eyes for a minute. Went to OKC with David. He had an eye exam thing at one of those BIG ass buildings downtown. I was a little freaked out with the number of old people patients there in the eye doctor's waiting room sitting in uncomfortable chairs, sitting there watching the huge flat screen TV (some kind of gardening show playing) just waiting for one of the security locked doors to open and for one of the extremely young receptionists to callout a name. "Jenny!" I watched Jenny slowly rise from her chair. She used a cane as she waddled over to secured door #1, her right hand gently covering her right eye as if she was afraid it would fall out and roll around on the floor. Door #2 opened. "David?" I watched my friend disappear into the other unseen room. I heard the security on the door click into place. All of a sudden, I got a chill. This place was so creepy with its security doors and overly pleasant employees. It must be a trap. A trap for old people. They weren't doing eye exams. They were engaged in the harvesting old people organs for . . . for . . . okay, it was a silly idea. What would they want with old people organs? But I couldn't shake the eerie feeling that there was something wrong with this place. It finally dawned on me. This wasn't an optometrist's office! I was a top secret government lab where they test teleportation devises. Yeah, that made sense. They would use old people for that sort of thing. Old people are expendable.  Damn it! How am suppose to get home? David does all the driving! This is bullshit, man!

BIRTHDAY MONTH 2o16 WK o2

I'm wondering where's the rain that the weather girl promised me this morning. She did much more than just forecast the weather. She did her best to scare the shit out of her viewers wanting them, no doubt, to take the damn weather seriously. But not a drop of wet. A brisk wind shook violently the leaves on the elm tress that line Trout Avenue, but even that wasn't much. In her defense she isn't forecasting the weather just for Norman-town, she's covering the whole state and I suppose it must be raining somewhere in Oklahoma just not here.

Started writing poetry about 2oo4- o5. Yeah I had written some before that but I didn't get "serious" until the 21st century while living in Las Vegas, NM. A lot of the stuff I wrote there was in the moment type stuff. You know, whatever was going on at the time I was actually writing. I think they call the style "stream of consciousness." Basically, you just start writing whatever is going on in your mind at the time and you write and write and write in one session until you just can't help but put the pen down. Then you let it rest for a week or two, go back and clean it up a bit because stream of consciousness writing can be pretty messy. Sometimes, when I go back in to clean it up, it's in such bad shape that I can't even tell what the hell I was trying to write about. Anyway, I'm in my BIRTHDAY MONTH and I'm realizing that ALL the poetry I've written has pretty much NOT been stream of consciousness, in the moment, but stories about my past! Ain't that funny? Yeah, there were moments the writing was  "in the moment" but the soul of my poetry is triggered by my past. "Everything old is new again."

Today was Mother's day. My mom passed last year. I did celebrate the holiday for my sister. She and I are all that's left of the original Woods family. Anyway, I took her out last week to see the movie Mother's Day. We had a nice time. I wrote maybe a couple of poems about my mother and father. I did write one each for both on their respective days, Father 's Day and Mother's Day are the poems names. I'll share with you the one I wrote for mom. You know, on second thought maybe not. Something else maybe but not that one. Lets see . . . Maybe tomorrow I'll think of something that you haven't yet seen. Until then.

Monday, May o9, 2o16
A gentle sunshower. I wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't seen the clouds gathering in the East. Beautiful blend of gray and white. I decided to go out  (barefoot) and catch a few shots of it. Surprised, my head bobbed and weaved frantically trying to escape . . . raindrops?! My body was confused at first wanting to run back to the safety of the front porch . . . but my mind calmed  it down. "Silly body! It's just a few drops." Finally, my entire being (mind and body) came to the conclusion that this little bit of rain wasn't a threat and that it actually felt good on my skin.

Wednesday, May 11, 2016

This evening I glanced out the window and noticed this big whole in the sky! My primitive subconscious turn away in fright. Well, surely a hole in sky is something to be horrified by. But my poetic minded beast that shares my subconscious with my primitive side immediately turn my eyes back towards the phenomena. It was only a matter of a moment before my civilized self, my

pragmatic snob of a rational being scoffed at both the poet and the primitive because there wasn't a hole in the sky at all! Just a little patch of sunlight that had found its way in the narrowest crack in the clouds formation. They were coming together. That was all there was to it. Winds from the south (and perhaps the north) were pushing the two cloud banks together. Nothing frightening or poetic about it. Just the "laws of nature." You know I will not chide my primitive or poetic thoughts for making something out of nothing. And neither will I rebuke my pragmatic mind for its lack of imagination. No, it definitely has served me well . . . at times. To be honest, my primitive and my poetic sides too often have gotten me in troubles both physical and spiritual. The two of them are sometimes more childish and headstrong, reacting to situations before they've thought things out. But I must admit that the Primitive and the Poet of my existence have always been far more adventurous than my Pragmatic mother who has, so far, kept me alive.

Thursday, May 12, 2016
Walked around The Corner a bit yesterday. It's starting to warm up outside a bit more than my pale, cancer prone skin cares for but that's why I buy the sunscreen. We sat outside the Starbucks and drank cold coffee. I got to thinking about the kite store that used to be in the space the Starbucks now occupies. The kite store was there back in the 80s. Lots of wonderful superhero kites, box kites, big kites little kites of all the colors you could dream of at that kite store. They even had this long (expensive) dragon kite that if you could get it into the air wiggled about on the wind like a giant worm! A beautiful thing but way too expensive for me. I think it was about $100.00!

I'm not sure how much I like being on The Corner anymore especially in the spring. Too many beautiful, young women. Not kidding. Norman-town may have the most beautiful women in the world! So, why is that a thing to be sad about? Dude, I'm sixty-eight years old (almost), and there's no way ANY woman would be interested in me. That's the only thing I really miss about being younger. I say younger because I was always the "older guy" when I lived in Norman-town. Yeah, I was only twenty-five years old when I started at OU Drama Department but everybody else was eighteen to twenty, with a smidgeon of twenty-one year olds. So, anytime they needed to cast somebody as a grandfather in a play I was they guy they came too. I wore so much white shoe polish in my hair . . . Hey! Maybe that's the reason I'm bald now, damn it!
I don't want to go on and on about it but I miss female companionship. being in love . . . if I ever was in love. Maybe once to an English girl. Yeah, I was for a minute or two, I guess. I wrote a silly poem (or two) about my "life in love." Here's one of them:

Rambo In Love

I've heard so many say,

"I'll never fall in love again."
I myself have said the same
at least twenty-seven times a day.

Yes, I confess I'm perpetually falling,

yes, tumbling head over heels in love
like... Sylvester Stallone as Rambo
in First Blood.

Remember?

When he takes that leap of faith
off a fifty foot cliff and lands in a tree,
crashing through branch after branch
until BAM! He slams to the ground with
that deep, beastie sound, "UGH!"

Yep, that's me.

Constantly re-stitching my
heart while running away from love's
baying bloodhounds.

I really can't help myself. Every time

I look into a young girl's blue eyes
or hear the ring of her sensual voice
or feel that gentle touch of soft hands brushing
'gainst mine, I'm gone! So hopelessly, so endlessly,
so recklessly... in love!

Totally devoted? Most true…

of course, for a moment or two
‘til something horrible happens. Perhaps
it's just a single word spoken out of tune,
a blemish appearing quite suddenly on her face
from some simple change in light... or fate.
Gad, what a fright! There's nothing more
loathsome than an imperfect lover!

So again, as before, I'm off, off to discover

another love that, hopefully, won't let me down.
Metaphorically speaking... I've had more wives
than Mickey Rooney.

Woodie 5-24-08

Saturday, My 14, 2o16
What are you saying?! Already? really, the last day in the 2nd week of my BIRTHDAY MONTH?! Alright, I believe you. I'm sure . . . well, pretty sure . . . you wouldn't LIE to me . . . or would you?! {suspicious frown}

What a glorious night last night! Art Walk at full tilt springtime. People everywhere and, of course, David knowing EVERYBODY had to stop and talk to each and every one of them. We spent three hours at Art Walk and two hours and forty-five minutes of it was spent waiting on David to finish his anthropological questioning of every old friend he ran into. "So, what's been happening with you since 1968?" And of course people being people. they told him everything that could possibly happen to a human being in forty-eight years, and not five years at a time, or even by individual years . . . more like day to day for almost fifty years! Okay, it really wasn't that bad. Or was it?! {smile}

Saw some wonderful digital art by a very young artist, maybe in high school but not even sure she's that old. But dude her "comic book" style surrealism is just gorgeous! And I didn't get even ONE pic of her work. Stupidest question I asked last night was to this kid. "Do you have a studio?" She stared at me for a moment and, "No, I just do all this in my bedroom and wherever I'm at, at the time. Don't need anything

but my computer." And she wasn't being flip to the old guy. She was sitting there all the time creating a new piece. There are brilliant children running around on the streets of Norman-town.

Here's the thing. As much as I love being an audience member watching other artists create their art, I am also feeling a real jealously towards them. Take this guy named Caleb (pic on your right). This dude rocks the blues better than most. I mean, this cat burns the lyrics in midair with his raspy dragon voice. And the audience eats it up. This guy is  . . . fucking good! And I dig the hell out of watching him perform. BUT I also envy him and all the other artists out there because in another life THAT was me. ME living the artist's life. ME, making music, yeah, I sang for awhile but I was never as good as any of these musicians today in Norman-town. Me creating theatre, creating art, living and breathing art. And now? Well, just a guy with a lot of time in who realizes  as far as being an artist goes . . . not sure I was ever, ever that good at it.

So, this sudden realization that my whole creative life has been a lie or at the least a waste of time, I've decided to either stop bitching about or get my grumpy butt in gear and get out there and BE the artist again.

BIRTHDAY MONTH 2o16 WK o1

Thursday, May o5, 2o16
Yes, the month of May is my BIRTHDAY MONTH. Yes, I know that some would say that I'm being rather greedy claiming the whole month for myself. However, I am going to be 68 years old on the

23rd and that should be enough of a reason to say to myself and the world, "I deserve a whole MONTH dedicated to the celebration of my BIRTH, damn it!" And yes, I know, that some of you out there thinks that longevity in and of itself does not justify my commandeering an entire month! And to be totally honest, I'm sure that in today's market you could sell to the public that reaching the age of 68 is actually any kind of accomplishment.  There are many more people in this 21st century of ours that are far older than me. But in my defense, if you knew about my past, the life I've led, the dangerous adventures I have been on during my existence on this physical plane, you would concur with my conclusion . . . it's been a crazy-ass journey . . . but no crazier than any other human's journey. But totally honest, my life hasn't been all that important to anyone except me. And sometimes, in the anemic hours between black and white, I'm not even sure my life is even that important a thing to me.  But enough of this gloomy, myopic gobbledygook! It's my BIRTHDAY MONTH!

I rummage through the shoebox where I keep all the pictures of myself in. "Oh, you are so narcissistic." she says. But no I am not. I gotta few, yes, pictures from my younger days, but there really aren't that many. Not enough, at the least, to call me names! That's me on the left . . . no, on the right there. I've been told that this pic was taken when I was 6 months old! Which would make it November 23, 1948, give or take. November 23 fell on a Tuesday in the year 1948. Truman just won (the 2nd of November) reelection. Well, he didn't really win reelection. Vice President Truman had

taken over the POTUS mantel because Roosevelt died in 1945. A big movie at the time was The Boy With Green Hair. Yes, I didn't SEE it when I was 6 months old! Or II did, I don't remember it! However, when I was maybe 6 years old I do remember seeing it on TV. A pretty moving little movie about a kid who is ostracized from the town he lived because his hair turned green! And I think I saw it on TV when I was 6 or 7 or 8 and I remember how much it moved me even as a little kid. I guess it was a sort of scary story because this little kid, older than me but still little, was forced to cut his hair and leave the town he lived in, and he was all alone in the woods and . . . you know I'm getting a creepy feeling just talking about it. Can you imagine? 62 years later and I still get creeped out just thinking about a movie I watched when I was 6? Sure, I mean, I've always been effected by movies. You know that saying about kids brought up by TV? That's me. Parents would go out drinking on a Friday/Saturday night and I would stay home in this big old scary house we lived in and watch TV until I fell asleep on the floor. Mom would give me a pillow and a blanket before she left for the bar. Sometimes she would make me popcorn, popcorn for me, make sure I had the phone number of the bar that she and my dad were going to just in case something happened . . . and then a short, ruby red kiss on the forehead and they were gone for the night.

Friday, May o6, 2o16

Remembering a lot of little things that happened when I was a kid. Just little moments that, for whatever reasons, have stuck to the inside of my brain. Here's a few.
1. Floating a SPAM can in a muddy pot whole. Accidently rubbed the edge with my finger and damn! Blood spilling out of my index like facet. Mud turns reddish gray!
2. Waking up in a doctor's office. Confused, crying. Mom comes in, wraps her arms around me and explains. I was riding my bicycle in the parking of the factory where mom ran a punch press. The factory was right across the street from our house. Anyway, I was riding and tried to do a bike trick I'd seen on TV, got my right foot stuck in the front spokes and BAM! It flipped me over the handle bars and head first onto the asphalt parking lot. Mom said I came to the back door of our house, knocked on the kitchen door and passed out on the steps. I don't  remember any of it except for putting my feet on the handlebars as the biking was moving . . . the rest is a blank spot until I woke up in the doctor's office.

3. A Saturday night, alone in the house watching for the first time, Dracula. I think it was the scene where Dracula first gets to London and grabs a flower girl, pulls her behind a pillar and we hear her scream. To add to it, a wind outside the bay window where I was camped out watching TV started to howl. Scared me so much. Called mom at the bar. I told her how scared I was. I think I was crying. She said not to worry "just go to bed and I'll be home in a while." All I could do was curl up in the big blanket I had on the floor and watch the rest of the movie until I just passed out. Next weekend, back in front of the set hoping to be scared out of my mind . . . again.

4. Seventeen years old waiting out the draft. Working in a woodshop making the bases for trophies. Worked a giant sander, smoothing out the edges and face of the base's surface. Lots of cuts on the hands when they got to close to the sand paper conveyer belt that was traveling at least a hundred miles an hour. Owned a motorcycle then. Use to go up late at night on this hill that over looked La Puente where I had a small apartment . . . not much bigger than the one I live in now. I'd go up there, layback on the motorcycle, drink beer, smoke cigarettes and watch the moon. Weirdest thing? I wrote a poem about it 47 years later not even knowing that I was writing about it! Here's the poem:

Sometimes Things Change

He loved the Moon once, way back in the day.

Lying on the warm hood of his beat up ’51,
he’d watch her all night long, watch her roll
lazily across the sticky summer sky.
The steady thud of cars passing by and over
the 9^th Street Bridge kept him company as
he chain smoked Lucky Strikes,
sipped at a cold quart of  Brew 102.
Just kicking back, staring up at her.

He wasn’t like them punk ass friends of his,

those young rowdy rednecks with spit
in their eyes and Saturday night
anxiously tugging at the crotch of their 401s
anytime a sweet young thing strolled by.

No, he wasn’t like them, nothing like them at all.

He was content to sit on the hood of his car
parked down by the dark shores of the South
Canadian, and watch in silence, just sitting there,
watching her endlessly roll.

Lately though, he noticed the Moon, his Moon,

her looks had started to fade, to go.
Too many large craters along her brow, these days.
Shadows cut deep gullies along the inside
of her tender Maria . . . transforming her,
bending her pale smile into a dark and dusty frown.
Her charm all but dried up, and his desire
to be with her . . . all of a sudden . . . gone.

Somewhat sad it is.  How time can kill a passion.

Once he smoked and drank and gawked at the Moon
with loving eyes, and now?  Now, he barely looks at her.
Woodie 1-14-12 (rewrites 1o-2o-14)

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.