The daily {W}Rite June 2o16 WK o3

Thursday, June 16, 2o16
The idea that there is more to this flesh-life that we live has always been worth a thought or two. I would like to believe there is more to me than just this . . . this box I'm living in. Ha! Can't seem to get away from clichés. Think outside the box. But maybe what I'm looking for is a phrase that includes all areas of this existence, not just the physical world of m my senses, but something unseen, not heard, smelled, tasted or felt in the skin, in the bones. Existence that sleeps inside each individual. Maybe I'm thinking of the imagination. True, I sort of pride myself on being imaginative. But am I really? Maybe what I think is creativity is merely the byproducts, the fumes, the dreams of a sleeping imagination. Maybe it's time for me to wake up that creative side of me that hasn't yet been introduced to the reality world.

The Daily {W}Rite June 2o16 WK o2

Thursday,

If I had the flexibility to do so, I would pat myself on the back. I'm very proud the of the fact that I have, in the last few days, really focused on writing poetry, movie reviews, and the blog. Maybe that anti-creativity wall I've been smacking into for the last year or so has finally broke into a billion little pieces. It feels good to write without worry about how it comes out. 

Listening to some of my old music. yes, I shut off the TV and I'm just writing away while listening to Sam Cooke sing his sweet, gentle sounds. Very calming. No, I don't listen to just one kind of music. I got Hendrix, lots of blues, and a killer album, Tales From The Crypt. Oh, don't get all weirded out. I know it's a horror TV show. But it's got a lot of cool, jazz oriented music on the album. All the songs are background/mood movie for the different horror stories they told. The music is really moody, haunting and lovely.

Monday, June 13, 2o16

Haven't done much writing this week. Yesterday was another torturous day for America. Orlando, Florida 50 killed and 50 wounded in another mass murder . . . excuse me . . . terrorist attack . . . no, a hate crime. Okay, so maybe it's a combination of all three.  People are upset yelling for gun control laws again . . . freaking out again on Facebook. And I don't think I can blame them. There's a lot of rage over this "mass murder." And there's a lot of frustration too. But we keep covering the same road when it comes to solving this big problem, and the road always turns into a dead end. Why? Politics, I guess. Or maybe it's just no one has a clue what to do to resolve the "situation." And there's where my frustration starts. No one is capable of solving this problem because they can't get on the same page. Look, the political Right and Left need to work together and get the job done. How? Hell, I don't know. Hell, I may well be as big a part of the problem as the suits in Congress.

The Daily {W}Rite June 2o16 WK o1

Thursday,

I didn't write much last month, my BIRTDAY MONTH. Being honest, I'm not quite sure what to write about. Or maybe I DO know what to write  . . . but can't find my way in. Funny thing happened today on our way to the gym:
David: (looking at the sky) Hmm. Are those rain clouds moving toward us from the east?
Woodie: (looking at the sky) (pause) How the hell should I know? David: Well, normally storms come in from the west not the east.Woodie: Ew! listen to you, Mister Weatherman. Ew!
Got home about four, turned on the news just in time to hear the weather person say, "Looks like we are going to have more rain. Not too heavy, but the weather pattern is a bit strange. Usually a front comes in from the west. However, this front is approaching from the east." Fuck! How did David know that? Better question, why didn't I know that! I question my ability to see the world clear enough to write about it. I always thought of myself as being extremely observant, I mean, that's one of the basic tools of an actor, the ability to observe and to know what is actually being observed. I didn't even notice that those damn rain clouds were even moving!

11:48 P.M.
I was thinking about the human race today. Not a lot but a little. When I talk to someone on the street and they have a charming, polite smile for the old dude stopping by out of nowhere just to talk to them, I can't help but think what a wonderful America we live in. I get home, turn on the TV listen to the Blonde Boy politician  ramble on about how rotten my America is, when I hear his crowd of supporters cheer him on, I think, "Well, that's a step backwards . . . . maybe two."  And I get depressed. I just stare at the inside of my coffee cup, and after awhile I get angry and maybe toss the Koosh ball at the door, yell a long line of David Mamet like obscenities  at the wall! And then I let out a disappointed breath of hot air, sit in my favorite chair and think . . . "Someday all these hateful folk are gonna understand, they're gonna get." Maybe not during my time on this big ol' Koosh ball of an Earth . . . but they'll get it someday. Maybe.

Saturday, June o4, 2o16

I could tell you a million stories about how Muhammad Ali changed my life. He surely did transform all that “White America” propaganda that I was fed my whole life by my parents, by the government, the school system, the TV commercials and TV shows, the movies . . .   But then one day Ali came along and nullified all that racist, anti-American nonsense I had drilled into my head as a kid. Ali was an individual and stood as an individual against the "great white-American hope" that black folk would just magically disappear from this country, that we, the mighty Pale People, could wake up one morning and walk outside our pretty little suburban houses and see nothing but go ol' white America faces! "Oh, oh say can you see how white my skin be."

Ali was a “real” American man, a true patriot, a man with fire in his fists and in his voice, “I am the greatest! I’m pretty! I’m a bad man!” He was an honest man, a man that stood up when everybody else said, “Sit the fuck down.” Everything that I now believe about my country, about how the Constitution of the United States should work, came from Muhammad Ali’s stand against the Vietnam War draft:

“Why should they ask me to put on a uniform and go 10,000 miles from home and drop bombs and bullets on Brown people in Vietnam while so-called Negro people in Louisville are treated like dogs and denied simple human rights? No I’m not going 10,000 miles from home to help murder and burn another poor nation simply to continue the domination of white slave masters of the darker people the world over. This is the day when such evils must come to an end. I have been warned that to take such a stand would cost me millions of dollars. But I have said it once and I will say it again. The real enemy of my people is here. I will not disgrace my religion, my people or myself by becoming a tool to enslave those who are fighting for their own justice, freedom and equality. If I thought the war was going to bring freedom and equality to 22 million of my people they wouldn’t have to draft me, I’d join tomorrow. I have nothing to lose by standing up for my beliefs. So I’ll go to jail, so what? We’ve been in jail for 400 years.”

Patriotism is not just about standing up for your own personal rights but also standing up for the rights of every other American citizen. It’s about putting yourself, your beliefs on the line, but NOT in an attempt to make just your life better, but in an attempt to make everybody’s life better, to make America a better place for all live.

I got home from Vietnam in '69. I stayed with my mom through my thirty day leave before I reported to 29 Palms, CA to finish up my "term of service" in my Marine Corps. So, I turn on my Mom’s TV and . . . HEY! Ali’s gotta fight going on! Great! Got me a beer from the frig, settled back onto the couch just as the first round began. About half way through the second round, my mother comes running out her bedroom, over to the TV set, watches a few punches and then shuts the damn TV off! "Mom! What the hell?" And my Mama said, "You can't watch that man fight on MY TV in MY house." "Why the heck not?" "Because YOU went to Vietnam and HE didn't!" Well, I thanked her for the thought. I mean, it was kind of sweet of her. “But I really wanted to see Ali fight, Mom.” With a Christian martyr sigh, Mom turned the TV back on and went back to her bedroom and slammed the door shut!

I try to live my life by the example that Ali set. I try to believe in the Constitution as it should apply to all citizens of this country of ours. I try to have the strength to go against the odds not for any other reason other than it’s the right thing to do.

Sunday, June 5, 2o16

I'm bumming a ride off my sister. I'm in a desperate need of food. Okay, you'll have to forgive the drama school training. I do tend to "overact" my daily life dilemmas. I do need to get to the store, though. Need the nicotine gum! Chewing way too much of it lately.

Scientists have a theory: Life is a simulation created by . . . well, their
not sure about who came up with the idea of developing a race of simulated people. Some theorize that there's an Evil Demon that created both reality and the way in which we perceive that reality. Of course most of us understand (to differing degrees)  the idea of God as the ultimate programmer. But scientists, of course, don't believe in God (or gods) so they theorize that simulated world we wallow around on was created by a society of advanced human beings who were on this Earth before us. They (of course) are so advanced that they were able to create a computer universe where we (humans?) could live and struggle in the same manner  as  the advanced society that created our simulation had struggled in their lives before they evolved into a highly advanced, technological civilization. Sound familiar? of course it does, it's The Matrix! Or, if you like, The Thirteenth Floor. OR, if you like again, Dark City. Or, if I may one more time say, perhaps our reality is just an advanced video game, like SimCity! The possibilities are endless. I always liked the one that our universe, our reality is nothing more but a dream the God is dreaming while he cat naps. Now don't freak on me. Gods short naps are much, much longer than our little head bobbers we take during a boring movie or on a ten minute break. No, His nap can last millions and millions of years! But still, IF it is just a nap, then that means at sometime God will wake up . . . what will happen to us then?

Monday, June o6, 2o16
Up early today, 6 a.m. Had to ride with my sister to a doctor's appointment in OKC. On the way back we searched the service road along I-35 for somewhere to eat. Just by chance we found this little café called Pickles! Hee. AND I had breakfast! I didn't realize that I haven't actually had breakfast in a long time. Chili omelet! After that we shopped at some of the shops around the Warren passing time before we went to see Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Out of the Shadows. If I had been 6 years old I would've loved it. But being old . . . er it just put me to sleep. After that, we went to the new super Walmart and man, is it big! I had a pleasant day. I don't spend much time with my sister. I need to.

Tuesday, June o7, 2o16

Tonight the darkness is a bit more confused than usual. I can see the huge elm across the street nodding in agreement. Above its leafy head a noncommittal quarter moon stands stoic in the evening sky. They never like to get involved with the questions humans instinctually ask whenever the sun removes itself from the conversation.  I'm quietly disturbed by the silence that surrounds me. Not one train has passed by tonight which seems a bit unusual. To add to that, no traffic, no dogs howling up a mournful growl. Perhaps they, the dogs of this world, have given up. It's hopeless, you know. No matter how loud you scream at night, no one ever hears you . . . or chooses to hear you. Perhaps no on cares to share your fear of the dark.

I should take a shower. Haven't done so in weeks. Please, save your scorn. I know, I probably smell. But so far no one has passed out from the stink. I think that's why I don't have nightmares anymore. Ghosts are sensitive beings. Perhaps cleanliness is not closer to Godliness. Oh, He's always around. There's nothing that'll keep Him away. The rotting flesh of a billion years, the smell of heaven.  Wait! It could be that His nose has burnt out, the nostrils being nothing more now but twin tunnels that carry the southern winds across Norman-town, across the salted oceans and the deserts and those tiny islands of red that populate the heart. Am I making any sort of sense? My thoughts are often wanders with no direction, distracted by the glimmer of moonlight on the Duck Pond, by the Abby Road album now shouting Lennon's I Want You from my computer speakers. Am I making any sense? I suppose it doesn't matter. Not really. I'm done writing on this last day of the first week of June. Goodnight.

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!