REPORT A PROBLEM
aldo o welles
What a fake. Can't keep my stories straight. Considering quitting this site. What I hate more than my flakey entries is the sex stuff by some of you. Why put stuff like that on here? It's yucky. Why do people become pulled into that kind of mindset? Thank God I'm old and closer to the grave than to all that pee pee talk. I don't even want my words sitting in between yours. My words. I know. As if they actually have any meaning. Doesn't matter. Some people become obsessed with other people. Some with how words transform other people.
Good lord. Don't go getting mad at me because I had F words. No. I didn't have F words. I meant to write hate F words. I write and stay away from people because I try to avoid controversy and anger and getting beat up or killed. Life is what you make it. Right? Is that true? What do I want to make it? I'll make life a banana cream pie with marachino marashino maraschino with red cherries on top… bery very cliché-like. I'm doing good here leaving in the mistakes. Nuns would be upset but somebody would be proud.
Anything that anyone does can be seen as a waste. You can make a lot of money and live in a great house, etc. and die anyway. My spouse says that I spend too much time doing worthless things. I still even make the most money. Not that it matters. But how does a person define waste? Being married could be a waste. Being single could be a waste. Working could be a waste. I spent a lot of time eating chocolate covered cherries. That wasn't a waste. I loved it. I might have kidney stones because of it but
It's not against the rules to write after midnight. It's hard to squeeze everything in and that is why my health is slipping. Age doesn't creep up on you. It slams against you and sometimes knocks you down. When you get up and look in the mirror you see an old person. All of a sudden you have kidney stones. Your knees hurt. Not to mention the padding on bones that used to stick out. It would be nice to get old if you didn't have to see people. Who wants acquaintences, old friends gawking at you and saying ----
Drinking decaf. Eating lemon cake. Some people drink themselves to death. Some eat, drink, bore themselves to death. I do a little bit of everything myself to death. No drugs. Don't believe in them. Take Chinese pills here and there. Not the kind that can kill. Can't get on a roll here. A blue bar just blocked my words and told me to please wait. Had to get another piece of cake. Virus update. Just wait until we have computer chips in our brains. We'll be dead but younger people will have them. They'll be perfect until a virus hits.
Writing was one of my secret interests as was learning about horses and psychic phenomena. I openly loved newts, cats, dogs, and birds. I had been told that there were too many books, you could only ride horses if you were rich– who would want to live with flies in old rickety wooden houses. Psychic stuff was against God. No one ever put a cigarette out on my eyes, but I couldn't see anyway. I can't think in an organized way. Writing comes out sensibly and then words come in to cause trouble so it has to be thrown away.
Had to stay up just to do these 100 words since there's no time tomorrow which is actually today but just later after I sleep. Been feeling emotional. Probably just tired. We can't be expected to leave all typos in without backtrapping backtracking to fix them as they present themselves. Now I'm drawing a blank. Forget what I wanted to say. There could be a hundred things but can't seem to pick a one. Off the top of my head: my hands look knarly and I don't think anyone cares. 10 words to go ole ho jose and away period
Have been feeling frazzled all day and confused for no reason. Haven't had time to do a sketch for each day so they've turned into scans of feathers, soap, that kind of thing. Woke up weighted down. Felt I'd better get these words out before there is no time. Here: I'll force out something positive…seconds are going by….birds are chirping…although I stopped feeding the pigeons because my spouse hinted that I looked like a weirdo, they still remember me. The other day I walked along the sidewalk with pigeons in tow. Phone just rang. Jarring. Carry on. Business as usual.
Up ‘til midnight to write about something, but I forget what it was so I'll tell the story about seeing a young girl dressed in white kneeling by my bed when I was about 12 years old. I jumped a mile and crawled to the bottom of my bed before jumping down and running upstairs to get my father. He came down to humor me and show that there was nothing there. As an adult I told my parents a story. I can't remember what it was. My father said that I was just a nut. That hurt my feelings.
Nana wawa told ghost stories in Italian. We understood even though we only knew English. Don't know how we knew what she was saying. There were ghosts everywhere in Sicily and a few in North Beach. One time a ghost told a lady that she had to name her baby after her. When the lady didn't, she was seen being pulled down the middle of the street by her hair. The ghost did it. The lady died all beat up by the ghost. My great aunt had a haunted jewelry box. Had to dump it in a second hand store.
I write most of these after midnight. Is that not following the rules? The day has hardly started yet? I know that if I wait I may not have time. I should wait and write before midnight after the day is almost ended. It shouldn't really matter since I usually don't write about the day anyway. I try but usually can't face it. I feel like I've had my legs chewed off by coyotes. It was just a typical working day. But that was yesterday. Tomorrow I'll write before midnight so as to not mix up today, tomorrow, or yesterday.
I am lost in the middle of shoes too tight but too nice to give away. Why can't I give them to the Goodwill? I don't wear them but might someday if others wear out and I can't find any good ones to fit. Same with jackets. All black. Some holes. I throw out some things that I need. Why the broken violin bow? It was my grandfather's. Irreplaceable but 2 just came in the mail. Ebay. Of couse, I don't play violin. There is too much violence in the world at this moment. How to let the words flow?
My blue ladder is gone. Either stolen or borrowed from the garage. Other tenants maybe. Or someone from outside. Had that ladder for probably 30 years. One of a kind since I painted it blue. Wanted to cut limbs from a tree but can't get up there now. Could try to get on top of the shed somehow but might fall on the hedge clippers to a gruesome death or get maimed or paralyzed or poke an eye out or break bones, puncture my liver, crack my head open. I hear someone hammering, probably while standing on my ladder. O.
I have had gnawing pain in the left flank for 30 years. Just took 8 tiny Chinese pills that look like beebees. Teeny canon balls. Doctors did find that I had kidney stones. They got one out. The gnawing pain stayed. The same with the tailbone. It always hurts. I never went to war or rode a bull or had any kind of accident. How do those people do it? How do 90 year olds stand having pains? A bent black man passed my window pushing a bicycle loaded with signs and American flags. Vietnam vet no drugs or alcohol.
Associations with people bring on anxiety attacks. Mother, spouse, child…grown child isn't really a child. Was much more comfortable when I'd get angry with Thomas Hardy. Threw his book of poetry away. Was incensed that he turned to poetry because people were so hard on him. I wanted stories. More stories. I want that book back. I spend too much money on books. Spent a fortune to restore an old etching. Could have fed a Russian family for months. I waste. I love old things. My love affairs were with old things that I would get angry with and dump.
I do believe in ghosts. My coffee tastes especially good this morning. I tend to read my less revered books because I'm always eating. It's not good to let a blackberry splat on a clean page. Especially on a yellowed page. If I were to take cortisol I might blow up when I stop. That is our new information for 2004. Fat around the belly is due to stress. There are pills for everthing but who can trust them? I do not have the character I thought I had. The brain loses function and slows down its tricky coping mechanisms.
The spouse is in there sleeping. Dog is in his what is it that spouse calls it? Cubbyhole? It is 12:55 a.m. I just don't like going to sleep. Used to be healthy but got tired of it. Health freaks are pale. There is that little bit of knowingness that irritates. You know how the healthy like to rub it in. It's like they are part of an elite group. A religion that is supreme. I got sick of that. If white trash is bad and vegetarians are good then is this losing sense or headed toward making sense? O
It must all be an illusion. How can property be crappy one year and then a few years later it's worth a million dollars. Where are all these millionaires coming from? They are all over the place crowding us out. My 1/16th Indian blood is bubbling rapidly in the German part of my veins and my Sicilian and French body parts are wanting to go shooting free like legs, arms, eyes, and hearts do in cartoons and splat themselves on walls or run off in different directions. Oh hell. I have to go now. Problems with the computer at work
Have been nervous to the point of it being a mental disorder. Out of the city see if I can settle down and enjoy being surrounded by trees instead of cars and people. The big dogs came. The male is making me nervous. Don't know if he will eat my dog or not. Spouse said that if he rips him up we'd have to shoot the little one. I said we'd have to take him to the vet. He said he'd die before we could reach the vet. Tried to make the little dog pee in the shower. He refused.
Only the biggest losers would be forcing words out for this stupid website and stressing themselves out to get it done before midnight even though I think the rules said you can cheat and extend into the next day but if you're going to do it then do it the right way which would be within a 24 hour period and not lapsing into a different day and calling it another day …..how many words are these…. I know now from a month and a half's worth of experience that right about now might be a few words over a
Aren't we here writing because we cannot face life? My dreams came back last night after leaving for weeks. I was flying and artfully maneurvering (sp?) between phone wires. Thousands of people came to silence me permanently because they felt I was evil for being able to fly. I wasn't in an airplane. In the next dream I had ripped up, buried mom's mother's day present and had a replacement which I left in the house. My family seemed to be against me. My father said he was about to kiss my mother when I told everyone to sit down.
Got up from bed in the middle of the night. Got tired of hearing a drip in the wall. Got to thinking about how I don't like to read about flowers and prairies, Nebraska. Some things just shouldn't be on paper. You have to be there. If you are so taken with something then don't expect it to take shape on paper. I like Willa Cather. She can write about nothing and make it interesting as long as there aren't too many flowers in there. I just felt something on my scalp. Hope it's not a tick. Nope. Just crust.
Headache. Tired. Don't feel like writing. Buttache. Mad TV is on. Place is cluttered. Have 3 sofas in the first room because I just can't throw out the worn one. The refrigerator is behind a makeshift nook kind of thing in the middle room because it can't fit in the kitchen. You open a door in the kitchen to see the refrigerator. Rugs are worn and dirty. Vacuumed but dirty. I re-read. Against the rules. Go ahead and throw me out. Hand washed the bedspread but it's too big for the dryer. Hung it over the shower…the glass swan doors.
I know nothing about writing. I'll try describing someone at work? No. An aquaintance. Who? Can't think of anyone. A relative. OK. A relative that I know little about so it can fit in here: He was called Doc but he wasn't a doctor and had no P.H.D. He probably never finished grammar school. He was handsome when young but looked kind of like a vulture when old. Bald head. Beady eyes. He loved ballroom dancing and putting relatives' heads on the bodies of British royalty in photos. He would be standing with Queen Elisabeth. You could swear it. True.
Many people I know are priced out of this city. They grew up here but cannot afford to buy property so are forever renters or buy something hours away and rent here. This probably happens when you like to have days off and lay around reading or writing stuff that has no meaning or drawing, dancing, or just plain wasting time doing near nothing like lying and watching TV. My guess is that the people who buy up property like crazy are those who don't like being inside hanging around their house, or sleeping or eating out in fancy restaurants.
Spouse said I spend too much time on my gynecology. Gynecology? You mean genealogy? And too much time on the computer doing nothing. Wasting time. I've pulled out old drawings and paintings. Pictures of paintings that no longer exist. That were thrown in the garbage twenty or so years ago. Instead of doing new drawings I scan the old and stick them with my 100 words. Yesterday's had a copy of a scissors watercolor. Makes no sense. I threw out a worn shredded pillow. Just took it out of the garbage to look at it. Will scan it for today.
There's no time for this. I had to stop a couple things in the middle to write something to stick on the website. Have no time to think about what should or shouldn't be said. Drawing a blank. Stuck my old couch out the door and it was gone within 24 hours. What else could I stick out there to get rid of? Spouse? Dog? Stack of business cards? Shoes? Throw rug that curls on the edges? This city has become so clean. Why? Something sinister? Is it just too full of rich people with cleaning ladies that wash sidewalks?
While young and being raised Catholic we were always waiting for permission….to write stories, to go out with friends, to have friends, to go to the bathroom, to talk, to go shopping? Most of us never got permission to write stories or when we did they got censored, laughed at, or marked up with red pen. The nuns did tie pink ribbons in the boys' hair if their hair looked a bit shaggy. Shaggy was when a razor cut wasn't showing around the neck and ears. Maybe those ribbons either made boys turn gay or into gay bashers. Don't know.
all the things that I love are taken from me…if I want to be healthy: chocolate covered cherries, coffee, wine, horses, lying on the couch with my head on the armrest, olives, pickles, all milk chocolate, whipped cream, brie, crackers, marscapone, clotted cream, strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, cats, rats, birds, riding in cars, flying in planes, riding in trains, if I want to be healthy…no yoga classes----that's what I was told---even the ones that are supposed to be cautious and careful because they can still injure no matter what and why do it then because it's usually boring anyway
Spouse never lives in the past. Says it never occurs to go back there. It's gone. I am always there going over all the details of what was. All the things I no longer have. The old wooden trunk that I said was junk. The Louis XV dining room set. My old records. Why did I throw them away? I couldn't find a replacement needle for my record player so I put all my Time Life collection in the Good Will bin. Verdi, Bach, Mozart, Beethoven…fat sets in different colors…booklets…different guy came in the mail every month for probably a year…
There was a wild area near an airport filled with bushes, trees. A man was sent there on official business for some kind of purpose to make change. He was attacked, beaten. The attackers were dark. He was light. He told police that a swat team should have been sent in. He hadn't expected any trouble. One fact that came out was that within this area was the most delicious cuisine in the world. No peas could be found as fresh and delicious. Before or after this scene, I can't remember, a policeman was smelling my sister's breath for wine.
The Tip Jar