My Art ~ My Tributes ~ Writes ~ and Creative Ideas
Like Me - A Tribute to Wesley Willis
Like Me – A Wesley Willis Tribute
Your songs made me laugh.
Simple, yet twisty and hard to catch,
like iridescent bubbles rising safely to the air.
I remember summertime,
mid-nineties,
quiet skies,
lo-fi on the radio.
Marc played “Chicken Cow” at
the station.
Comic genius.
Be your own animal.
Vampire bat.
You played in Raleigh,
you cursed us out.Target – expect more, pay less.Like a computer, looping through a program,
You called us shitheads; you said “suck my
Motherfucking dick,”
one hundred times.
You didn’t make me laugh.
I sat through hell,
repetition and pain,
I left numb.
Energy drained.
Raid – kills bugs dead.
I didn’t know what Schizophrenia did.
Not til I rode the “warhellride.”
Not till voices robbed my peace,
invaded my privacy,
broadcasted my thoughts,
and mocked my emotions.
Like rubbing a dirty sock over my eyes.
I was blinded.
You,
so like me.
brown.
paranoid.
artist
and poet trying to see.
I salute your crazy liberation.
You said you wanted to love, live,
and forgive.
Like me.Timex – it takes a licking and keeps on ticking.Rock over London, Rock on, Chicago.
R.I.P
My Letter...My Suspicions.
[ This letter and blog post talks about living with a disability as a writer. I also share pieces of a short story I am working on. ]
April 28, 2011
I plan to continue my "Ān-Umoja Imp" story May 3, 2011. I receive my Social Security disabilities around the third of each month.
I felt uncomfortable today while writing outside of Barnes & Noble Bookstore. I sat at an outdoor cafe table today, April 28, 2011. I looked at the clock on my cell phone, it said 8:05 am...after sunrise, the ski (sky) was cloudy.
A British-American man who looked older than sixty (to me), with white, gray, and black hair, was typing on his computer. I noticed he wore an orange shirt with blue jeans and glasses.
I felt suspicious because the voices I heard (male invisible voices), told me other people were making illegal copies (copies without consent of the writer/artist/or creator) of my story as I was writing it.
I am suspicious. The voices have claimed "they" will take my stories and poems and claim credit. [I have written, created, and mailed, and E-mailed many stories and poems to myself and other people]. The voices I can hear (but not see) claim they will assume credit for my work/stories, then, sue me in court (sue me over my own artistic creations). I hope this is nonsense, but after hearing the voices say these things, I started mailing myself my ideas, and poems, and short-stories before they were finished.
The voices I hear are not "my voices." I use to say that phase. For example, I use to say to my Mother...my voices said...(ect.) I said this because I believed I was the only person going through my painful experiences...the problems in my life were my problems, in my head. I realized that it is important to listen to myself, hear my voice (the voice I have always heard in my head, as well as the songs I sing, or what I say to other people). I call the voices I hear, 'Los cabeza habladors,' which is my spanish translation of 'talking heads.' I try to call the voices I hear 'the voices.' As I continue to write, I learn better ways of expressing myself. (Better communictions).
I have mailed myself my letter, and I plan to mail the Police Department if I feel I can prevent future crimes. [I do not believe it is illegal to sound paranoid or suspicious...especially if I am trying to prevent crimes against people.]
I may also share my story Online. I may create a semi-private group open to friends.
I support the American Bill of Rights: Freedom of Religion, and Freedom of The Press.
I support my writings, and my self-expressions and creative or humorous expressions.
I hope I can exercise good responsibility for the opinions, stories, or jokes I share through my Writings, Songs or Kā-mics.
I support my mental activities as well as my physical activities, and my spiritual practices. I hope people work to keep their lives in balance. I would not want people to damage my property, or my neighbors property. I do not think it is wise for people to break laws or not follow rules designed to protect people.
What I wrote today: Ān-Umoja Imp (unfinished).
[Continuing..]
The little imp ate the chunky, chopped peanuts and dried raisins with pleasure. Her stomach, which complained because she was hungry, was quiet. The sound of footsteps could be heard.
"I want to watch Reading Rainbow."
The little girl giggled as she walked down the hall.
"Yiemae! The little boy yelled, you said we were going to light the Christmas Tree."
"Christmas is over." Yiemae said, in a factual manner.
"But I didn't get a present..."
"Yes you did."
[This story is about a little Umoja Imp who meets two children the day after Christmas.
Yiemae is pronounced (Y-e-ma). ]
[ This blog was entitled: May 3 - Mae 3, 2011 (Mayo 3, 2011); It was posted 5/3/11 in my 'Blogging with Voices: A Journey Through Schizophernia' Blog. ]
I had a long, active day today. I received my disability payment; a good time to pay bills.
I did not mail my letter today, May 3rd, because I forgot; when I remembered, it was after 5:00, I think the post office was closed.
I am at my Mother's (Mah's) house. I will post another Ān-Umoja story addition on this Blog.
May 3, 2011
"No I didn't Yi-ee-maeee!" the little boy yelled.
The girl looked at her brother with a puzzled expression on her face.
"I'm sorry I upset you," Yiemae said in a softer voice, "you did get a present. You got a new pair of shoes."
"That's not a real present." The boy said, pouting. His face frowned.
"Geijo..."
"That's not my name!"
"That's not your first name, but it's your nickname. That's what mah-mah calls you...sometimes."
"That's the name of a toy. I'm not a toy."
"You are my brother. Let's turn on the Christmas Lights."
The little imp was quiet as she listened too footsteps walk into the next room. She climbed down the wooden tube. When she felt the floor beneith her feet, she reached out her hands for the wall. Suddenly, soft lights lit the dark room.
The Umoja imp could see the kitchen better. She walked along the wall, then peep'da around the corner. She saw a large, green tree with tiny, colorful lights that turned off and on. Above the tree, in large letters, she read:
Mer-ry Ch-rist-mas
The Umoja imp tilted her head. Christ-Mas? She wondered, do they mean Meri Ka-res-mas?
