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...and they lived happily ever after. Smith & Lady: poets, artists, photographers & adventurers.
Our relationship was forged to the soundtrack of Yoko Ono's magic,
frenetic, love-laden song, "Walking On Thin Ice." ( play song )
 
   
 
 

Archive for June, 2010

FIRE HURRICANE HURRICANE

Wednesday, June 30th, 2010

I’m thinking this could be pretty important news for people to consider in southern states:

Wind and waves from Hurricane Alex are stirring up more questions than havoc so far at the BP oil spill site, hundreds of miles away. Pundits, scientists and outright guessers just can’t agree on what’s going to happen to that stew of oil and dispersants when a storm makes a direct hit on the spill scene.

Much of their uncertainty has to do with the chemical makeup of the dispersants, which have been strewn like a giant lab experiment over thousands of square miles of spilled oil, and shot into the oil at seabed level as it escapes. After Earthjustice demanded answers from the EPA, the agency revealed the ingredients, but toxic effects of those ingredients—especially in combination with the oil it binds to—are hard to tie down. And there seems to be nothing but conjecture when it comes to figuring out the added factor of hurricanes.

At this moment, it appears Alex will temporarily halt oil containment/clean up efforts, which are recovering about half of the estimated 60,000 barrels of oil gushing into the Gulf every day. By the time it hits land Wednesday, probably near the Mexico/U.S. border, the storm will have lobbed enough energy eastward to push globs of oily goo deeper into coastal wetlands and along a much broader expanse of beaches in relatively untouched states such as Florida and Mississippi.

But, imagine if Alex’s 75+ m.p.h. winds were directly ravaging the spill area, pulling trillions of gallons of that toxic water into its vortex and raining it down over a many-states area.

Think of the ocean zone itself and how it would be churned by monster waves and then sent surging over coastal plains, depositing a great unknown upon sensitive wetlands.

One writer thinks the result will be poisonous fallout across vast areas of the country. A Mother Jones article also warns of hurricane-pushed toxics, even as it discusses the invisible health effects from all the spill chemicals.

We know from Louisiana Health Department reports that at least 162 people have been harmed, and some hospitalized, by exposure to the oil/dispersant toxics. We also know that air pollution levels in that vast area of spilled oil are loaded with toxic chemicals linked to the spill and are at concentrations higher than routinely measured in such pollution-saturated cities as Mexico City and Los Angeles. More ominous for creatures that make up the Gulf ecosystem are impacts being assessed by marine toxicologist Susan Shaw. In an interview with OnEarth, she described, among other things, the deadly nature of those vast oil plumes created by the interaction of dispersants and oil.

And those are just some of the known health effects. The big unknown is what happens—as it surely will—when a hurricane tears up the spill and spreads it far and wide. There is no precedent.

http://unearthed.earthjustice.org/blog/2010-june/oil-and-dispersants-deadly-brew-gulf-hurricane-season

 

Calling All Egos of the Universe

Tuesday, June 29th, 2010

Auguring the Divine

 

life in the flesh lane

Tuesday, June 29th, 2010

beware the masque you wear – foto by Smith

Time to harvest my last two pocket notebooks before I again lose all my street notes.

Like most poet-humorist-thinkers, I always carry a small notebook to record stray thoughts for later use. If you write, you need to capture such thoughts when they whish through your mindfield because you seldom remember them later — the good ones are always flashes-in-the-brain-pan.

Lost my first poetry pocket pad in Barcelona in 2007. As we entered a subway car, two youths buffeted me violently, trapping my backpack in the subway doors as they pretended to be looking above the door at the map. As they left and slowly sauntered away, my brain flashed “pickpockets” and I felt my back jean pocket – it was empty . . . they’d stolen my poetry notebook (I keep my money and camera in my tight front pants pocket). The notebook had a description of the railway station begging scams I’d observed in Bezier, so maybe it’d give them some side crime ideas to try. . . otherwise I amuse myself thinking how disappointed the Poetry Thieves of Barcelona were when they looked and found poetry snippets instead of money.

My second loss was from forgetting to remove my notebook from my jeans before putting it through the wash at the Soap Opera Laundromat

So now I periodically blog my unused notebook notes, hoping for inspiration down the road. If naught else, this gives you insight in how my mind works when it flits from playful thought to sound.

~ ~ ~

fool full few days

better fresh than foul

worry worn and weary

whine weak slime seek

I’m hurtin’ for certain

train horn beep bops in the night

the bird’s eye blackwing school

Okra – the TV talk show vegetable queen

duck water / bridge water / would water

relationships: me-me, me-she, me-we, she-she, she-me, she-we, me-cat, me-cat-she, me-cat-we, she-cat, she-cat-me, she-cat-we + THEY THEM THOSE OTHERS NOT US with all-the-above and friends with all-the-above and strangers with all-the-above and finances with all-the-above and health-love-age-height-gender-race-education-economics with all-the above and the sociosphere versus us all — and finally everything we are and aren’t and do and don’t and did and didn’t via us, each other, THEM, and Mother Gaia Earth

backside the mirror in tarnished brain land

dark clouds at the end of town

life in the flesh lane

I seem to surf the curve of worse

memes and men as meaning making machines

whether tomorrow will be fair or despair

keep shaking that etch-o-sketch

there’s a ghost of chicken squawk in the crying yapyapyap of the ratdog penned unpleasantly across the way

as un-American as tainted apple pie

good gone bad gone good

Holy Guacamole, Batman

there’s an urgency beating at me beating at me beating at me an urgency beating at me beating beating away and I ain’t no drum – I’m not even a musician or a note in the choir

6:01 or a half-dozen of another time and place to face space and clime

going to have a Naughahyde nipple surgically implanted in the middle of my forehead. . when mortals meet me I’ll slightly bow so they can suck my third-eye nipple as I bless them with my mutant magnificence

The Corporate Condom Company does not condone company

even the truly great people are human — tired, petty, selfish, scared, weak, greedy, envious, proud, impatient . . . even geniuses piss shit burp bump trip trap

Extra Virgin Olive Oil – for Doris Day

The Rock Hudson Aids Weight Loss Diet starring Clitoris Day

canned Kathy kisses

some from column A to B. . . others riding Rosary. . . all of it lies to me. . . without beneficiary

I’m a reality adjuster — most the time I flow in on the cosmic surf, land in a spot I didn’t choose, and set about trying to make it a little more pleasant place for me and thee to be

before entering the forest, break a twig while telling the forest “I’m coming in and I’ll inevitably do some damage, so I apologize before.”

we broke a glass in Morocco at a hashish dealer’s home and apologized; “Don’t worry,” he said, “that’s good news because if anything bad were going to happen, that’s it, so we’re safe.”

there are takers, sharers, and givers, and stone-hearted killers / there are willers, and millers, and shillers / fakers, shakers, sackers, rackers, shrivers / makers, breakers, caretakers, slave slakers

the new dead weather 3-D Jesus

Nepalese poet’s father’s advice: “You must have a younger wife and a bigger shoe — the wife to take care of you in your old age, and the bigger shoes so to not pinch your feet when climbing the mountain.”

they walk between mountains, we walk amongst money

clotted cream, love blood

one flame, two candles

poke, prod, ponder, peruse. prick, push, pull

time, luck, determination, circumstance = enlightenment

driving too fast twixt sun and shadow

Smith’s 1st law of sociability — the more folk you piss off, the fewer you have to talk to

so narrow the path from have to haven’t, safe to sore, help to hell

layered Lucite in a maze of mirrors

the United Marinations of America

we eat salt and drink water with food, so why is drinking salty sea water fatal?

long schlong slither

worry is a weary wheel, woeful way

~ ~ ~

This is Smith once again reporting from the tarnished silver slowly separating the dark backside of the mirror. if anywhere unsure, go ask Alice.


sale sale sale – foto by Smith

 

THE MOVIE

Monday, June 28th, 2010

Puppet works through some issues & feels really happy!

 

kafka’s klone

Monday, June 28th, 2010

banana pie – foto by Smith

I gained 10 pounds by coming back and living in America. The portions are bigger in the U.S., the contents contain more fat, we eat more and worse due to our faster pace and stress, and we drive everywhere rather than walking constantly as we did out-country.

Plus Lady’s been experiencing mental mania which lessens her interest in food shopping and cooking, so I’ve been hungry and have kept a stash of cookies and ice cream to nibble between mostly meatless meals.

Decided enough with the weight already so I stopped buying fats and sweets and in two weeks dropped ten pounds, back to 175.

Unfortunately Lady’s mania doesn’t appreciate food shopping either and can’t focus enough to offer suggestions for items I might pick up for the two of us; since I don’t cook and there’s no food in the house, these past two days have seen another two pounds go. My current 173 is only eight pounds over my high school weight, back when I was a 6 foot three inch straight up and down skinny stick figure. That’s when I went to Navy boot camp where in three months I lost ten pounds of baby fat and put on thirty pounds of meat and muscle, graduating at 185, so I’m now 12 pounds lighter than I was 47 years ago.

She just asked me if a tomato sandwich was okay for lunch. Breakfast was a peanut butter and honey sandwich because the pantry’s bare. I said sorry dear but I’m down to 173 and a tomato just ain’t going to do it, so she opened a can of tuna and made me a tuna tomato sandwich and gave the cat the juice. I’ve suggested we each just cook for ourselves to ease her deciding/shopping/cooking logjam but she won’t consider it because I “wouldn’t eat well”.

Dinner is occasionally optional, replaced by a mid-afternoon single lunch/dinner meal.

This leaves some interesting warps and woofs weaving about my brain. I decided awhile ago if I ever committed suicide most methods were lost to me because of possible after-death affects — for example the Tibetan Book of the Dead says the newly freed soul must be vigilant about its choices as it leaves the body, must especially avoid heading toward the vibrant appealing orange light because it leads to a horrid rebirth. And who knows, maybe this life is merely training for battles in the next life and we’ll need to hit the ground running on the other side. Or maybe whatever your last thought/feeling is here as you die remains the emotion you experience forever and ever, so if you blow your brains out, or drown, or hit the ground too hard from too high, that’s the pain you’ll experience for eternity. And bottom line I do not like pain – physical, mental, emotional, or spiritual. I mean let’s face it — pain hurts, and who the heck wants to hurt except for the sick and twisted. Of course life hurts too, amazingly much at times, but this is pain we know, are familiar with — who knows what hell or joy or pain or euphoria or absolute nothingness waits on the other side of life’s exit? Me, I ain’t finding out until I have to.

But if I did, I’d simply stop eating because after a day and a half you’re no longer hungry and you start getting lighter, with a sense of peaceful high. Your mental process becomes clearer and more honest.

This line of reasoning makes me remember my favorite short story – The Hunger Artist by Franz Kafka. I was thinking if I ever did decide to check out — which I won’t, no matter how bad it gets, unless my body and mind actually fail to the point I’m a piece of meat in other’s hands (by which time it’s too late to do anything anyway) — but if I ever did, I could do a performance piece and slowly starve myself to death, blogging my slow decretion. What with drinking water, I could last for months and my blogged thoughts should theoretically become spacier, less fleshly, more universal. Perhaps I could get a corporate sponsor for this performance art piece of a life-time and leave my Lady some coin — BP might be a good choice because they’re obviously into killing things, or maybe Israel.

But finally my thinking always gets practical and I drop the suicide part of the performance piece because let’s face it, the main drawback to killing yourself is you’re dead, and if you don’t like it it’s really hard to change your mind afterward. It’s like the Church’s pay-us-now-and-collect-our-heaven-later policy . . . by the time you’re dead and discover the Church lied, it’s too late to get your bread back.

So instead I think I’ll just write “Hunger Artist Too, The Sequel — Bigger, Thinner, Hungrier” by Kafka’s Klone.

Look for it at all your classier discount bins.


bananas – foto by Smith

 

 
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