...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 February, 2011
Monday, February 28th, 2011
dream – foto by Smith
Marijuana and Mozart on a Sunday morn
Plethora of complacencies
Of tongue, beard, bush
Poets fall down
— Steven B. Smith, 1975
dream – foto by Smith
One of the reasons I’m not smoking grass right now besides the heavy burden on our budget is that daily smoking means I don’t remember my dreams. I know I dream, just can’t recall them the next day, which is a shame because I have fantastic surreal dreams, with all the details down to nail heads and wall dents and dirt pebbles on the floor in full color and total realism.
Well after eleven days straight straight, I had a doozy of a dream last night, and of course it included grass.
Sleeping through last night’s thunder lightning heavy rain pounding against the window storm, I dreamt we were visiting a couple’s large new mansion and they had a lot of herb to smoke. When we left, I hesitated in the rain and asked Lady to wait in the car because I was going to go back and ask for a bit of grass to take with me because they had promised it to me and then reneged. Went back in and the mansion had grown exponentially, new rooms, new floors, new dimensions, like an Escher Heisenbergian Quantum Reality Hotel. As I wandered looking for the couple (whom I never found) I passed thousands of people of all ages and classes and epochs, some dressed in ancient long robes with alpacas grazing around burning campfires on the floor, standing next to business men in suits and briefcases and homburgs. I went up a curved staircase but never reached the top because it keeps growing. I turned back and went down but got lost, was suddenly on another floor with weird rooms with odd dimensions that made no sense. Finally found an elevator and said “Aha” and went to punch the up button but the buttons were in hieroglyphics and indicated it went up, sideways, diagonally and more. Lady finally found me and dripping wet from rain said she was going to make some chocolate strawberry fudge while I looked for the grass. After that everything became so strange my brain can’t even hold it or remember and I realized I was actually wandering through the Quantum Probability Wave and was getting frantic, unsure I could handle it, when Lady came in in real life at 4:30am, I woke as she got in bed and said “I’ve just had the strangest dream I ever had.” She shushed me, saying I was talking too loud and I went back to sleep.
She couldn’t sleep and got up a short while later to continue work on the online newsletter due today for one of her mother’s web customers and I sleep on into part two of dream.
Helen Mirrin came offstage in a gold lame bikini and asked me to wait outside her dressing room door while she changed, then left her door half open and arranged her second mirror door to make sure I’d see her change, then naked she got confused looking the wrong way in the mirror for me and panicked, called me in to ask if I could see her. Suddenly swishhhh, she’s back in the gold lame bikini tied lengthwise to a gigantic roasting spit on stage with the spit being turned by a gigantic ape and the audience is applauding. Then my wife wakes me coming back to bed at 6:30am after finishing most of her work and I start caressing her and she politely reminds me it’s the wrong time of the cycle.
Normally in my dreams I can’t see the nude details of women I haven’t actually seen naked because I don’t know what their curvy bits look like unwrapped, but Helen Mirrin’s body is burned in my brain from seeing The Cook, The Thief, His Wife & Her Lover four times over the years.
When I was 11 and had finally uncovered my 12 year old girl friend’s bare breasts but not anything further, I had a dream where one of my aunts was in our cow barn and was going to introduce me to sex; she stood in the hay naked to her waist, her breasts visible, but from the stomach down she wore an old wooden barrel that hid the rest because my young mind simply couldn’t supply the details.
I love my dreams. Think I’ll repost my dream in London where I robbed a Spanish train (again to buy marijuana) and the lady cop caught me and poked out my eyes — but there was no pain and I could still see and the folks saw me as a hero.
As for the circumstances of the poem Cannibal Saliva; in 1975 I’m lying in bed in Baltimore on a Sunday morning in early summer sunshine alongside my girlfriend. Weâ€™re nude, spent, stoned, Mozart flowing from the living room, my beard wet from her bearded bush, my spirit & flesh happy, satisfied, glowing – when I hear the words â€˜cannibal salivaâ€™ whisper through my mind and I laugh out loud at this mutant merging of my cannabis sativa stone, my cannibal eating of her, the mixture of her vaginal juices and my saliva. I didn’t have to write the poem, just write it down.
dream – foto by Smith
Sunday, February 27th, 2011
flesh – foto by Smith
Have two new poems, but they’re dark and don’t read right yet, so here’s an old thought.
Whether for wonder bred or welfare bread
Flesh is ego manifest in the palm of paradigm
— Steven B. Smith, 1985
the blues – foto by Smith
Friday, February 25th, 2011
junk funk – foto by Smith
Reading about Jimi Hendrix recently I learned there was an incredible gulf between his gregarious reckless confident showmanship on stage and his shy insecure manic depression off stage. He even wrote about it in a song titled (what else) Manic Depression — have a listen.
Wow – how could the not-yet famous guitar player who played with such brilliance when he jammed with Cream that he depressed Eric Clapton so much Clapton had to put down his guitar and walk off the stage be insecure? I mean, the man’s likely the best guitar player dead or alive. Of course, Hendrix said he didn’t play guitar, he played amplifier.
I think it’s basically biological but I always get depressed this time of year, just before my birthday (this will be my 65th). I believe it’s birth cycle depression, perhaps my blood memory of what it was like in the womb, so my psyche knows this is the anniversary of the shocking passage from the warm wet soft darkness of the womb with its soothing thump-thump thumping of my mother’s heart lulling my ears to being squeezed into the restricting unpleasantness of the birth canal and thrust into the shocking cold light and hard noise and slapping violence of the delivery room. Plus mom told me the doctor was holding me upside down by my ankles and slipped and dropped me on my head. No wonder this is my annual depression.
Believe the long 3-4 months of winter cold and dark and ice and snow also contribute, as does cabin fever, the serious lack of light and sun, and lack of funds and fun.
Mostly by-passed my February depression past five years — in 2005 due to the new joy of Lady’s love in my life; 2006 because we were in Croatia on the warm Adriatic Sea and southern France near the even warmer Mediterranean; 2007-9 thanks to 15 months in the sun of southern Mexico. I didn’t have time to notice if it hit me last year back here because we were dealing with a nasty bout of Lady’s mania.
But this year it’s back big time, probably exacerbated by my giving up coffee 6 days ago. Plus Lady’s fighting through another bout of mania which tears us both apart, although she is suffering way more than I. I’d gladly assume her doom and gloom just to make her better.
Looking through 48 years of poetry for the word depress, I had to choose this to post — it’ll put a smile on some folk’s face, disgust in other’s hearts:
Station 4 of 13 from
Stations of the Lost – for Lenny Bruce
I’m impervious to plain
So I’m becoming mannequin depressive
Go out at night
Look up mannequin dresses thru dressing room windows
Down gaping blousefirm fiberglass form
Only female mannequins though
I’m not weird or anything like that
No sick puppy for me
Though I do remember fondly flocking an amoeba
While lost in amoebae lust
They kept bisecting
(were they bisectuals?)
And I used to go out after a rain to pick up earthworms
Take em home
Cut em in half
Watch em regenerate
(Aunt Em Aunt Em I’m home at last)
After awhile would have enough worm parts for an orgy
Though with worms I never knew which end I was entering
(going out the enter only, going in the only out)
Dead chickens and Vaseline are my favorites though
Cuz Vaseline leaves no fingerprints when licked
— Steven B. Smith, 1985
Slate Jesus by Smith, 2006 – foto by Smith
Thursday, February 24th, 2011
Cleveland ice – foto by Smith
Since I’m on my 4th day of not drinking coffee, I figure it’s a good time to repost my coffee haiku written when Lady and I went up to a village called Tanetze high in the Sierra Madre Mountains in southern Mexico to pick coffee.
We lived with a Zapotec couple for three days. As I was picking the red coffee beans from the trees and being bitten by dozens of small vicious bugs that only bit on blood vessels, I asked what the vines wrapped around the trees were and was told they were vanilla bean vines. Also saw pineapples growing out of the ground, and two lizards making love on a tree stump when we broke for lunch. Magic experience, especially since we bought coffee from them later and maybe drank beans we’d helped pick.
It was a 40 minute steep trek down the mountain to get to the coffee trees, and an hour back up at the end of an exhausting day. I was so tired I almost fell off the mountain. As I picked, I looked down the mountain at the tops of clouds, and up at the clear blue hot sky.
The city of Oaxaca is a mile high, Tenetze even further up the mountains. The village was only 35 miles from Oaxaca as the crow flies, but the bus trip up the side of the mountains took 5 hours, and was scarier than any of the mad mountain Mexican bus rides I’ve seen in the movies.
Coffee Mountain, Mexico
Standing on Coffee
Mountain, the vanilla vine
dances, beckons me.
Coffee cherries red
against blue sky await
caffeine morning rush.
This liquid dark way
hot strong coiled energy
sleeping in my cup.
The kiss of coffee
on my stiff lips still asleep
bursts joy and new sun.
Two eyes sleepy, thin
Two hands seeking warmth, sun, source
Coffee to rescue
Dawn dark but coffee
black swirl in bottomless cup
brings me inner light
— Steven B. Smith, 2008
Cleveland ice – foto by Smith
Wednesday, February 23rd, 2011
tinsel tree – foto by Smith
(late winter letter to sister Sue)
Thousands of icicles hanging from tree branches outside window.
Snow falling from sky.
Electric heat eating up money.
First day without coffee, voluntarily.
Fourth day without grass, voluntarily.
Bad sleep last night.
Life goes on.
Waiting for spring and sun and some money from somewhere somehow.
— Steven B. Smith, 2-21-2011
This is my 3rd day coffee-less, and for February my 16th day grass-less because I abstained 12 days before buying six days worth to share with dinner guests, as a proper host should. I’ve been going a week without weed monthly since November because I knew we couldn’t afford it, but I always gave in and bought some. Next weed will be a week’s worth in a couple weeks to celebrate my 65th birthday. After that, only Sky God knows.
Lying in bed this morning I realized my morning cup of coffee was my daily reward for getting up, and marijuana my nightly reward for making it through the day.
My other three rewards for daily being are my wife’s love and companionship, our cat, and my writing. These three are essential, but they flux in and out of focus because wife and cat have their own flow of self need and actualization, while writing ebbs and flows in its own mystic go gone get. Wife’s flow is especially private lately as she dances with returning mania, leaving me outside her inner whorl.
whorl wife – foto by Smith
Tuesday, February 22nd, 2011
Data has been coming in to me today. It has been hard to handle.
At some point today, I whimsically wondered if Christ is an antenna. And if the cross is an antenna. And if the sun is an antenna.
Brother’s radio comes on, plays “All we are is dust in the wind.”
My ipod song immediately plays, “5546,5 – Suddenly there’s a valley plays”
I immediately google 5546,5, wondering what it could refer to, and find “Helicoil 5546-5 M5 x 0.8 Metric Coarse Thread Repair Kit”; this seems to allude to a “helical antenna.” I find it very intriguing, especially since I had just wondered about the sun being an antenna.
I write a note, “How would aliens communicate with us? Or God? Could a sun be an amplifier of a signal?”
I do some more chatty stuff with googling and the radio, debate solipsism with it, etc. I feel more and more compelled to tell people about the antenna and the song.
Other things come up intimating that I am an incarnation of Christ or that there is nothing other than me, although I am having difficulty accepting this perception and am skeptical of it as an incomplete understanding of a situation. Christ is an antenna and “me” is a rough thing to delineate.
I am convinced that I need to write. Am agitated, because I feel that I have a responsibility to be working as well. But it seems that the communication stream is very insistent upon me writing.
I write a long narrative (I’ll attach a link to it later) and the songs seem to get very angry at me.
Mom comes in, was out. She said, “You wouldn’t believe the things that happened to me today, a weird string of coincidences.”
I tell her about my stuff in a roundabout way, about the struggle with feeling compelled to write a narrative, yet feeling very torn and tired with it all.
Our Internet connection won’t let me do any work. I check connection again by trying to go to Facebook, and find this entry as the first entry on 2:58 p.m:
Christchurch in New Zealand article–the first time I come across it. I guess it happened last night? I don’t know. I haven’t been watching the news. “Rescuers have had to amputate limbs to free survivors from collapsed buildings in earthquake-hit Christchurch, police said this morning, estimating 100 people remained trapped in the rubble.”
3:01 p.m. I turn on my Ipod to see what song comes up.
Assassinate (Take 1) Visite du vigile by Miles Davis
(I’m thinking that it is commentary from God-concept/superconsciousness that it has the power to wipe out towns.)
3:03 – A lecturer comes on–the title is track 23. Words from the lecture: “I never tell people who won.”
3:05 – Next Lecturer Brooks Landon comes on my ipod, with the lecture, “Prompts of Explanation…” and it seems to reinforce the idea that I should write, reflect, and comment upon my experiences.
3:34 – Our Internet is still bad, unless it has to do with things I feel compelled to do, like post this post.
Track 23 makes me think of the 23rd psalm:
A psalm of David.
1 The LORD is my shepherd, I lack nothing.
2 He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
3 he refreshes my soul.
He guides me along the right paths
for his nameâ€™s sake.
4 Even though I walk
through the darkest valley,[a]
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.
5 You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
6 Surely your goodness and love will follow me
all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the LORD
Psalm 23:4 Or the valley of the shadow of death
Also, the reference to “valley” makes me think “crater” –
Also found out that sunspots can cause earthquakes. http://www.thunderbolts.info/tpod/2005/arch05/051221earthquake.htm
This is an ominous post, I know–I’ve been going through this mystical experience and am hoping to write more about it.
I was hoping that we could actually think our way through to a better possibility, and make some radical changes to our way of life to be better citizens of this big ball of information, this “ness” that we’re in. But some of the this seems to be coming to me as a mandate from this superconsciousness–a mandate that it could use the sun, if it wanted, to try and make us be better stewards.
I feel guilty about the people of ChristChurch as I had prayed to the sun that perhaps it could disrupt or augment cell phone communications if this would help the bees survive. I’ve also asked the sun to prioritize the earth as an organism first, with its animals and plants and currents and insect world, and to consider us as an afterthought, but that I hope that we can be better people on this planet. I’ve also asked the superconsciousness to try to treat every sentient entity compassionately for the net benefit of all perceiving entities, with an equitable distribution of luck and joy.
I am resolving to make some changes, to change as much as I can to be a more cautious consumer of energy. As much as I can.
Tuesday, February 22nd, 2011
The Joyous Cosmology – foto by Smith
I’m normally normal
but just not now
and it’s always now
there’re two times:
it’s never tomorrow
that’s why I’m nearly normal
— Steven B. Smith with Lady K, 2006
Another true confession captured poem direct from my mouth to Lady’s keyboard. Hooking up with her September 2005 has been very good for my poetic output and seriously upped my adventure quotient. And yes, this is the way I normally talk to her.
Buy Art – foto by Smith
(both fotos taken at Chiplis’ Studio)
Monday, February 21st, 2011
Come on baby, let’s do the Twist – foto by Smith
Iâ€™m losing my last two crutches:
In the old days
I could have coffee
this junkie business
is for younger bodies.
You keep doing it,
and pretty soon,
you end up like Keith Richards,
falling out of trees
and landing on your head.
— Steven B. Smith with Lady K, 2006
Lady K gets co-credit on some poems because she captured them as they fell from my mouth during our conversations; she writes them down and arranges the line breaks. I figure without her, they would have dissipated into air, so in essence even though they’re my words, they’re her poems.
I have to explore giving up coffee again. I’m down to one cup a day; but I make cowboy pan coffee using Costa Rican, and I’ve been making it stronger and stronger lately and I finally realized yesterday I can’t drink it without grass to moderate the speed rush and I can’t afford weed which means weaker coffee or no coffee at all. So, day one no coffee.
She captured this particular poem in Croatia after we discovered my heart was beating five times then skipping the 6th beat — and that was on a good day cuz many times it’d beat three times and no 4th, although the worst was in Mexico on morphine after an operation when it started beating twice and skipping once, which scared me so much I quit the drug and lived with the pain.
We thought maybe my 2-3 pots of uber-strong Croatian coffee was a factor, so I quit drinking for 3 weeks — to no avail. My heart didn’t stop skipping beats until we returned to the old-fashioned stress of living in the U.S.A. in 2009. Go figure.
Interesting side-note — we went to a Croatian hospital to have me checked, and the bill for the emergency room, the doctor, the nurse and the EKG test came to a total of $37. Yup, thirty-seven dollars for something in the U.S. that would’ve cost 2,000-3,000 dollars minimum.
Let’s Twist again, like we did last summer – fotos by Smith
Sunday, February 20th, 2011
What does cinnamon taste like? Because you know, all I’ve ever tasted is cloves. I’d really like to know what cinnamon tastes like, then maybe I’ll understand it as a fundamental taste, something entirely of its own essence, much like cloves.
They say some people see the rainbow as wavelengths. But you know, for me, it’s fundamentally RGB. How do bees see? Is it all ultraviolet, hope, or esp?
What I’m trying to say is that the new holy grails are not to be had, that we’re blunt to perceiving new holy grails.
Imagine each flavor, cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, are distinct flavors, holy grail flavors, and once you’ve had them you’ve sampled a holy grail of a distinct flavor.
But is there another holy grail spice out there? A spice which is distinct, a spice that one has never had?
Or if there is a new holy grail spice, would I be blunt in recognizing it as a holy grail?
Sunday, February 20th, 2011
lines – foto by Smith
Hey baby, whatâ€™s your sign?
Cum here often?
Wanna see my coloring book?
Iâ€™ve got a big red crayon
Fit right between your lines
— Steven B. Smith, 2005
more lines – foto by Smith