WALKING ON THIN ICE

detached genitalia

Standing in checkout line at Kohl’s, I pick up the product in the foto above and tell Lady, “They have a vagina for sale.,” then look at how large it is and see the S, “and this is a small!” and we lose it, unstoppable laughter in line.

Goes along with dream two nights ago.

Detached Genital 2016.5.30 – Cleveland

My genitals were separated from my body, penis and scrotum a single unit I was carrying around in the left front pocket of my jeans, giving a whole new meaning to lefty or righty.

I took them out while in a dark basement room to photograph and set them down on the filthy work bench, getting grit and grease embedded in the ball sack. Tried to brush the grime off but it wouldn’t come, so I washed and scrubbed them with a brush and hung them to dry on a hooked old bent wire hanging down, waiting for them to dry so I could take a couple art photos for my blog.

I went for a walk with a group of people out in the woods while they dried, and forgot about them. After awhile I remembered and began worrying someone would find them, maybe even steal or throw them away, but pretty sure I was safe because they were in a dirty old unsed basement room in an abandoned brick school no one ever used. Woke before I got back to the basement.

Even I can see psychological implications.

There was no pain, no blood, no jagged edges, no worry, no trauma, just me thinking they would make a great photo, and I tried a couple shots but they wouldn’t hang right, so I sat them down
on the dirty work bench to try another angle to photograph and got them grimy.

I never thought to look at my groin to see what it looked like without genitals.

Just call me Ken BarbieDoll.

Of course as soon as I woke I flashed on King Missile’s song Detachable Penis, except this was the whole shebang.

~ ~ ~

Mob Machine

I’ve gambled in Las Vegas
when I helped my parents move there.
It was funny non-gambling.

My brother and I in a laundromat
discovered the slot machine
there always paid out
when you used dimes
so we played all our dimes,
came back next day played more dimes,
maybe 3rd day maybe not,
hard to remember,
but next time we came,
it was gone.

Told brother Cat
the mob had taken the slot machine
out to the desert
and shot it.

– Smith, 6.1.2016

small stuffed tigers running up the steps

One of the reasons this is my 21st day of not smoking grass is financial, but the real reason is daily toking dumps my dreams from short term memory as I wake. I finally woke remembering this doozy of a dream Friday night.

Cleveland Dream 2016.5.28

Lady and I walking down the street were cut off by a late 1950’s Buick slow turning left in front of us. As it turned, its left rear light was slow clipped by a late 50’s Dodge. We didn’t want to be caught up in the police investigation so veered around the cars. Police started chasing us so we ran around the corner to an elevator a woman had just stepped into and we dashed between the closing doors. By the time we got to the top, the woman had disappeared although the elevator had not stopped anywhere. At top we got out, looked around for the woman and saw two lower legs and feet protruding from the ceiling.

In the dream I realized I was dreaming and took out my pocket pad to take notes for my blog, but at this point in real life, a bit past midnight, our neighbor below’s friend once again pushed our doorbell to get in to see her and woke me. I got up, picked up the remote doorbell receiver and moved it into the living room so it was out of transmitter range, then realized I’d forgotten the rest of the dream and what I had wasn’t special enough to post, so went to sleep.

Then Lady and I were house setting this extremely rich English couple’s place. It was huge, a mutant cross between an English mansion and a warehouse. It was dusty and antiqued and art was stacked thick everywhere. I wandered around taking fotos of the special pieces, most of them featuring closeups of eyes. I leaned in close to one painting, looked through the viewfinder to focus, and the art disappeared. Looked and found the camera lens had suddenly over-extended and pushed through the painting leaving a foot wide round hole. I knew we couldn’t afford to pay for it if I admitted I’d done it and was mulling my mind about lying. Then more people appeared, some we knew, most we didn’t. Thought maybe the painting was so old the owners would think it’d decayed away by itself, then thought there were so many people now no one could possibly know who’d damaged it.

Before I resolved my moral dilemma, I found myself in a huge room filled with gigantic Anselm Kieferish paintings. Someone said they were by John Robertson’s girlfriend, Jane. I stared at one piece of grays and blacks and browns that was basically two big eyes, then stepped closer to see more and it transformed into a Robert Rauschenberg type collage painting. Kept stepping back and forth, watching the painting repeatedly change.

Walked down to the kitchen and saw the girlfriend painter feeding a baby at the table. I asked, “Are you Jane Adams?” “Close enough,” she said, “Jane Brussels.” “Sorry,” I replied, “for some reason John Robertson’s name changed into President John Adams in my mind, so you became Jane Adams. Did you paint those paintings that change back and forth with each step?” “Oh, you noticed. You’re the first.” “How do you do those double images?” She answered, “Not easy, especially if the lights go out, then I can’t complete them cuz it just flows through me from somewhere.” “I know what you mean. I’m going outside to the car to get a copy of my memoir to give you, be right back.”

I walk down the outer steps as the police come to break up the gathering, which by now seems to be a hundred people. As I walk down, dozens of individual small stuffed tigers are running up the steps, with more stuffed tigers in cardboard boxes, and the boxes themselves are running up the steps. I overhear two well dressed tramps in the yard — who are wearing fine old expensive clothes which are now dirty, tawdry — sitting against the stone wall. They remind me of the two Waiting for Godot tramps as one says to the other, “This is the best they’ve done yet, party number 1437.”

I wake, get up at 2:14 a.m. and sit with a flashlight and pen writing three pages of quick notes without my glasses to keep dream alive while listening to neighbor below giggle and laugh loud in what I suspect is sex with her wrong doorbell ringing boyfriend..

I bought a Pick-4 Lotto ticket using my dream number of 1437. Winner was 4047, so two of my dream numbers appear three times in winning number and I lost my dollar. That’s twice I’ve played the Lotto — once on dream number, once on weird wrong fone text, lost both times.

My dream last night was so-so. I was the prisoner of the Nazis. I was the only prisoner they had. I believe I was also the Nazis. They kept moving me around, threatening violence, showing me to groups of people. But nothing ever happened, no hurt, no misuse, just psychological violence which didn’t bother me. Except for interesting setting and my remembering the dream, it was rather banal. Guess all my dreams can’t be surreal blockbusters.

Social Less

A dram of dream measures heft of beam,
mind and spirit esteem schemes in seam.

Our surface acts walk creaking crack
yet crawl long through lack.

This is horrible writing, I know, but true.

Subconscious creeps in dark unknowns,
un-no-able, control most times undoable.

I suppose were I in total command
I would not be me, but who would be?

My inner stark barely bound by due.

And so I smile at you, say hello,
measure knife to throat, offer toast instead.

My success rests less on best
than simply getting through.

How about you?

– Smith, 5.29.2016

The Spanish Truck Robbery

The Spanish Truck Robbery

Dream woke me.

I lived alone wandering high desert castle
swimming in pool beneath dark dungeon canyon

Robbed an armored truck in Spanish hills
can’t remember why
some sad thing not for money or adventure
robbery was fun exciting
desert storm dark night bright sun light

Robbery went weird
partner disappeared, ceased
I got away with money thru the storm
bought a brick of marijuana
hid it in bag in castle in mountains
in inner dungeon canyon with water
where I swam in solitude

Ring at door I opened
cops dressed in black big guns
I said of course had to be cuz was wrong
slowly spread hands far from body
like Zen gunless fighter
they saw surrender stood around me in circle
lady cop searched found marijuana
said aha I thought so
locked rusted chain links around each wrist
took me down to village
cops local people liked me sat real close
leaning against me smiling laughing
saw me as folk hero
I saw I would be famous
lady cop didn’t like this but liked me
so it was in sadness she
slowly poked out my left eye
I saw blood oozing down my face
she let me think about it, poked out other eye
both eyes grew back so later she did it again
they remained dark bloodless holes this time
but I could still see
wasn’t upset in pain afraid just accepting
but it made her sad

Woke told wife weird dream robbed armored car
lady cop poked out my eyes
wife sez good for her

It’s 5:37 in morning can’t get back to sleep

So much you lose – hard to capture dreams

(dream 2006.9.28, Krakow, Poland)

– Smith, 5.28.2016

Spirit & Bone in Skin

I’ve started a dream file, going back through our 4,032 blogs on WalkingThinIce in search of some of my surreal dreams I started remembering during our 31 months of living in 10 foreign countries for 31 months. If I smoke grass daily, I don’t remember my dreams because they’re dumped from short term memory as I wake, but in our first 17 months of travel, I was grassless 75% of the time, only finding grass in London, blonde hash in France, and black hash in Morocco.

Here’s my first dream, in London:

dream 2006.8.10

Dream last night – we were in some steel and glass canyon of a German city and I asked Kathy where the car was. She ignored me, walked away. I was confused, went out, came back, held her arms and asked again – she laughed oddly and ran away. Finally saw the sad sad sorrow in her eyes and asked her ‘am I alive?’ She shook her head no. Asked her if my death was my fault – she angrily says “it might as well be as fast as you were driving.” Lots more, including oddly cut holes in the expensive hotel floor. Finally found out someone had killed me and I turned into Jim Carrey and the dream became a revenge movie with us tracking down my murderers and getting even.

Catching up, catsup in my ketchup, mustard in my seed. Mary E. Weems, Lady K., and I are doing a poem a day in May . . . all three of us are a few days behind schedule.

~ ~ ~

Status Report 213

Black dog chews my ego
envy eats my eye

As for this
the me you see hid in lie

Float high turd in piss
below low flow

– Smith, 5.22.2016

~ ~ ~

Spirit & Bone in Skin

Bone and Spirit forming flesh
scratch direction in the sand
to work the waking wheel

Spirit soars with wind to cloud
lifts heart to breeze
to soothe her sorrow

Bone takes flesh on flight
slides from moon to sun
to warm his marrow

Both wear it well
skin that is
under press of flesh and heel

– Smith, 5.23.2016

~ ~ ~

Dream 11.16.2010 – Alcatraz basement

Now that I’m in my 12th day of not smoking marijuana, I’m starting to remember my dreams. Daily smoking seems to dump my dreams from short term memory as I wake, and it’s been awhile since I know what I dream . . . which is a shame because they give me an idea of my psychological state.

I miss my dreams. Sometimes they are quite spectacular, surreal, way more imaginative than movies. I’m going back through our 4,028 blog posts on WalkingThinIce.com since July 2006 and reposting the special ones.

I started remembering dreams when we left the country for 31 months in 2006 because for the first 15 months, I didn’t smoke for 75% of the time since it was hard finding grass and hash in most the 10 countries we lived in on three continents . . . in fact only found smoke in London, France, Morocco, and Mexico.

~ ~ ~

Dream 11.16.2010 – Alcatraz basement.

In this short ominous dark threatening dream of sudden violence, I’m in the abandoned basement of Alcatraz prison with a bunch of dirty unwashed unshaven uncommunicative unfriendly raggedy dressed men. We sleep midst the dirt and broken stones on the floor, each man in an almost room of broken down stone wall. The surroundings look like the post-industrial decay found in The City of Lost Children or Delicatessen or Micmacs (which oddly enough are all movies by the same director).

Most everyone else is doing strange things in dug pits and then filling them up with huge broken boulders; others are threading gigantic black ribbed tubing throughout the basement, while the rest are outside laying down long yellow marking lines on top of the water, rather like a chalk line outlining a corpse, only the area is humongous and square.

In the midst of this I’m trying to get my laptop to boot up and ask another if I can use his Ethernet cord to get online, but he acts like he can’t see me, can’t hear me. I inquire of the rest what’s going on and they ignore me. When I grab one and ask directly to his face, he stares at me in silence.

I get angry and go to one of the pits they’ve worked in and then filled with rock and I secretly lift all the boulders out and discover they’ve coated the bottom with an unnaturally bright glowing pink viscous gel that is sticky to the touch and which I slightly sink into when I stand on it.

I fill the pit back in and confront them, demanding to know what’s going on and they just look at each other in silence until one presses a button and there’s a sudden WHOOOOSH and the black tubing starts filling with air, whipping dangerously about as it starts squeezing the building at its base tighter and tighter until it picks the entire prison up, jerks it through the air, and smashes it in the middle of the yellow chalk lines floating on top of the water.

Turns out the thick pink gel was waterproofing to keep the ocean from seeping into the basement.

I’m absolutely astounded to see this, in fact the shock of watching this huge building jerk out of the ground, fly through the air and violently smash into the ocean is so great I wake, sit up, shake my head in appreciative wonder, then scurry out to tell my wife, who politely listens but doesn’t seem to share my amazement much.

Be they night dreams or life dreams, dreams are hard to share.

~ ~ ~

Status Report 212

Altar ego
alters ego —
leggo, my ego.

– Smith, 5.20.2016