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...and they lived happily ever after. Smith & Lady: poets, artists & urban adventurers.
Our relationship was forged to the soundtrack of Yoko Ono's magic,
frenetic, angst-laden hit, "Walking On Thin Ice." ( play song )
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Archive for the ‘Family’ Category
Friday, November 27th, 2009
Somewhere in the middle of yesterday I stepped in dog poo in my parents’ yard, a real big patty that got both shoes. It was like, a veritable cow patty pile of poo. I was so afraid Yuyu would see them and get grossed out. I’d heard about people from India having a kind of real distaste for anything to do with shoes because of dirt, and especially people of his heritage (Brahmans). I set the shoes aside to clean discretely before we left, and promptly forgot about them.
In the hustle bustle of activity before dinner, my grandmother prepared a pumpkin cream cheese dish to schmear on graham crackers. My aunt was to bring pumpkin pie. As my grandmother stirred the schmear, she became fearful of having crossed some sphere of territory of my aunt’s, that the schmear was too dessert-like and also in competition with the flavor of the pumpkin pie.
Yuyu and I had made kheer for dessert as well. Kheer is called ‘the food of the gods.’ It is holy because it has so much cow milk; cows represent Mother Earth. Kheer takes a labor of love to prepare. It’s like a pudding made of rice, milk, nuts and raisins. I stirred the kheer constantly for an hour as it simmered.
So, I was fearful that I’d set my aunt’s dish up for competition, it having been discussed that there are spheres of territory at this Thanksgiving dinner. But everyone took it in stride, a heap of kheer side by side with pumpkin pie.
As my mom chomped away on some bite of dessert, she bit down onto a hard object. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, and pulled something out of her mouth. A penny!
“I don’t know where it came from, the pudding or the pie,” Mom said.
“Well, it couldn’t have been our pudding,” I said.
“It couldn’t have been my pie,” said my aunt.
My mom put the penny in her mouth again. “Pie crust,” she said.
“No, it couldn’t have been the pie,” asserted my aunt.
“You are lucky,” Yuyu said. “Copper is very lucky in my country. You are going to be rich.”
“Penny from Heaven,” I said.
After dessert, we had to leave. I realized then I’d forgotten about the shoes. There was no way to deal with them gracefully other than to borrow my Mom’s shoes and put mine in a plastic bag to ‘isolate’ the contamination. I tucked the bag into a corner of my car trunk.
We drove to the end of my parents’ street. Smith and Yuyu said at once, ‘I smell dog shit.’ So I had to tell them about the bag in the trunk. But the smell was really strong, so it was decided that everyone would get out of the car and check their shoes. Yuyu was fine. The shoes I borrowed from my Mom were fine. But now Smith had stepped in shit. I wonder if it was the same pile.
“I wish I had stepped in the shit,” Yuyu said. “In India, it is considered lucky. It means you are going to get rich.”
Lady
Posted in Family, Food, Humor | 4 Comments »
Thursday, December 4th, 2008
Isolation - foto by smithRoundelay away we stray.
Looks like we’re moving back to Cleveland this spring after 32 months living outside the U.S.
Lady’s been talking of moving back awhile now. She’s isolated here, needs to be around younger people, have a viable art & poetry scene. We were talking of San Francisco or Seattle, but family and a job lead us back to Cleveland.
I’m isolated here as well, but then I’ve been isolated for 62 years now - place don’t make no difference because it’s the people I’m walled off from no matter the country, city or century.
Returning is going to be exceedingly odd because I left Cleveland AND the U.S.A. in both my mind and body August 2006 with nary a thought of ever returning to either. At least my cosmic script writer still has a sense of humor and the absurd.
Knowing we’re going, each day I look deeply into the colors and contours of here, the most beautiful place I’ve lived except for my 7 years being raised on a 40 acre farm on Paradise Prairie outside of Spokane Washington in the 1950s. Both southern France and the Istrian tip of Croatia were beautiful places to live as well, but they were culturally even more disadvantaged than Oaxaca.
Not looking forward to this, but relationships and marriages require compromise and right now Lady’s needs outweigh my own. Plus I’ve lived most my life and have become who I am while Lady is young, still living, still becoming. (Actually, she’s very becoming.)
I’m looking forward to the poetry and art. Cleveland has the best poetry scene we’ve seen anywhere in our three years of travel - including London England. And it’ll be good to make art again. I’ve made a dozen pieces in our journey through 10 countries and 22 cities we’ve lived in during that time, but the art desire was attenuated because I knew we’d be moving on again and I’d have to leave the art behind - my ego is too large to be comfortable with that.
I’ve fond memories of the cities we stayed in along the way - in chronological order: Cleveland, Ohio USA / London, UK / Leeds, UK / Grassington, UK / Burley-On-Wharfsdale, UK / Amsterdam, Netherlands / Lodz, Poland / Krakow, Poland / Liznjan, Croatia / Trieste, Italy / Venice, Italy / Abeilhan, France / Barcelona, Spain / Madrid, Spain / Marrakech, Morocco / Essaouira, Morocco / Keswick, England / Marseilles, France / Paris, France / New York City, New York USA / Oaxaca, Mexico / Tanetze, Mexico.
Not a bad run. And this will not be our last - get some more money and a wee bit of security and we’ll be off again.
Light at the end of the tunnel - foto by smith |
Posted in Amsterdam, Art, Being, Croatia, Family, France, Italy, London, Mexico, Morocco, Poetry, Poland, Relationships, Spain, Travel Notes, Tremont, cleveland | 2 Comments »
Friday, October 31st, 2008
Rafa, Lady’s Dutch hairdresser’s son - foto by smithWe were wondering if “mama,” “papa,” “pee pee” and “ca ca” were global words, so Lady typed “universal baby words” into the search engine and these 5 words came back that a sound savant says babies make and mean the same all over the world regardless of the baby’s race, ethnicity, or heritage. Babies world wide age 0-3 months old use these 5 words when they are feeling a certain way:
• Neh = “I’m hungry”
• Owh = “I’m sleepy”
• Heh = “I’m experiencing discomfort”
• Eair = “I have lower gas/ I need to poop”
• Eh = “I need to burp”
Sounds like politics.
Scott Adams, the creator of the Dilbert comic strip, when asked about his thoughts on the upcoming election said, “There will be an election, followed by rioting, the complete unraveling of society, and, I assume, a zombie problem. And everyone will agree it’s an improvement.”
- (from The New Yorker’s Cartoon Lounge: An Interview with the “Dilbert” Cartoonist Scott Adams)
I’m starting to think McCain isn’t very popular. I go online and see him called John McShame John McPain John McConjob John McCan’t John Recant John McLame John McNasty John McBlame - and that’s just in my blogs.
peek-a-boo - foto by smith |
Posted in Being, Family, Politics | No Comments »
Tuesday, October 7th, 2008
Mother Dwarf (1926-2005) surrounded by her art
sept 2003 - foto by smithfrom CRIMINAL by Smith & Lady, excerpt from There Are No Monsters chapter.
I would give my mother the finger a lot. I would point with my middle finger, say, “See there.” I’d hold up my first three fingers together and ask if she could read between the lines, or hold my middle finger down and ask if she could read upside down, or hold all but the middle finger up and ask if she could supply the missing word.
Mom lived downstairs on the second floor. My space, the kitchen and the bathroom were on the third. She’d come up and say, “Do you need to use the bathroom?” I’d start in on a long explanation about how I was thinking of turning it into a darkroom for photography until she’d make a disgusted noise and go use it.
Every time she’d come upstairs, I’d ask, “You got a ticket?” She never did. Never understood that because we had all these tickets lying around for collage. She could have kept one in her pocket.
I tried to lure her up to the roof so I could collect on her accidental death insurance money. She never would go. Many times, as she came up from downstairs, I looked at her in a confused way, and said, “How’d you get in?”
“I’m your mother, I live here.”
“That’s what they all say.”
Since I could only collect her insurance money if she died an accidental death, I told her, “If you die in your sleep, you’re still going to fall down the stairs, as often as necessary.”
One time she was coming up the stairs as I was taking a big black bag of garbage out. At the top of the stairs, I said, “Ah, bowling for dollars.”
The best time, she was coming up the stairs and I said from the top in a low, gravelly, drawn-out voice, “Prey.”
“No. No prey,” she pleaded. “I’m your mother.”
And in the same slow low voice I said, “Prey… has… no… name.” She laughed so hard she almost fell down the stairs.
Every time a particular ethnicity appeared in a movie, such as Chinese, I’d say, “I have Chinese blood in me.” Even claimed animal, insect, snake flowed in my veins.
“No you don’t. I’m your mother. I know what you are.”
I’d answer, “They put six pints of blood in me in at the hospital, and you have no idea where it came from.”
I’d tell her I had a big penis one day and a small the next. Got so she’d ask, “What kind of a day is it? Big or small?”
We’d be watching a Western movie and see the Indians call a train the Great Iron Horse. I’d turn and say, “The Indians used to call me Great Iron Penis. I was so big I had trouble getting through the tunnels.”
“You don’t say things like that to your mother.”
People who came over thought Mom really nice. Wished they had one like her. I kept trying to sell her to them. Told them, “You could take her for a trial run. You could rent her, or lease her with an option to buy.” They just laughed.
Once I asked her who she was.
“I’m your mother.”
“I doubt this, but you can stay anyway, because I need somebody slower than I when the monsters come.”
“There are no monsters,” she said.
“There will be,” I replied in low menace voice.
mom, me, pappy 1947 - foto of foto by smith |
Posted in Family, Humor, Relationships, Smith biography | No Comments »
Wednesday, September 24th, 2008
lady’s art alter - foto by smithAnswers
New morning light
On yesterday’s shadow
lady’s stopped taking her morning antipsychotic medicine because it makes her feel tired, sluggish, foggy. she still takes the night dose so she can sleep. this regime seems to be working for her - she’s creating books and websites like mad, yet still operates within parameters we can communicate from. she’s still a mite manic, still searching for higher planes of reality, but that’s a plane we all need to search more for.
i had a minor epiphany about my current inner malaise.
before lady, i didn’t care. i knew the world was bad getting worse, but it didn’t matter because i’d had a full life in which i’d created a body of art & poetry, published a slew of others in 20 years of artcrimes, and had lived an interesting life outside the barcodes. those i loved or cared about were either dead or self sufficient, so the world’s darkness didn’t much matter to me. i observed it and railed against it and used it to fuel my creativity, but knew i couldn’t stop it and that the madness was going to get worse.
then lady entered my life. the human world was still a massive pool of dark unhappiness and unfairness hell-bent on self-destruction, but the we of she and me created a magic bubble of light in which we moved and lived. we brightened the darkness wherever we were and shared our light with others still seeking.
but with lady’s breakdown, outer dark entered and dimmed our fairytale world. i thought we were safe within our self-created bubble - but no one is ever safe in this world. dealing with this has depleted my inner system of self-happiness adjustments. i have to recalibrate my mind to refill my normal pools of hope and joy.
so now it’s a question of re-creating our own world, rebuilding our own levees after the storm, so to speak. which we will, because we’re an authentic bio unit duo bonded one to the other no matter what. for better or worse, we are one.
in between - foto by smith |
Posted in Family, Mexico, Poetry, Relationships | 2 Comments »
Wednesday, September 10th, 2008
murky lady - foto by smithwho knows what IS is down here south of the border. the garbage truck comes on thursdays and sundays. the truck stops and clangs a bell every couple blocks, and we all stream out our doors with bundles of trash to toss in. there are no trash cans on the sidewalks which they empty. if you want your trash taken away, you walk it out when they clang. sometimes the truck comes wednesdays instead of thursdays, but today is tuesday, and it’s here. in mexico, just because something happens one way one day doesn’t mean it’ll follow that line next time.
today is lady’s and my 3rd anniversary. 3 years together, 2.5 years married, two years traveling, living outside the u.s.a.
these three years have been a magic fairy tale. and like all fairy tales, just when you think it’s heading for happy ever after, the dark demon reality of trolls under the bridge and witches in the gingerbread house rears it’s ugly head in the form of my wife’s bipolar manic sidestep into an alternative reality this past month.
it’s scary going from being the co-star in your wife’s movie to being a minor figment in a major fragmented reality only she can see and interact with. love and relationships succeed because both people try daily to make it work. when one stops, the burden on the other to supply both sides of the love and caring becomes complicated.
doc says it’ll take her two weeks of sleeping a lot to make up for her month of sleep deprivation. yesterday was lonely because she slept most of the day. but it was an easy loneliness because i knew she was healing her fractures.
lady’s breakdown was helped along by a myspace poet who lead her on, lied to her. in her vulnerability, he convinced her my Like Candy On Ice Cream poem meant i no longer loved lady, instead loved a cleveland poet. it bothered her so much that in the middle of our love making, she asked me if i loved poet x instead of her. i think he’s trying to get into her pants. no honor. actually there are several writers of both sexes flirting with lady behind my back. scum is as scum does.
lady’s torn about taking the antipsychotic medicine. on the good foot, it calms her anxious frantic 24 hour a day mania and lets her talk and sleep and eat and participate in household chores with me. on the bad foot, it dulls her, takes away the voices she was hearing which made her life more special - although her life has been upper stratospheric special these past 3 years of adventure, creating, and living around the globe. but i guess sometimes even special wants to feel more special.
lady’s as special as they come.
the poem in question was written as a poetry assignment. i took a challenge to use “like candy on ice cream” and just started playing with the puns. took 10 minutes. it’s pure stream of consciousness, all about the world and the end of times, nothing about lady and i. certainly nothing concerning the mediocre poet asshole who lied to lady.
Like Candy on Ice Cream
Like Candide’s best of all possible worlds
I lick my like from lit of wit
and why the worry ways of ruling rats
Like Wallace Steven’s Emperor of Ice Cream
I take in tacky death
of horny heels and hopeful hellos
Like Candy on ice cream
her nipples pearled pert
we hump in happy horizontal
Like the constant lice of American dream
scum encrusted, yellowed
I yearn for debugging powder, ponder
Like good on bad and bad on worse
I burn for light and love
in lieu of this miss called is
104 - foto by smith |
Posted in Being, Creative Writing, Family, Mexico, Poetry, Relationships, health | No Comments »
Sunday, September 7th, 2008
nighttrain - foto by smithwe had lady’s 4th monthly first saturday open poetry reading yesterday, the second one held here at the apartment. last month’s apartment reading brought two guests. this brought 4 writers, plus a fifth showed up after we finished because he got the time wrong. figure next month we’ll get 7 readers plus us. lady’s monthly oaxacan poetry reading lives! i showed my credentials by reading “My First Armed Robbery.”
lady’s first antipsychotic pill two days ago didn’t seem to register, she got more manic. then intense stomach pains hit her and lasted for hours. at 9 she took the second pill and went to sleep for 10 hours, got up, took her morning pill and slept for 6 more hours. got up for 8 hours then slept another 9. after her not sleeping at all or only for an hour or two for the last month, she’s slept 25 hours in the last 36 and is still tired. today she’s lucid and likes me again, is affectionate, but feels weary, confused. she hosted yesterday’s poetry reading after all.
she misses the excitement and importance of her other world. she misses the sense of mission and the voices. that world was exciting 24/7 while this world is slow, lacking, languid. she was burning with creativity before and now seems a little dulled. for me, i’m just grateful to have lady to talk to again; but for her, it’s a lowering and lessening of life. gotta get through these two months and get her off the antipsychotic so she can bounce back. there’s a high incidence of bipolar disorder in creative people, so maybe creation is the act of selectively dipping into this higher world she was visiting.
this mind drama has been an excellent weight loss program. lady’s down to 142 pounds, the lowest she’s been in 20 years. she used to be over 300. i’m down to 166, the lowest i’ve been in 45 years. i used to be 260 but prefer 175.
i worried about posting yesterday’s blog of lady’s troubles. i was afraid of violating her. told her if anything in it bothered her, i’d change it, or i’d delete the blog. she said no, it was fine. as we say in my memoir, “I have that writer’s disease: it’s all material.” i tend to tell the truth. i write about all my shortcomings and failures along the way. i’ve documented my drug overdoses, drinking myself to death, vicious fights with my first wife, my adulteries, armed robberies, lies, thefts. with me, if it happens, i write of it. with lady, i feel constrained - not sure what is and is not proper. i try to be respectful. thought writing it would help me and explain our current oddness to others. felt describing how something like this progressed may help another down the line. or maybe this is all just self excused rationalization. i really don’t know anything except i’m driven to write. even when i feel bad, writing good about feeling bad makes me feel good.
and now a commercial from our sponsor - i got a poem in the latest issue of Women’s Socialist:
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both lady and i have a poem in the Michigan Socialist as well, but they haven’t sent us a physical copy yet.
Socialist Women, fall 2008 issue - foto by smith |
Posted in Being, Drugs, Family, Mexico, Poetry, Publications, Relationships, Travel Notes, health, spirituality | 1 Comment »
Saturday, September 6th, 2008
one face - foto by smithit’s become weirdville here. we went to an expensive restaurant on the zocalo. i asked lady if she needed to use the bathroom before we walked home.
she said “i don’t know, i have to ask.”
who?
“my grandfather.”
but your grandfather’s been dead 2 years now.
“i know, that’s why i was so surprised when he contacted me.”
after visiting a friend yesterday, i mentioned he gave her a couple really odd looks at some of her more non-reality based statements. she said “that’s alright, i wiped his mind before we left.”
step 1 - past clues:
lady inherited her grandmother’s worry gene, and has always been a worry machine. her worry sometimes creeps into paranoia. she has a compulsion to help and take care of others, and to try to pre-plan and order situations. she was bulimic for several years until me, and took prozac for a year for depression 5 years ago. to counter that, she has the kindest, gentlest, generous heart i know. she’s also as smart as she thinks she is. and extraordinarily talented in art, writing, photography, editing and publishing as well. she’s a perfect companion for a fellow artist - except for the fact that artists have the highest incidence of bipolar disorder, no one knows why. creation is dangerous.
step 2 - changing the bar:
lady’s 1st magic mushroom trip last month introduced her to the concept of oneness with the universe. she liked it. a lot. wanted to stay. wants to get back. wants to deal with cosmic reality daily on a one-on-one direct relationship.
step 3 - straw that broke camel back:
when they brought me back to my recovery bed after the hernia operation and lifted my spinal blocked dead flesh onto the bed, it took me over an hour just to sit upright, another hour to massage life back to my legs. lady saw me as old and helpless and her fears of me dying before her exploded. before we started, i explained our relationship was not a good idea due to our 27 year age gap, that i’d get old and feeble before she did and it wouldn’t be fair on her the price she’d have to pay. she poo-pooed this. you can never tell another a truth they haven’t learned on their own. youth has no conception of age. and age but dimly, imperfectly remembers youth.
step 4 - aftermath:
after the first week of her taking care of me, when i could move around on my own again, she withdrew from me. stopped eating and sleeping and drinking water. spent 24/7 on the internet. lost 10 pounds past two weeks. started getting instructions from her dead grandfather. she believed she moved the path of hurricane gustav away from new orleans with her mind. says she is a witch. feels possessed by an unpleasant ex girlfriend artist of mine who was shot to death 2 years ago for ordering someone to turn down their stereo. believes she’s the first mother, is fated to save the earth and must sacrifice herself to redeem us. mentions putting political bloggers under the protection of her psychic neural network. constantly rearranges the plants and objects around the house into totemic shrine charms to alter the flow of reality. turns on me if i point out any of the inconsistencies in her realital structure. she hears voices, has hallucinations. all the time sighs, moans, breaks out in laughter, yawns, or crying jags. she’s gone from trying to hide her body to walking around naked, from smoking twice a week to smoking every day, early morning on. she shut the plants away from the light, saying “i think those plants have to learn to respect us.”
when she insisted i had to have faith in her, that what she was experiencing was real, i said i loved her too much to do that, and she picked up one of my paintings and smashed it two handed into the wall. she raises her hand, wanting to hit me, but hits the bed or air instead. told her i was trying to help her and she said “fuck you.” she brings up all my past failings we documented in my memoir and says that’s what i am now - a woman hater, a woman leaver, sneaky, sly, that i’m not trying to help her, it’s my fault she stopped sleeping, eating, drinking water, that i should have protected and taken care of her. i haven’t shed tears like this since mom’s death.
she splashed up to 20 blogs a day on myspace these last two weeks, all written from within her higher realm. bizarre, cryptic, scary shit - although some of the earlier stuff is excellent writing. she definitely has oodles of talent.
yesterday morning i went to our general practitioner and explained these past two weeks. broke down bawling as i enumerated her symptoms. he said he’d find someone to help us that day one way or another. when i tried to pay him for the visit, he refused to take it, saying he doesn’t profit on human misery.
went to see the brain doc yesterday afternoon. he prescribed Ziprasidone aka Geodon, an antipsychotic prescribed for schizophrenia and bipolar disorder (the old manic depressive). the pills are blue. i looked up the matrix movie red & blue pills and found the red pill will answer the question “what is the Matrix?” (by removing us from it), while the blue pill is simply to carry on life as before. if her blue pill brings back our before, i’ll be happy.
he says she’ll only have to take the pills for two months, then she should be healed. he’ll be seeing her regularly.
after two doses yesterday, she slept the night through for the first time. she experienced drastic stomach cramps through the night, and now is in bed with nausea. could be not sleeping or eating right for a month. donno.
today we have lady’s monthly scheduled 1st saturday poetry reading here in our apartment. looks like i’ll be hosting it while she sleeps. she usually makes snacks and food for the poet folk, but today they’ll have to be satisfied with my rough charm. this is the first poetry reading where i’ve chanted that no one shows up.
i suggested to lady she take her medicine for two months and then we’ll explore together her higher realm. i mean, she may be right, may be communicating with the dead, may need to save the world - the world surely does need saving. told her i’ll support any path she must walk, be it with or without me. i know this higher realm exists - i’ve interacted with it off and on my entire life. my sole concern is she be able to transverse this lower normal daily reality as well, that she be able to function and take care of herself while walking her higher world. after all, there is no one truth for all. there’s especially no one truth when you have two people.
or more others - foto by smith |
Posted in Being, Drugs, Family, Mexico, Relationships, health, spirituality | No Comments »
Wednesday, January 30th, 2008
“We need more stuff to eat,” Smith says as he cleans the kitchen table. There’s an onion, a clove of garlic, a half bag of peanuts. He picks up garlic skin, sweeps crumbs into his hand.
“I know,” I say. “But I’m tired of going to the market. I’m tired of cooking, too. I need someone to feed me food pellets. What I really need is for my mom to come down here and cook for me.”
“Yeah, but then I’d have to talk to her, before and after.”
“Not my mom. She’d be happy just reading a book.”
“No. They all expect human interaction, social intercourse. Maybe we can keep her in a cage.”
“Fine, as long as she has a book.”
“We’ll put a pile of really really good books outside her cage, just out of reach. Turn the spines so she can see how good the books are. Maybe tie a string to them so we have them close enough so she can touch them, then slowly pull them away from her. We can leave one really good book close enough for her to get, but we’d make sure it’d have blank pages.”
* * *
I’m spending most of my writing energy revising Smith’s biography, CRIMINAL. This is the 11th round of editing with many more to come.
I’m spending less time on MySpace and blogging because I need to focus on this writing project.
Here’s a passage I particularly like:
We were poor folk, but we ate well. We had our own garden. We had beef, pork, rabbit, chicken, goose, infrequent duck and frequent venison. We ate chicken eggs, goose eggs, duck eggs. We churned our own butter, had our own whole milk that was at least one quarter cream on top.
I roamed several hundred acres. Forty were ours. I knew where every apple tree was. I raided the garden, ate the raspberries, ate raw peas in their pods. I sliced a dug-up potato and cooked each slice over a fire I made. We had a fruit cellar. Mom canned peaches and pears. She dyed the pears green and red and pink and yellow. I’d steal a jar, and I’d have to eat the whole thing. You can’t leave a half jar. Evidence.
Up in the attic of the fruit cellar, I found boxes of old magazines from the thirties and forties. Colliers, Liberty, Saturday Evening Post. I tore out advertisements and played with them. I still do, only now I call it collage. I’d still rather have an old advertisement than a new thing.
Posted in Conversations, Family, Humor, Smith biography | No Comments »
Tuesday, November 20th, 2007
Photo by Lady You endure and you endure and then you die. And then after you die, you either have an answer, or you don’t.
All my life I’ve tried to work things out, study the clues. Learn shit. Pay attention. Think. Analyze. Still ain’t got no answers. And I ain’t gonna get any answers. So what the pluck’s it all about?
If we’re supposed to be learning something, nobody seems to be giving us much information.
If we’re supposed to be DOING something, nobody’s giving us many clues.
Can’t just BE, because they took that away from us with advertising. We don’t even know what be IS anymore. So you gotta select one of those roles they offer you.
“Central casting?”
More or less. Good Mom. Good Provider, Good Rat, Good God. Although in this case, Good God would be Good Got, because it’s all about getting and got. That’s our gods, Getting and Got. I worship the Big ‘G.’
It’s kinda funny, the few folk on this planet know how to live are tribal islanders or northern eskimo tribes, aborigine dream timers. The only folk who have a sense of how to live, we’re killing off. We’re drowning the islanders, destroying the fertility rates of the eskimos, and just beating the aborigines to death.
So all we got left to guide us along the path of life are CEOs, politicians, television evangelists, and PR guys. Those are our gurus. I just lucked out. None of them roles they offered me ever came close to fitting.
“What roles did they offer you?”
Sacrificial son, lawyer, believer, follower, shit head.
“Shit head?”
That’s what most roles they offer you are: shit head. Be a shit head. Get ahead.
Posted in Conversations, Family, Philosophy | No Comments »
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