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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 the ‘Family’ Category

the vicissitudes of house husband Smith, with recipe

Thursday, July 28th, 2016

wtiwalkingthinice.com

Lady & I have uploaded 4,123 blog posts in the past 10 years on WalkingThinIce.com.

When Lady started this blog, I asked why. Now I’m hooked.

Except for our first 6 months together, the blog documents our soon-to-be 11 years together, our 31 months of living in 10 countries on 3 continents, our art, poetry, friends, family . . . probably 10-15,000 fotos posted. What a treasure trove to mine for our second memoir.

Thank you Lady.

Did a full day’s house husband work . . . one load of laundry, washed the dishes, made a batch of navy bean soup, and arranged picking up our new batch of bees this weekend. Had to sacrifice a needed nap and bath cuzza time.

I’ve always done the laundry and dishes. It’s only fair because Lady cooked; but she’s been frantically working 70 hours a week for less than $5 an hour trying to save her family’s web design business since she took over as President 8 months ago, so I’ve taken on at least half of the cooking and some of the bee business and cleaning and shopping.

I’m in a remarkably good mood considering I’m three weeks unstoned because we can’t afford to buy me grass or much of anything else – of course outside of getting stoned, I don’t have many needs.

To reduce my un-stoned stress, I’ve considerably cut down reading the news because it riles me, especially with the political charade going on, and I’ve also cut way down on coffee for the same reason.

Finally accept that my art and poetry are not going to make me money or bring me renown, even though I’ve been chasing fame and fortune for 50 years, but that’s okay cuz I do it for me – it’s the main way I’ve kept myself sane since 1964. Fuck fame, though a wee bit of help with the finances would be nice.

Been at it a long time – my 1st poem was 1964, 1st art piece 1965, 1st fotograf 1956, 1st drawing 1958, 1st blog 2006, 1st web site 2002, 1st recorded song with me singing my lyrics 2002, 1st published story 1969, 1st published newspaper article 1973, 1st published book of poetry 2008, 1st non-fiction book (my memoir co-authored with Lady) 2012.

I’m with the one I love and the one I loves wants to be with me, and we’ve a fine feline to make us three. So there you go. The poems come almost every day, and I’m working on a second art piece for Shawn Mishak’s Doubting Thomas Gallery group show next month on gentrification.

Now all I need is some grass and a huge reduction in my wife’s stress levels and life would be divine.

PS – interesting soup this time: 1 gigantic and 2 medium onions, 3 large cloves garlic chopped and sauted in 1/3 cup olive oil, add 4 large carrots, 6 celery stocks, 4 green onions, 12 sprigs parsley, 6 sprigs thyme chopped and saute some more, add 3 small cans navy beans, large can diced tomatoes, 4 chopped green onions, 2 zucchini squash chopped fine, good splash of sherry, couple pinches bonfire smoked salt, generous shakes black pepper, 2 bay leaves and slow cook for an hour; take the bay leaves out and throw them away (although I washed them off and put them in my new art piece), put about half the soup in a blender and puree, pour back in, add a package of frozen corn, simmer another 40 minutes and serve. Delicious.

navybean1

navybean2

navybean3

navybean4

 

1 birth, 1 death = 2 extra sensory perceptions

Wednesday, July 27th, 2016

liberty002

Liberty Lynne Green 5 hours old 7.26.2016

Strange interconnected stuff going on. I’m reminded we are not singularities, but rather interwoven web.

1 birth, 1 death = 2 extra sensory perceptions.

Got up yesterday morning at 4 instead of 5 because Lady was leaving for an 8 mile run. She told me Dedra and brother Jon’s baby wasn’t born yet.

Did back stretch exercise, put on my jeans and t-shirt, turned off the bedroom air conditioner, then realized I should write a poem for the coming baby, but kind of deflated because how do I of all people write a baby poem. I’m 70 years old, never had children, and had myself sterilized 40 years ago to make sure I didn’t accidentally conceive.

As I walked into the bathroom, the phrase “baby being born” flashed through my mind, and I thought it was a fine line for a poem, so sat down on the toilet lid and wrote this in a minute

Small new life creeping
into big old world
as night slips to day

Baby being born

then titled it “Liberty Green 7.26.2016” because the parents had decided the name would be Liberty if a girl and Lincoln if a boy, and for some reason I was sure she was a she. Poem was done before 4:25.

At 5:25 my ma-law called saying it was a girl. Went to hospital to see her and found she’d been born at 4:18 a.m., which is within a minute of when “baby being born” flashed through my mind.

I have no verification except telling my mother-in-law on the fone at 5:25 I’d written a poem and already titled it Liberty.

But I do have proof of a previous interaction.

In 2006, my ex-girlfriend artist/photographer Masumi Hayashi’s spirit visited me in London in my dream within minutes of her being murdered in Cleveland Ohio. The dream was so powerful I got up and blogged it. Few hours later a Cleveland poet emailed me after reading the blog and told me Masumi had been shot and killed for telling someone to turn their music down.

Masumi and I had broken up 20 years before. I never dreamed of her, never thought of her, we never spoke, yet the night she died she appeared in my dream and tried to take me away from Lady. The Pulp Sculptress of Chicago told me I had been Masumi’s strongest relationship, that she’d never gotten as close to any of her other boyfriends in the two decades since. (2006 Masumi blog below).

And my new born niece announces herself in my mind as she’s literally being born.

This is good. I’ve gotten away from seeing the magic, have become mundane, weary, cynical. This is a reminder of how all is connected even if it appears to be discrete segments, and I need to open myself to this again because I used to walk in magic but have stumbled into being ordinary – and none of us are ordinary.

The wall between magic and ordinary seems to thin in birth and death.

Here’s the Masumi Hayashi blog from ten years ago.

2006.8.18 – London, England

Had another dead dream. I woke in tears. Then the cat bit my toe.

Mother Dwarf was in the rest home – they were giving her a party because she was the only one left alive. I arrive and a young, beautiful cream-skinned lady starts dancing with me. Lots of people. Hors d’oeuvres. I say nice party. She says yes, but nobody’s here. What do you mean? She points to mom sitting behind the table – there’s no mom, just a mom-shaped hole cut in the wall. We go thru the hole, trace down events. Find the rest home had burned during the night and Mother Dwarf was dead. So brown lady and I go watch fireworks. She’s hugging and kissing me, telling me she loves me. I laugh, say this is going to sound weird, but what’s your name? She becomes sad. Says Mer. Ask her last name. She says Jam. That makes me remember – she was there 9 months ago when we 1st brought mother dwarf to the home. She loves me because I was good to mom. Everything is fine. Then we’re back at the party and unpleasant Japanese ex comes up, takes my hand. Insults Mer. Mer leaves. Tell ex that was sad, Mer seems nice. Ex sez yes, but I’m stronger. I wake up, crying. Get up to come down, to tell Kathy my dream – and step on the black cat sleeping at my feet, who screeches and bites my big toe. I call to him, apologize, get down and soothe him.

Last dead dream had holes cut in the expensive hotel floor. This has mom hole cut into wall. What am I missing here?

Today’s email from Cleveland Amy concerning my blog this morning about my dream last night in which Masumi appeared:

Steve,
I don’t know if you’ve been told yet, but Masumi was killed in her apartment last night by another tenant in the building, a 19-year-old guy. The artist John Jackson was also killed–he lived in the same building. I don’t know any more information. Both Masumi and John had been complaining about the guy playing his music too loud.
I read your blog about your death dream in which your “Japanese ex” appears, and thought it was eerily appropriate.
Hello to Kathy and hope all is well on your travels.
Amy

My reply to Cleveland Amy:

Amy – I had no idea whatsoever… when I first wrote the blog this morning, I used Masumi’s actual name… then thought that would be rude, ungentlemanly – unfair to her, so I changed it to “my Japanese ex” to be polite.
This is seriously spooky. Do you know what time this happened – because my dream was between 6 and 8 this morning which would make it between 1 and 3 last night your time.

No way can this be a coincidence. . . has to prove something because I never think of Masumi unless folk ask me why I quit dating for 20 years until Kathy came along.

In the dream I thought the cream-skinned lady could be Kathy.

masumi

artist/photographer/teacher Masumi Hayashi 1981

 

Liberty Lynne Green 7.26.2016

Tuesday, July 26th, 2016

bearhappy

I guess Lady K is finally the aunt she so wants to be, and I an uncle. Strange.

Born to Dedra and Jon Green at 4:18 a.m., 8 pounds 0 ounces, 20.5 inches long, 14 hours labor.

Liberty Lynne Green 7.26.2016

Small new life creeping
into big old world
as night slips to day

Baby being born

seedpods

 

mesh

Sunday, July 3rd, 2016

lovelylady

Mesh

I sit in a second-hand armchair
on the third floor of an old house
in which I pay to live,
a poor man with a rich mind
and a weak will offset by stubbornness
and sometimes saved by luck.

My riches are the memories
of the merry and not so much along the way,
the friends that wove the weave
of leave behind in word and song and art
that sparks the arc.

Reward is wife and cat.
That is where it’s at.
Simple fact.
I’m with the ones I want
who want with me to be.

Cat’s asleep on top of box,
wife in eleven year bed,
both leap alive inside my head.

Chased the riches and fame game
fifty years but came up lame
so am what I am
which is no Popeye.

Got that much worked out in 70 years.
The rest remains muddled,
angle and desire licking somewhat less
in mesh of older flesh.

If I had to take a guess
life is this:
step, stumble, fall, rise yet again
from mess.

– Smith, 7.3.2016

catonabox

 

Mother Dwarf Smith, 11 years gone

Saturday, June 25th, 2016

labratshttp://agentofchaos.com/labrats.php

Mother Dwarf died 11 years ago after living with me the last 16 of her 79 years. Lady K moved in 3 months later.

Mom had her 1st solo art show when she was 68, her 5th just before she died at 79.

LAB RATS
the quantum collapse of Mother Dwarf Smith
13 April, 1926 – June 25, 2005
by son of Dwarf

I carried mom lately but she carried me first
so these 9 snippets for those 9 months

Do As You Would Be Done
Dead Cat Dead Pap Dead Dwarf Dismissed Sis Dead Baby & I
Sue Sick Sue
As Mother Dwarf Lay Dead and Dying
Death Dance
Good Rat Mom Prey Has No Name
The Flo Flow
Bye Bye Baby Bye Bye
Ash To Ash After

12th death day, 11 years gone
nine shorts at agentofchaos.com/labrats.php

– Smith, 6.25.2016

These are the stories that convinced Lady K there might be some depth to me.

See Mother Dwarf’s home page for art, shows, reviews http://agentofchaos.com/dwarf/

goodmomrat

 

Lady Poem 6-15-2016

Wednesday, June 15th, 2016

A bit like a nun up from
clean starched sheets worshiping
royal yellow emperor sun unfolding
its robes into the new day to the
plunking strum of Eralio Gill’s harp
somewhere out there a rose garden
in here blessed routine looking out our
green window I write poems, I visit my own home
live my canon law, the right to gently
carpe diem calmly ignore the coaxing
traffic whooshing outside which
wants me bureaucratic
quickly washed and frantic

I’ll sit in a breakfast lifestyle while
husband clinks ceramic plates on the table
and shuffles his slippers on the slate floor

My eyes are fresh in the homeland
perpetual novelty of butter
jam honey on toasted bread

~ Lady

 

Lady Poem 6-11-2016

Saturday, June 11th, 2016

For Lincoln or Liberty

Clay and fountain
bright source, trice August
fresh brew in the sweatiest month
loin fruit, tiny pink-fisted sturdiness
mouth like an illustration for a healthy wail
presentation of a new someone

~ Lady

 

going to cost you, but it’s the best way to go

Sunday, June 5th, 2016

beedazzle

Out at the In-laws 20

1.
After beehive inspection
before they get back
I sit in sun on empty back deck
alone in human silence

Red-winged blackbird darts cross green
frogs echo-pond locution call out the seen
windchimes slowdance their no-breeze way
put my feet up, sip coffee, ease into day

2.
As I pack car to leave
4-yr old nephew says “Do you have kids?”
No, why?
“Then why do you have two doors?”
pointing at the back door.
You telling me 2nd doors are for children?
“Yes.”
You’re a thinker, aren’t you kid?
“Yes.”
Good. It’s going to cost you,
but it’s the best way to go.

– Smith, 6.5.2016

lookingood

 

t’was a Goldilocks day

Tuesday, May 31st, 2016

2yellowducks

Out at the In-laws 19

T’was a Goldilocks day
green leaves, blue sky, sweet honey sun.

Dead Man’s Curve 90-degree right
slings us hour east
as Cannonball Adderley and Miles Davis
mile us on.

Pa-law’s talking of walking and watching
sitting the land through shadings of season
“Excepting the deadfall of winter.”

Tasting Ma-law’s dish,
“Potato salad’s long been in my life.”
“T. S. Eliot? How?”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“You said T. S. Eliot.”
“I said potato salad.”
“Close enough.”

Bro-law slideshows his shades of Iraq
remembering Memorial Days done.

In beehive inspection I finally see
my first Queen Bee laid eggs.

I paddle my first small pond canoe ride
with 4-year young boy 7-year old girl
searching for yellow wood ducks.

Put hand through thick spider webbed box
into last year’s fall honey
guarded by black body blob.

Drive back as
Dodge car emblem shades into Rogue,
yellow white flowers become bread & butter,
and glow puffs explode in the sun.

Dean Man’s Curve six hours later
90 degree left finally welcomes us home.

– Smith, 5.31.2016

redcanoe

 

Generosity

Tuesday, April 19th, 2016

Generosity

Spring’s watercolor renewal:
wood buds, floods green
over winter’s pencil palimpsest
which is fading, fading, fading,
gone

The old king is here
again

~ Lady

 

 
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