|
|
Archive for the ‘life’ Category
Wednesday, January 4th, 2012
Is it safe to come out yet? – foto Smith
One of the cosmic cliché jokes is No Good Deed Goes Unpunished.
This particular punishment starts slow and logical and just keeps getting louder, fouler and more insane.
Yesterday we took hot cocoa and cheese & egg sandwiches down to the Occupy Cleveland tent people, as we do every morning. While there, Lady asked if one of them wanted a hot shower, so we brought Jonathan back.
After his shower, I took him back to the tent and came home to discover he’d left his tobacco pouch and a small bag, so rushed them back down.
Evidently when I came home the third time, my sleeve must have caught on the light switch and turned on our parking lights as I got out of the car, so the battery ran down and when Lady tried to go to the office this morning, it was dead dead dead.
We bicycled through the snow and ice and cold to buy jumper cables so we could call a friend for a jump. As we came out of the store, Lady said “You know what, we have Triple-A . . . they’ll charge it for us for free.
Called them, they arrived an hour before their estimate, were nice, friendly, professional, checked our 3 year-old battery with their new science fiction tools and gave us the bad news — it was a done dead deal. It was a cheap battery to start with and I guess you get what you pay for.
They said they had a new one with them for $115 . . . they explained that maybe our old battery would get my wife to work and back once it was charged, and maybe it wouldn’t.
I weighed my options – I could ride my bicycle to the cheap battery place and get one for $55, which would take hours, or I could buy the overpriced battery, have them install and verify it worked so Lady who was standing there in the cold shivering could go to work and make her afternoon business meeting. So we paid the $115 on top of the $25 new jumper cables.
While all this is going on, Michelle, the 48 yr-old crazy bipolar neighbor across the street, comes over and says she was robbed of her purse which contained her money and keys and credit cards and social security card and birth certificate and insists on immediately using my fone to call the bank, her relatives, social security, etc.
I’m juggling her and her foul-mouthed cursing and screaming at folk on my fone on one side while turning the car, lights and heater on and off per the Triple-A guys so they can keep their sci-fi instruments fed.
They finish, I pay, and they try to leave, but Michelle is using their truck hood as a table to write fone numbers while cursing on the fone in her loud deep gravelly voice. The Triple-A guys were black, Michelle is black, while Lady and I are white, and the two guys are looking in perplexed amused sympathy from Michelle to me shaking their heads trying to understand what this insanity is all about . . . and Michelle is dressed basically in pajamas, totally inadequate for the 24 degrees Fahrenheit which weather.com says feels like 10.
I finally get her off the Triple-A hood, wave goodbye to the guys, blow a kiss to Lady who leaves for work, and bring Michelle inside our place where for the next 90 minutes I’m bombarded by her loud foul voice with the disastrous insane intimate details of the woes of her life while she calls various officials whom she doesn’t curse at and who seem to be actually helping her, interspersed with fone calls to relatives whom she screams and curses at foully. After an hour of this I take a Valium. Michelle eventually runs out of people to call, I give her $15 for bus money so she can start taking care of her problems, and I gently ease her out the door.
I’m a selfish, private type of person, prefer to be left alone, but I have a heart and do help folk . . . will help friends gladly, help acquaintances willingly, even have helped total strangers in dire straits because that’s what humans do for each other when they can — but Michelle is a person I extremely dislike. Last week as we were coming home, there was Michelle in the middle of the street literally foaming at the mouth blocking traffic as she screamed violent threats of murder at a suspected drug dealer. Lady got out and tried to talk her out of the street while I parked the car and came back. I had to forcefully pen her arms to her side and carry her to the opposite sidewalk, then herd her two blocks to her house, where we had to stay for an hour until we finally convinced her to take her anti-psychotic medicine (which psychotics never ever want to take because it turns them into zombies and puts them to sleep for 10-12 hours . . . can’t say I blame them). I’ve never actually seen a real person so crazy angry mad insane that they foamed at the mouth before. Not something I’d recommend.
It’s so odd – I can’t stand the woman, but I was the only one there . . . I couldn’t just walk away because then I wouldn’t like what I saw in the mirror. Fortunately she’s moving sometime this month and I won’t have to deal with her after that, even though she’ll call and ask us to visit, whereupon I’ll say no, and then feel bad because I’ve disappointed another human. Interacting with people is not something I enjoy or am good at. The Gnostics thought Hell was this life on earth . . . and I gotta say they may have something there.
Now I’ve so much adrenaline and tension and disgust running through me I’m vibrating like a dozen cups of coffee, totally overpowering the Valium. What I could use is a couple tokes of grass which would instantly mellow me, but I decided last month I was tired of the expense and the endless cycle and drama of running out and having to buy more we couldn’t afford so stopped purchasing it. It’s time for me to stop playing the same game, to move on and see who I am unmasked and decide where to go from there. I will still toke when others offer – I love grass, been smoking it 45 years now; I just can’t afford it at American prices. In our 15 months in Oaxaca Mexico I bought a quarter pound of high-powered grass every month for $30. Of course down there I wrote maybe 10 poems in 15 months, while in the three years we’ve been back here have written a couple hundred, so everything has its price and rewards.
So, that’s my morning. How’s yours? I mean, does this kind of stuff happen to you, or am I just lucky?
Fortunately I’m a writer, and this is fodder, and the simple act of writing it out has leached most the venom from my brain, so I guess every fortune cookie has its silver lining.
But I tell you, next life I’m going to be a hermit, live deep in impenetrable forest or high up in a cave on a dangerous mountain top . . . or maybe I won’t come back as a life form at all, just become that energy being I’ve so longed yearned to be.
Sure, come on out – foto Smith
Posted in life | No Comments »
Sunday, November 13th, 2011
Stop – foto by Smith
What kind of man advocates murder to make a better world?
I had a disturbingly weird converstaion last month that’s still eating at me, except it wasn’t a conversation so much as a snake in the grass with an apple saying “Take a bite, it’ll be good for you; and if not a nibble, how about a little lick just to test the texture and taste; or at least hold it a bit and admire its sweet round redness awhile. (Book of Genesis, Garden of Eden anyone?)
I was standing in a crowd enjoying the sun and feeling good about seeing such a large outpouring of the young in their articulate awareness protesting all that’s wrong with our current economic and ecological systems, when a dude behind me said this is all well and good, but it won’t accomplish anything because working inside the system will never bring fairness and equality; in fact even letting us vote was just a trick to make us believe we had a voice in the process. (Unfortunately he has a point.)
I said we at least had to try, and that there were some encouraging signs of hope — for example, the Occupy Wall Street movement was growing explosively around America as well as the world, and it was already changing the minds and perceptions of millions; he poo-poohed it, said the cities will shut them down for their rich masters (again, he has a point), that the very system had to go — we needed a revolution to first destroy the current unworkable system, then rebuild a fair and equitable society.
Told him violence was not necessary, especially now that the internet and social media were wakening people to what’s going on, both the good and the bad of it all, and that the good was expanding. He said no, the government can cut off social media anytime they want (which is true — Egypt did it, as did San Fransisco). He went back to insisting we had no choice but to bring down the system, then rebuild.
I explained that even as angry as I was at the system, I was non-violent and tried (with great difficulty) to walk the path of Gandhi and Martin Luther King. Then I asked him the obvious question: “Won’t your revolution kill thousands, maybe even millions of people?” ‘Yes,” he replied, “but not as many as would die if we don’t, so actually we’d be saving lives”.
“So basically you’re advocating murder.”
“I don’t like to use that word, it has such negative implications. I prefer to say killing.” Oh great, that’s supposed to make me feel better? I told him killing IS murder, even when sanctioned by governments, and he was just playing word games. He saw I was disgusted and moved on.
But his statement still chills me. How can anyone rationalize murdering people to make a more moral world?
Even if you set morality aside (as our Government seems to have no trouble doing in Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya, Somalia, Latin America, the USA, etc), exactly how do you go about killing a government composed of millions of people, an armed forces of millions, cops of millions? Do you kill their secreteries and chauffers too? What about their wives and kids and pets? Who chooses who dies, who decides who lives? And just where and when and how does your more moral and better world result from you becoming the very thing you’re fighting? How can a pure and fair Utopia rise from your neighbor’s decaying flesh? It certainly hasn’t worked very well in Libya.
Yet I can see his point. In one way, it’s simple self-defense.
I think I could kill a person who was attacking my wife; and I would defend myself were I physically attacked, be the attacker robber, rapist, soldier, policeman, or random chanced upon mentally disturbed individual. I can’t know this for sure untill I’m put in such a situation, so on one level it’s all a mind game; but no one has the moral or legal right to harm my wife or myself, so morally I believe I could would and should defend my family from actual immediate attack.
And as a people, we ARE being attacked. The corporations are killing us with their products, their processes, their prophets of profit, their purchased prostitution of our government which keeps sending our soldiers overseas to kill brown-skinned people for their oil and political beliefs.
So yes, our system is literally killing us, and killing the earth as well with greed and corporate global toxins. But you can’t fight force with force, especially when they have a much bigger force than you do because then you’ve changed nothing . . . you’ve either just been wiped out yourself, or else you’ve successfully killed them and then you become them and then you await the next them-to-bes who will come after you when they don’t like the way you’re running things.
You can’t defeat force with force because when you use force to overcome force you become the very force you’re opposing, as the past 3,000 years more than adequately proves.
No, you oppose wrong with awareness, education. You open people’s minds with words and actions and examples and humor and being the change you seek.
It is our job — the artists and poets and musicians and singers and activists — to open people’s eyes, to expand their minds and hearts, to help unite spirit and flesh, to raise their moral awareness and get them in touch with their inner Buddha/Christ/Cosmic Consciousness within each of us.
This is the real revolution, the revolution of minds opening, eyes seeing, ears hearing, hearts listening, people helping, sharing, coming together in tribe community family friendship patience compassion hope need and consensus.
You cannot enforce morality with a gun. You cannot make you, the world, or another better by killing people. This is true whether you’re government, soldier, policeman, or revolutionary. As we’ve seen over and over again, when our soldiers overseas kill people in government sanctioned murder, they damage something essential inside themselves, warp their basic humanity, making them shells of shame and rage when they return to the “civilized” societry that hired them to kill.
It’s scary because things are getting more complicated much faster, maybe approaching bad beyond fixing, and if we don’t come together immediately and start doing something right now, then the dude will get his wish – there will be blood in the streets in a vicious violant class war clash and the whole mess will start all over again because power and ego will continue to corrupt the winners and we’re back to “Go Directly To Jail, Do Not Pass GO.”
You don’t fight evil with evil. You don’t fight wrong with wrong. You don’t fight killing with killing. You can’t create a paradise while sleeping with slime.
And yet it looks to me like that’s where we’re heading. And all the blood and violence and death and destruction will not do one iota to help solve our problems of greed, ego, financial inequality, racism, worshipping Mammon, and global warming.
Or wait, I may be wrong. Maybe if we do hasten the process and start killing each other off in the name of right and God and morality, we’ll rid poor Mother Earth of our diseased stench that much faster and she and whatever animals we haven’t yet extincted can get on with healing themselves.
So maybe the dude’s right.
But count me out. As much rage as I have within due to the crimes against humanity and Mother Earth constantly committed by our Cioporate controlled Governments, I still have to try to walk the path of light and right, just so I can bear to look at myself in the mirror.
Power to the peaceful.
Power to the Peaceful – foto by Smith
Posted in activism, america, Being, ethics, life, Photography, Politics, spirituality | 5 Comments »
Sunday, November 6th, 2011
Me by she – foto by Lady K
In Throe of Woe
Well, well, well, what haven’t we here?
How goes your daily throes?
Mine clothes rascals in robes and honesty in rags.
I keep trying, but I doubt I’ll ever get it right,
this needed balance twixt good in strive and bad in whirl,
reaching Zen goal of happy life in unhappy world.
The Buddhists teach letting go of attachment
is the secret to ending suffering
because wanting is suffering born.
But wife, cat, friends are all appendages
my life would be lessened without
thus see wobbly road ahead
in reaching this Zen then
as my lane of life loops on itself
in look and like and love.
So no final scene, no play over,
just walking the wheel
until my why’s rubbed raw
my energy moves on
as body slips past in endless sleep.
Until then, gotta keep on fluxing
(as they almost used to say).
Or is that flexing?
Both.
— Smith, 11-6-2011
(This poem was massaged from a paragraph in last month’s blog, for those whose brains tingle in deja voodoo.)
Looking for the light – foto by Smith
Posted in Being, life, Philosophy, Photography, Poetry, zen | 1 Comment »
Saturday, October 29th, 2011
Lot closed – foto by Smith
12 years ago the world’s population reached 6 billion people.
Monday, we hit the 7 billion mark.
It took millions of years to reach 1 billion people in 1800.
Took another 130 years to reach 2 billion in 1930.
30 years later: 1960, 3 billion.
14 years later: 1974, 4 billion.
13 years later: 1987, 5 billion.
12 years later: 1999, 6 billion.
12 years later, 7 billion.
The way things are going, in another 12 years we’re likely to have 0 people polluting the rest because Mother Earth will say “Goodbye, game over, sorry you came, don’t let the door hit your ass on your way out, won’t miss you now you’re gone.”
“People who need people” are ruining the earth, her animals, plants, air, earth, water, people, our nest, and each other.
Plus it’s getting real hard to find a parking place. When’s the Rapture going to come so all the good pure moral folk will be lifted up to Heaven to make more room for the rest of us? Oh, wait, there are almost no good pure moral folk walking around, so the Rapture’s not going to do us much good room-wise.
On a sour note, I found these senryu in my poems-2-b-maybe-used-someday file. Never posted them because they’re all down, sad, negative, and I’ve been trying to reduce my sadness contribution to our cultural gestalt lately because the ripples one sends out affect and effect the WMQ — the World’s Misery Quotient.
13 Sad Senryu in Search of Sense
Feeling uneasy
I’m worry worn and weary
train wail in the night
I walk this earth floor
sad, creaky, and tumbled sore
dumb as stumble bum
My sacred shadow
secret shade unhappy in
misery and angst
Each man an island
Every woman inlet
War is unmixed match
Greed, covetousness
envy, sloth, anger, and pride
Satan’s seven ins
Each in birth arose
Seven sins approacheth
Seven sins come close
Atavistic shit
post-apocalyptic chic
let’s your rile rip
Restless want within
wrestles with way, when, and why
steeps itself in sin
Good doesn’t just come
Sometimes the wiring’s wrong
And our filters fucked
If I don’t know now
I gotta learn it later
or go round again
You can smell madness
It pours from the pits, the eyes,
the words that ring wrong
Sacred sacrilege
mostly plastic and wrapper
go garbage begone
We ain’t talkin’ if
society’s got to change
we be talkin’ when
— Smith, 10-29-2011
The walking dead – foto by Smith
Posted in Environment, life, Photography, Poetry | No Comments »
Tuesday, October 18th, 2011
Robert “Dick Head” Ritchie one year ago – foto by Smith
I’ve been asked to give the initial eulogy for Robert “Dick Head” Ritchie at his memorial service this Friday 7:30 pm in Lincoln Park. Guess they figured one ex-bad boy poet artist should send off Cleveland’s all-time champion bad boy artist poet.
Dick head was a punk poet performer publisher druggy alky artist-provacateur, probably from the late 1970s because when I met him in 1982, he was already in full anarchic bloom. Thanks to Robert, I read poetry and showed art at dozens of dark underground punk clubs where I wasn’t very well received..
When I finally bleed to death from alcohol and woke in intensive care in 1991, Robert was the first to call to see how I was. When I told him the doctors said I couldn’t drink anymore or I’d die, he screamed into the fone, “Then why don’t you die! I’d rather die than not drink!” I decided to live and haven’t drank in twenty years, while Robert continued on his wet path. I guess we both got what we wanted.
I met Robert in 1982 when there was a loud banging on my metal fire door in the downtown warehouse where I was living. I slid the door open and there was a drunken Robert whining, “You got any drugs?” I said no, but come back if you find any, and within the hour he was back, with drugs.
Robert was the reason Mother Dwarf and I got our first answering machine because when he got falling down drunk in the wee hours, my fone was the only number his brain could remember, and we got many a call. He was also one of only two folks Mother Dwarf didn’t like, and she liked everybody; Jack Micheline was the other.
I asked him why he called himself Dick Head and he told me that’s what his grandmother always called him.
He was a great cartoonist, a good artist, not the best father or husband, and he often failed as a human being. But he was loyal to friends, always happy to see you, generous with his drugs and alcohol and possessions and art, usually interesting, always original, and frequently funny.
He always told people I was his mentor . . . sometimes sincerely, sometimes sarcastically, although with Robert it was difficult to differentiate. Over a period of 25 years he published my poems and collages in Clevebland Rag-o-zeen and I published him thirteen times in Artcrimes.
He lived decades longer than most of us thought he would, abusing himself all the way; yet he died in his sleep on a friend’s couch, so I’d say that’s the best that can be expected and he won that game. As obnoxious as he could be, it’s amazing someone didn’t beat him to death. I believe he was in his mid 50s, but looked older, wizened, elfin.
It had to be hard being Robert . . . interesting yes, strange, much adventure in places most folk won’t go, but a hard road to walk nonetheless.
When fellow artist Wilcox was told of his death, he said, “Well as much as he could be a pain in the ass, he certainly did provide color for our little scene.”
That he did. Believe I’ll tell my dead frog cow intestine story Friday night.
Here’s a video of Robert reciting Ooey Gooey at the Literary Cafe in 1992. This is about as sober as I’ve seen him.
youtube.com/watch?v=U14B9XQcmOo.
This is Robert’s 5 minute avant garde piano solo at the Literary Cafe in 1992 (it actually works for me because it’s realtime emotion with a great ending).
youtube.com/watch?v=RxlOa0v8zLc
And finally a video of him at the end of his opening set for Jim Carroll at the Babylon A Go-Go in 1991; he says he’s too drunk to continue, takes off the rubber breasts and loin cloth (which is all he’s wearing), dons a leather jacket, picks up his poetry and leaves the stage.
youtube.com/watch?v=uznCy29j_VI
Robert & me, Tremont art walk October 2010
me wearing his handmade t-shirt I just bought for $10
fotos by Lady K
Posted in Art, life, Poetry | 1 Comment »
Tuesday, October 11th, 2011
The four elements – foto by Smith
These Daze
Don’t you think the dark’s coming a bit early
leaving late its mark and tending toward surly
not surly so much as an ominous angst
a foreboding mulch such as happiness against
Whispering
that itch don’t scratch that scratch won’t reach
got to face the facts it’s each to each
some get the peach some suck the plum
others stuck in yeast yearn to be numb
disappearing
Can’t begin my day if begun in doubt
have to weigh my say with and without
holding hope that fact can mislead
and honorable act to be done deed
reassuring
But brights of day darken to night
as yea of way harkens to blight
my step slows while weariness weighs
the dark show surely worry and nay
blurring
Where’s my ruby slippers?
— Smith, 10-11-2011
Woke at 4:44am to spend time with Lady before she left at 6 to drop off hot water and egg muffin sandwiches to the Occupy Cleveland occupiers (day 6) before picking up her granny and taking her to breakfast before going into the office to work. When she gets home she should go to sleep since she’s been up since 2:30 but she’ll likely want to be down at Occupy Cleveland. We’ve been there a couple hours each day except for one short drop off stop of needed stuff the missed day. I’ll try to talk her into staying home tonight because she’s wearing herself frazzled trying to do too much. Wearing me as well cuz I’m her protective amour in rusted armor.
Anyway when she left it was still dark, day just started with wife already gone and the cat hiding in one of her cupboards or secret recesses leaving me alone in the dim within facing the day ahead so I wrote the lament above for my childhood innocence back when ignorance and hope ruled my head and I was protected from knowing how endless and complicated and looping life is.
I keep trying, but I doubt I’ll ever get it right, the needed balance between the good in my life and the bad in the world, reaching the Zen goal of living a happy life in an unhappy world. The Buddhists teach letting go of attachments is the secret to ending suffering because attachment is where suffering is born. But wife, cat, friends are all attachments my life would be lessened without, so I see a wobbly road ahead for me in reaching that Zen goal as my lane of life endlessly loops back upon itself in love and attachment.
No final scene. No play over. Just endless repetition until the why’s rubbed raw and the energy moves on once body slips to endless sleep.
Until then, gotta keep on fluxing (as they almost used to say). Or is that flexing?
Both.
Disobey – foto by Smith
Posted in activism, life, Photography, Poetry | 1 Comment »
Saturday, October 8th, 2011
“Yes, you may approach me” – foto by Smith
Mandycat and I fought for my pillow from 11:05 last night until 12:28 this morning.
Lady goes to bed 3-4 hours before I do, and gets up 2-3 hours before me as well. Guess there’s less me to put up with that way, or else she’s a mutant vampire and lives for light.
Went in at 11:05 and there on my pillow was Lady’s head, but with no body. I looked over to Lady with body sleeping on her pillow. Realized 2nd head was Mandy all curled up.
I picked her up to move her and she bit me. Put her at the foot of Lady’s feet where she normally sleeps and lay down. Mandy immediately ran back up and lay on my pillow, curving around my head. I said no, picked her up and put her purring body back at Lady’s feet.
Cat walked up my body, sat on my chest and stared at me. Put her back and turn on my side.
She walks back up my body, sits on my hip and stares at me. Put her back.
She waits ten minutes until she thinks I’m asleep and comes back up to my pillow and wraps around my head. Put her back.
She waits, sneaks back up to lie between Lady’s pillow and mine. Put her back.
This goes on, and on, and on.
I finally put her on the floor, she jumps up on the dresser and jumps down and lands on my chest. Put her back on the floor. She jumps up, runs across me and hides behind Lady and I say fine, lay back down and she creeps over me to my head.
Finally on her 15th try, she jumps up from the floor, runs over me, and crawls under Lady’s arms beneath the blanket and sleeps the rest of the night.
Fifteen tries in ninety minutes.
I know she’s a life form with her own rights, but it is my pillow.
I think her reasoning is she jumps up on the back of my recliner chair and sleeps behind my head during the day as I sit in it, one little paw on my shoulder, one on the back of my neck; so if she can sleep at my head during the day, why not at night?
Gotta admire a life form that knows what she wants and goes for it. Reminds me of all those B-movie actresses in the 1940′s film noirs . . . and of Lady.
In fact, these past 30 months I’ve learned a lot of Lady from the cat. Each has stubbornness, a steel of will.
And I’m fortunate to be with both.
“Hmmmmm, I wonder if you’re edible?” – foto by Smith
Posted in life, Photography | 1 Comment »
Friday, October 7th, 2011
Occupy Cleveland, 10-6-2011 – foto by Smith
While we’re trying to help Occupy Cleveland with the fine batch of protesters and radicals featured in these fotos, realty kept occupying us.
At breakfast, my camera died, probably from the curse of buying used old model cameras and then carrying them in my jean’s pocket 24/7.
Then driving back from breakfast, I hit the brakes at a red light I hadn’t seen due to the sun in my eyes and blow a brake line on the car, losing most of our brakes. No one was in the intersection at the time, thank my lucky flux.
It’s a stick shift, so I drive ten miles through city traffic and stop lights, flashers flashing, to the repair shop, downshifting to slow down, and using a wee bit of the brake pedal still left from the rapidly draining brake fluid to stop, with the emergency brake as backup.
We walk 2.5 miles home, then bicycle four miles downtown to the Free Stamp for the Occupy Cleveland gathering at noon. We thought we’d be marching with them to occupy Public Square, but the actual march wasn’t scheduled until 7:30; instead they spent the afternoon arranging needed support groups (like tech and cleanup) while good folk spoke and others sang.
Felt good to see so many informed, intelligent, concerned, articulate, aware people in one place — and a such a group it was. . . suits, activists, punks, students, suburbanites, old, young, kids, Gypsies, dogs, cops, poets, artists, anarchists, communists, socialists, tattooed wonders, hippies, even a couple politicians.
After 2 hours of signing petitions and getting Lady’s signed and talking to old friends, we biked home to get the car, which had been fixed in a busy shop run by a really nice man for $75 in under 5 hours (Trinity Auto on Memphis, for you Cleveland folk).
Car’s got 219,000 miles on it — we figure reaching 300,000, a goal I didn’t help by damaging the door when I scraped a traffic signpost as I backed out of the repair shop. (I keep hearing Mose Allison singing Fool Killer Comin’ and have this feeling I should be looking over my shoulder and listening.)
It was a full day, an intense day, a high-energy never-stopping kind of day and I feel oddly fragmented with a bit of angst over the breakdowns, yet uplifted by seeing folk actually protesting our nation’s inequalities again.
Who knows where this time will go.
Occupy Cleveland, 10-6-2011, at the Free Stamp
fotos 6 & 7 by Lady K; rest by Smith
foto #3 of Lady K; foto #7 = me
Posted in activism, life, Photography | 1 Comment »
Tuesday, September 27th, 2011
Fool moon green man with red rose – foto by Smith
Junkie Business
I’m losing my last two crutches:
coffee
and marijuana
In the old days
I could have coffee
after dinner.
You know,
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.
— Smith with Lady K, 2006 (in Marrakech, Morocco)
I’m losing my junkie status.
No, that’s not true; I lost my junkie status over a decade ago. It’s just now I’m accepting it.
This year was legal prescription drug heaven. And hell.
During my hip replacement in May, they put me to sleep with Propofol. I said, “Isn’t that the drug they killed Michael Jackson with?” They answered, “Yes, but we’re much better at it.” I waited to judge its effects, but there’s not a single memory between being told what it was and waking afterward.
When they took me to recovery, the nurse injected me with Dilaudid, and as soon as it hit my system I smiled real big at the nurse and went, “Wow, now I know why this was Elvis Presley’s favorite drug.” I know it sold on the street 15 years ago for $50 per pill because I bought one, although it was probably counterfeit because it didn’t work.
They moved me up to rehab and gave me two Percocet pills every four hours, the drug Jerry Lewis became addicted to. I can see why — it do kill pain.
I came home two days later with 90 legal Percocets to control the pain, plus I had another 60 scripted Vicodins left over from pre-operation pain management — and they both very effectively dulled my MAJOR bone-on-bone torn-flesh sawed-bone agony.
And earlier in the year I got a Valium prescription to help me handle me as I was trying to keep calm helping Lady through her reality attack.
But I’m no longer as young and vigorous and healthily stupid as I once was; and while I seriously appreciated the pain relief, I did not like the logy, thick, dull dense body high; in fact the “high” was no longer a high, just something to put up with. And of course serious pain medication creates serious constipation problems, so you gotta choose your misery cuz you can’t have it both ways.
This morning I foolishly drank two cups of super strong Costa Rican pan made cowboy coffee and my body started screaming “why did you swallow so much speed?” So I dug out my prescription Valium, took the last pill, then swallowed the Valium dust in the bottom of the bottle that had accumulated from cutting each pill in half (which probably equaled a whole nuther pill) and I got a body high so high my mind said “No. Enough. I do not like this. THIS IS NOT ANY FUN.”
So I’m finally biting the bullet, giving up coffee, foregoing any pills unless absolutely mandated by the doctor, while still wishing for the one drug I still love – grass . . . which of course I cannot afford here in America. It cost me $30 for a quarter pound of top-shelf Kind/Chronic smoke during my 15 months in Mexico, which I purchased every month, plus a couple grams of hash and opium — all that up here would cost me over a thousand a month . . . probably way over.
I’m also cutting way down on sugar, which is another poison drug; fortunately we’ve already cut out eating meat most days.
So, welcome to reality Mister Smith. Although I’ll be clean and sober, I’ll never be “straight” — I was bent before I ever did drugs and alcohol, and shall remain strange after.
I guess it’s about time — I’ve had a 44 year run on drugs, maybe 20 on alcohol before I drank myself to death in 1991 and woke in intensive care — haven’t had a sip since.
Folks wonder about my art and poetry and drugs. I wrote poetry and made art way before I ever took a drink or did drugs; I wrote poetry and made art all through drinking and drugs; did the same during my mostly drugless 14 months living in Europe; and will easily do so now.
It’s time. I’m tired of being mini-me; time to become maxi-me.
Oh the adventures I’ve had along the way.
Oh the adventures that await.
Life is good. Loving Lady even better. Having my health the icing on the sugarless cake sans coffee. (I’ll still toke ganja at parties though, as long as I’m not buying.)
This all is slightly humorous because I wrote a drug song this morning just as the Valium was nicely kicking in; we’ll record Thursday and if it’s any good, I’ll blog it Friday. It’s titled Prince Valium . . . maybe I’d best re-title it Goodbye Prince Valium.
I’ve known for twenty years this day was coming, and I fought it every day of the way.
“When you’re headin’ for the border lord
You’re bound to cross the line”
(Kris Kristofferson – Border Lord) – fotos by Smith
Posted in Bio, life, Photography, Poetry | 1 Comment »
|