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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 )

Saturday Night in America


these are the notes kathy emailed me that she took last night about our various conversations, what we saw…. i blog them as is – no logic, just skip & trace (notes by lady, fotos by lady):

It’s a Saturday night in America. The Krakowians are at the mall. They’re just like Americans ‘cept they’re innocent and beautiful and cultured. No fat folk here. The women are as beautiful as mannequins. ‘Cept maybe not innocent. Maybe we’re the innocents. Like that tile pattern: you view it one way and the tiles project outward, the other way in.

cat (foto by Lady)

We wish for a system, a homeostasis. We wish for personal exceptionalism. The exception as part of the system. We live as though chemicals and nutrition are estranged artifacts of facts. Will alone to faith.

Eat Republicans. They taste just like chicken. ( We have to get this rumor started. )

fone (foto by Lady)

Pot goes with computers.

Not many ppl know when stages come up in their existence. But we’ve been manufacturing them. In Croatia, we will kill things in the sea and eat them. We will turn savage. Write our blogs in blood. Contemplate our navels by the fireside by the sea.

We’re going to start a new designer clothes line of “thing stuff.” Make golashes for its testicles. Make l’il rubber suits. Actually we could have some velcro stitched into the penis skin so we could have little costumes we could hang onto the penis. Make little arms and feet legs. Little appendages. We’ll have an annual contest. People would show up and show us their costumed “thingies.” We could have “thingy” plays of Shakespeare.  We will corner the market with this slogan: “the world’s penises come to us.”  A cowboy hat for the first “thing” in the morning. And chaps. Oh, no, only one chap. Yes. We’ll have one chap.

A friend of ours goes to bed at 3 a.m – his wife at 8 p.m.  I wonder what alien terrain: someone else’s life, someone else’s apartment. The furniture of strangers like touching a corpse. Dinner parties are funerals where we’re all supposed to be happy to see each other.

lakemonster (foto by Lady)

We saw pictures of a shrine in Africa, Libya. Mud buildings the worked womb of the earth. Circular windows, circles of light cast out into the night from mud facade. Oh I wish for a warm culture and music and comfort. Prehistoric.

The loud Americans. Laughter behind hotel doors. The world’s a small place. There’s so much we haven’t experienced. We’re like flies stuck to flypaper. And we help provide the glue, too. A culture that prides itself on being ignorant – brand names on street wear. Pop sensational culture, attitudes broadcast to keep us all down.

Everything an icebreaker in the Arctic. Every fishing pond full. Every flower pot fertile. So smart and young and valueless, so innocent and cynical. Pantomime the parent.

Possibility volume through which I travel. As though the mountains and valleys make way to absorb my essence, as though I could permeate everything I see – that woman in the store – that noun clown over there.

chwd (foto by Lady)

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