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...and they lived happily ever after. Smith & Lady: poets, artists, photographers & adventurers.
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Archive for September, 2007

downhill flow

Friday, September 21st, 2007

foto by smith
collage by smith

albert einstein – “the world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it”

i must thank our black-shirted campus police in this land of doom and gloom in the belly of the beast we call america for doing such fine anti-war work for us – by tasering a college kid for asking questions, they’ve caused many more americans to sit up, shake off their stupor and ask why is this happening in america, the land of free speech?

the answer is, it’s happening because feces flows downhill, and we all know the source of the flow from the top – vice dick cheney and his middle finger puppet george warcrimes bush.

i’m grateful to the cheney-bush beast and their gang of clones for being so clumsy and incompetent at hiding their greed, their need, their fascist creed.

except for stealing 2 elections, destroying the separation of church and state, killing habeas corpus, torturing innocent people, bankrupting the american treasury, robbing the poor to pay the rich, imploding the world trade center towers, murdering 1.2 million civilians, and making the u.s. the world’s pariah, they haven’t done one thing right they set out to do – instead they’ve destroyed the republican party (thank god), they’ve bungled the war, destroyed our economy, and made a laughing stock out of the christian fundamentalist wrong (again, thank god).

no one’s doing a better job of exposing the evils of the current administration than the current administration is. eventually life will get so bad and the evil so obvious that even our sheep asleep american public must wake up and revolt against their clumsy masters. or not. people get the government they deserve, and right now i think it’s a beautifiul match, more than fair – the tv consumer sleepers and their rabid greedy right wing authoritarian leaders.

my college english professor always said evil was banal – now, thanks to the stupidest (bush) and evilest (cheney) men ever to be in the whitehouse, i finally know what he means.

(there is one other as evil – henry killinger – but he never stole office).

“few are those who see with their own eyes and feel with their own hearts” – albert einstein

foto by smith
collage by smith


chit chat tit tat

Friday, September 21st, 2007

Some things Smith tells me lately:

“I used to put chocolate mousse in my hair but then it attracted fly larvae and people thought it was dandruff.”

* * *

I said, “You feel like yr king of the mountain now, don’t you.”

“Nope, just master of the mole hill.”

* * *

Another time I said, “If we were starving we could collect these live snails, escargot.”

“Yeah, and I’d throw up, and then eat it. Dog vomit.”

* * *

“Boy, I feel dopey.”

“Probably because you’re basking in my incredible brilliance.”

“No, I feel physically sluggish.”

“That’s probably why you left that trail of slime.”


went water

Friday, September 21st, 2007

foto by smith
foto by smith

everywhere we walk or bicycle here in south france, the air is steeped in the sour grape mash smell of newly fermenting wine… makes me think of a moonshine still i never saw on top a high and very quiet hill – sort of a heap still steep hill still.

at the village market today i was petting an affectionate cat in back of an open van filled with merchandise – the owner scurried over because she couldn’t figure out why i was caressing her goods – thought i might be fondling the merchandise. she saw the cat who wasn’t supposed to be in there and threw him out. i was doing good, while she feared i was doing bad. appearance is so heisenbergian – you see that for which you look, your answer depends on what you ask.

since appearance is such, after i’m safely dead and can’t disturb the sheep people anymore, when they make a movie of my life, i want young wild smith to be played by samuel l jackson, older wiser smith by morgan freeman, and in-between smith portrayed by jodi foster – while my wife lady k wants to be played by sigourney weaver. mom would be susan saranden, dad tommy lee jones, my brother fritz the cat, my long lost sister satan. or if it’s going to be a comedy, lady will be played by shelly duvall and i’ll be hervé villechaize, or zelda rubinstein, or gary coleman, or maybe morris the cat.

recently walking, i came upon a cat with a mouse in its mouth. startled, it dropped the mouse and started to slink by me. in a gentle voice i said “you’d better get your mouse.” cat went back to the moving mouse, picked it up, and went on by me.

foto by smith
foto by smith


The Zombie Survival Test

Thursday, September 20th, 2007 User Test: The Zombie Survival Test. User Test: The Godzilla Awareness Test.

My computer geek score is greater than 88% of all people in the world! How do you compare? Click here to find out!


liberty, or death

Thursday, September 20th, 2007

foto by smith
collage by smith

can “do as you would be done” ethically be turned around to “do unto them as they have done unto us”?

governments murder torture lie maim and imprison whenever they wish. campus security cops taser students who ask inconvenient questions. police lie cheat beat kill. the rich steal lie kill at will. politicians lie and steal and all too frequently kill. corporations steal and murder and lie and sell defective products whenever there’s a profit in it (anybody remember thalidomide as a birth control ingredient?).

why can’t we do unto them as they do unto us?

my head is filled with the theoretical moral good i’ve been taught through the wisdom of the ages, while in real life i see what those in power actually do – and these two views are diametrically opposed.

it’s almost as if our rulers use the teachings of non-violence as a tool against us.

why can i not do to them what they do to me, or do to others in my name? especially when they’d stop doing it if we did it to them in return as punishment for their actions?

it’s the old question of what would you do if you could go back in time and stop hitler. well, we have hitler types in power now, and no one’s doing anything. the people who were elected to stop this madness – our congress via impeachment – are not only NOT doing it, but are busy bloodying their own hands instead.

since voting didn’t work, some say we must stop this through civil disobedience and mass protest. but americans are too busy being “Good Germans” for that to work – all they seem care about are their creature comforts, their cell phones, SUVs, designer jeans, and the latest Britney Spears horror show.

how does one go about waking the american public to crimes being committed by our government officials who weren’t even elected – especially when the newspapers and tv news shows that are supposed to enlighten us are owned by the very class of people perpetrating the crimes?

these questions torment me because even asking them violates everything i know to be good, true, moral, and civilized. it’s even worse because i come from the hippy generation who thought richard nixon was as low as you could go – if only that were true. “peace, love and understanding” definitely isn’t working.

and so the loop loops back – what can one do in the face of our uncivilized leaders murdering millions? one thing that comes to mind is our original american revolution where we had to declare real war against very specific british wrongs. but how does one go to war against entrenched evil within our own borders, especially when the bad guys own the police, the judges, the colleges, the army, the money, the electricity, the weapons, the media, the roads?

just asking questions like these can get you labeled as a terrorist these days – which scares me very much because with our new patriot laws, they can pick up anyone they want anytime and anywhere they want without saying why, or even letting anyone know who they’ve arrested or where they’ve been taken. they make speaking up frightening, they make silence seem safe. but in the face of such fear, my keeping silent would scare me even more – ethical moral civilized thinking people do not live their lives in fear of bullies – they band together and do something about them.

but the most important question right now is this – how does one stop evil without becoming evil oneself?

foto by smith
collage by smith


1st sex

Wednesday, September 19th, 2007

foto by smith
foto by u.s. navy

too tied up within over the war news and the black shirt college gestapo security police tasering a student who asked about impeachment, so here’s a taste instead from my bad boy memoirs we’re working on – we’re calling it “Criminal” by Smith & Lady – this segment is from 1963:

Pam was a huge breasted person. She wanted desperately to have sex with me. She was 16, a year younger than I. In retrospect, she might have already been pregnant, might have been trying to make me the father. I was home on my first leave from the Navy. Before I’d left for boot camp, Pam took off her bra and showed me her breasts and said, “I want you to have something to remember, something to bring you back home.”

Very effective technique.

The night I have first sex, we are at my folk’s house. My parents are out playing poker. My sister’s home. Pam and I are in the bedroom. Pam’s insistent, wants sex. I’m scared as hell, never having done it. I’m also scared of getting someone pregnant. I insist I have to go out and buy a condom, and leave her there naked in my bed. I’d never purchased a condom before – awkward and embarrassing, worse than all those condom purchasing scenes in the movies. On the way back, I want to make sure I know how to use one. I pull off the road, unzip my pants, give myself an erection, and put one on in a trial run. Then I drive back, ready to have sex in my bedroom. But my sister keeps banging on the door to irritate us. I get Pam dressed and take her in the car to where my parents are playing poker. I ask them for the keys to The House of Mavericks, their low-end used stuff store. I take Pam there and we use one of the used beds they had for sale. But part way through sex, my first sex ever, which seems to be working fine, the bed breaks. The mattress crashes to the floor at an angle, but we keep on, finish, laugh, put the bed back together, give my parents the keys, and drive home.

My second sexual experience was that same leave. I’d answered an Elvis trivia question on the radio (answer was a song titled “Summer Kisses, Winter Tears”) and won a life-sized cardboard cutout of Elvis in his Flaming Star shooter pose. The local president of the Elvis Presley fan club called me saying how much she wanted it. I’d never heard such a sexy voice in my life, so I found out where she lived. I went over there one night, put Elvis inside her screen door, rang her bell and left. She invited me back over for sex. She was 33, I was 17. She was large. Her teeth weren’t very nice, but she was a good person. She’d had a hard life. When I was at the Naval Academy, she sent me nude pictures of herself, and I thought that was a nice, friendly sort of mail to get.

I went off to Navy Aviation Electronics School in Memphis. I sent Pam money back every paycheck because we were going to marry. She was banking it. Come Christmas, I’m going to fly home using part of the money she’s banked. Only there’s no money, and no girlfriend. She was pregnant at the time we made love, or very soon after. Now she was living with an American Indian and wasn’t speaking to her parents. Her mom and dad felt so bad at how she’d treated me, they flew me home for leave. I had dinner with them. Got the whole story, where she was. I went over to the Indian’s place. Pam and I went for a walk. She had this huge belly. I talked her into letting me take her back to her parents for dinner that night so they could reconcile. After dinner, she and I necked and petted in the front seat of my car. It was the most erotic thing to have this huge bulging creature of big skin everywhere. I never saw her again, nor her parents.

foto by smith
foto by smith



Tuesday, September 18th, 2007

foto by smith
foto by smith

2 new smithisms . . .

he who whine about silver lining live in tarnished mirror

everything costs – there may be a couple cheap breakfasts, but there’s no free lunch

and some more from past blogs . . .

what the right gland giveth, the wrong gland taketh awry

power to the pissed on, may they get pissed off

you choose your toxins and you takes your cancers

we begin in ambiguity, end in enigma

it’s not the present it’s the process

spurn the old, spin the new

life’s a bowl of collaborations

kill yourself today, get a head start on eternity

beg and ye shall recede

mammon is mammoth, spirit supine

keep on shadow dancing before the darkens arc

put one foot in foot of the other, the other in front of the one

america – the land of the greed, the home of the grave

i’d eat the rich, but their taste is so bad

either heal the bush-cheney furor, or heil the cheney-bush fuhrer

politicians taste just like chicken, especialy democrats

we’re in the spaces between the pages

don’t beat a dead hearse

the deeper the cleavage, the slipperier the slope

stipple me mama, a stitch at a time

tally whore american gore

the iniquitous are ubiquitous

it ain’t all pepsi and popcorn

there are more deserts than there are 40 days

this it is the it it is

night has fallen, and it can’t get up

foto by smith
foto by smith



Monday, September 17th, 2007

Poppy says Jesus is the Son of God, and when I pray (which I don’t), I have to pray to the Son of God because that’s how prayers get to God. Poppy is my real dad. Dad is my adopted father.

I go to church when I visit Poppy, and I don’t understand the sermons. Poppy’s minister talks about Jesus the Son of God and his disciples in a serious way, and he talks about parables and says that it teaches us something. But the words don’t relate to anything I think about. Shouldn’t they? I think about God a lot. People say something had to create the universe, so there’s God. I wonder why nobody thinks to ask who created God, then. Doesn’t make sense. I ask Dad about it, and he says he believes in the Great Turtle but he’s teasing me. Mom says God is Nature — not a person — which makes a lot of sense.

Poppy is solemn quiet on Sundays, even when he makes biscuits and eggs for me and Margaret. I sit in the hard pew with them. He wears a suit. She wears a pretty dress. They go up to the front to drink communion wine. In Virginia, it is always sunny in the church, but I feel solemn, like I’ve done something wrong. Poppy sits in his suit in the hot vinyl seat in the van. He always has to clear a space for me in the van when I visit. I wonder if I’ve done something wrong when he clears the seat because he moves quickly. Maybe he’s mad at me because I don’t have his last name and Dad adopted me. I don’t know how to act around Poppy. He’s a carpenter, just like Jesus was. After church we pick up fried chicken and coleslaw.

How can there be a God, and is this the difference between me and Poppy? There’s something different inside him, who believes, and me and Mom, who can’t believe. It’s like a knife and I can’t see his thoughts and he won’t tell them to me. But if I have Poppy’s blood, shouldn’t I just know? Maybe Mom’s blood is different from Poppy’s blood, and that’s why she divorced him. I’m lonely with him. Maybe that’s why she divorced him, because she was lonely too. Maybe I can’t talk to Poppy because he’s too sad about Mom divorcing him. Maybe I can’t believe in God because I’m bad, and I think God is like Poppy, and I’m sad around Poppy. Poppy tells me things but he doesn’t talk with me, not like Mom and Dad do. Before I visit him I’m excited like it’s Christmas, but when he picks me up it’s like the day after Christmas and I feel deflated. I wonder what it was I expected.

“Becky, I want to talk to you,” Poppy says.


“Hey, don’t be such a smart alec with me.”

“But I just said what? What’s the matter with that?”

“You’re still doing it. You just said ‘just.’ That’s talking back to me.You need to be respectful to me. Your whole attitude is bad.”

“OK, I’ll try.” I try to speak with respect and friendliness, but my stomach hurts and my eyes burn. The words don’t seem right. I don’t know what words are correct to say.

“Well, when I come home, I want you to run to me and hug me. I want some sort of acknowledgment.” It sounds like he’s going to cry, too.

That’s strange, I think. He doesn’t usually spend time with me. Aren’t dads supposed to be the ones who take care of the kids? I wait and wait for something special to happen that makes me happy and warm inside, like when I’m with my grandparents or Mom or Dad. Nothing happens. Maybe he doesn’t know how to act around kids because he’s not used to me.

“And you need to talk nice to Margaret. She said you’ve been talking back to her too.”

This is hugely bewildering. I had no idea Poppy and Margaret didn’t like the way I talked. Maybe that’s why he’s short with me all the time. I hurt his feelings and I didn’t even know it. I wasn’t a good daughter.

How could she think I was bad? Margaret was so nice. I even called her Mom. I even told everyone how happy I was to have four parents, and I was sincere about it. What have I done wrong? They don’t really know me, I think. I’ll show them how smart and good I am. I’ll clean every day before they get home and I’ll study Margaret’s medical books the rest of the time. I won’t be a little piggy, eating all the chips and candy from the cupboard. I’ll show them how adult I am.

I go down to the basement to my bedroom. I tear a poster I made off the wall and shred it. The drawing was stupid, a character from a book. I sniffle and cry to myself as I fall asleep. I can’t wait until I go home.

The next morning I wake up to the noise of Poppy and Margaret going off to work. I feel empty.

They like me, don’t they? They made this bedroom for me. But why was the bedroom in the basement? They could have cleared the office upstairs for me. Maybe they really don’t like me, but they felt it was proper for me to visit. I can’t think straight, but I just know it’s unfair, and I can’t say anything to make it better even though I have the best intentions.

I can’t cry anymore. I feel resigned to my new sober realizations. I wait for the sound of both cars to leave the driveway before I get up.

My stomach has no interest in breakfast, nor can I read anything. My books seem childish, and anyways, I can’t concentrate. I go out to the back lawn. It’s scorching hot. A plane of vision clarifies and I see hundreds of brown things jumping in the dead grass. I catch one. It’s a grasshopper or cricket.

I tear one of the legs off the cricket, and put it on the patio. The cricket struggles about in a circle. I don’t feel sorry for it, just curious. I find another cricket, and pull the opposite back leg. It struggles too.

I go back inside and find a medical book, Grey’s Anatomy. With the goal of memorization, I take some of Poppy’s computer paper and practice drawing the muscles and bones. I have all the main bones memorized before Poppy gets home.

Poppy pulls in the drive in the afternoon. I have butterflies in my stomach. I go up to the door as he comes in and I say, “Hi, Dad,” and hug him. Poppy acts like everything is normal and I always greet him at the door. It’s a little weird, but I’m relieved.

“Guess what I know, Dad?”


“I know the bones of the body. This is my femur in my thigh, and down here are the tibia and fibula, and the cookie on my knee is the patella.”

“Your thigh bone connected from your knee bone, your knee bone connected from your leg bone,” Poppy sings. He walks into the kitchen with his groceries and puts them away, still singing the funny song.

I come to the door to hang out and watch him. He sings at me, he sings to the chicken he’s making, and he makes his voice alternately low and then fake high like a woman’s. “Them bones, them bones gonna walk around, them bones, them bones gonna walk around, them bones them bones gonna walk around, I hear the word of the Lord.”

He grabs a bag of chips off the fridge makes a quick pre-dinner sandwich, chips and white bread and bananas and peanut butter. He chews it with relish and bugs his eyes at me, and I laugh, and he offers me a bite.

Poppy makes cracker chicken and chicken gravy and rice, with (ugh) peas and carrots for dinner. I don’t like frozen vegetables but I find that if I mix the peas and carrots in with the rice and cover it with gravy, it tastes pretty good.


no wailing offense

Monday, September 17th, 2007

foto by smith
foto by smith

i’m hungry all the time now – think it’s psychological, due to having no home for 14 months and our impending return to the united states. lady’s started nightmaring again as well – again due to not wanting to return to the united mistakes of americant. she had nightmares when we first began our relationship (before she learned she was safe with me), but they disappeared after we paid off all our bills and left the country.

i’m also having trouble sleeping for the same reasons – my body doesn’t want to be me, tries to squirm out from within. i lie in bed and twitch, changing positions until lady gets ready to kill me. then i come out here and rest my 6 foot 3 inch frame on this 4 foot couch. after a couple hours i’m so tired and ache so much i go back in and fall asleep in bed.

it’s hard to return to a country that’s killed over one million iraqi civilians for oil. even alan greenspan – 18 year chairman of the federal reserve board – admitted today we’re only there for the oil, and no one can call him a traitor or a liar because he’s a conservative republican and the ultimate washington insider. thank god for greenspan, the first person in washington i’ve ever seen speak unvarnished truth.

speaking of going, i wrote this after mom died june 2005

No Wailing Offense

There will be
No tears
No wailing
No gnashing of teeth
When I go
When I’m gone
When I die
When my flesh
Is sold
For packets to eat
Or door stop
What knot
Plot not
Best to burn me baby
Use me as sand
Grit to rough the bland
Just call me
Oyster helper
Pearl point
Beginning irritant
Smooth in end

foto by smith
foto by smith


1 2 3

Sunday, September 16th, 2007

foto by smith
foto by smith

“It’s the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine” – REM song.

poet friend cheryl pointed out my 15 year estimate to the end of the human habitable world was optimistic – 2,300 years ago the mayans predicted the world would end december 12, 2012.

that’s 5 years 3 months from now. and here i was worried about my future – heck, i can fake it that long.

i checked it out: december 21st, 2012 a.d. ( in the long count) is the conjunction of the winter solstice with the crossing point of the equator of the milky way and the ecliptic path of the sun – at which time the sun is supposed to reach the peak of its worst sunspot activity ever which will produce earthquakes and flooding on earth.

this happens once every 26,000 years and will occur at 11:11 am gmt, at which time we pass from the age of pisces to the age of aquarius.

cool. i’m impressed that mayans knew enough to predict the winter solstice 2,300 years down the line, although today’s scientists do point out that the mayan calendar is 34 seconds off in their prediction.

so we have 12.21.2012 11:11, though i like the mayan’s better. 1 2 3, what’s in it for me?

the mayans say the fifth world finished in 1987, while the upcoming sixth world will start in 2012 – which means we’re presently in the 25 year gap between worlds… maybe that explains the horrible music on the radio since 1987 (we need more Meat Beat Manifesto).

the 2,300 year old winter solstice prediction is fact, and the precession of the stars moving to aquarius is fact. some folk say since the mayan calendar ends then, the world ends. but they’re missing the point – the mayans don’t claim the world is ending, just that we pass from one age to the next. and they say to make this passing properly, we need to move away from our materialistic consumer society and move back to harmony with the earth. that’s a laugh – not a chance of it happening. we will continue to rape and eat the earth. so maybe it will be the end of time after all.

so, that’s the equation – the mayans’ mesoamerica versus our mess of america.

foto by smith
foto by smith


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