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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 )


When I say just about anything, Smith asks me, “Where did you think of this? What made you think of that? What led to this?”

I talk to Smith more than anyone. It is just so good to have someone who is really interested in connecting with me so considerately, so thoroughly. I used to be so lonely.

Smith is so very rich. I feel his experiences more exciting, more valid than mine. I sometimes feel a bit flattened by my enthusiasm for Smith and his world, that I’ve lost the hard diamonds I’d summoned up in isolated loneliness before we’d started our relationship.

I’m emerging from a recent bout of quietness. I was dealing with the aftermath of my first and second breakdowns in what could be bipolar disorder or schizophrenia. I’m trying to learn how to live with a loss of lucidity, dumb numb depressed stretches, and the ravages of mania, the flashing lights of false epiphanies.

I think I’ve hunkered down inside myself to re-emerge on more equal terms as a person who authors experience, a person who makes poignant observations. I want to make sure I am not just a receiver of information, but a source.

Communication is betrayal on some level, to someone. We step on invisible toes. I’m always afraid of perpetrating betrayal.

And communicating can be invasive.

But if I am to be a writer, and I think, actually, that I *am* a writer, then I need to start talking. I find new facets of myself in each friend I talk to.

I need to be honest as much as I can muster. I need to risk misunderstanding. There are disagreements in the latticework. If I try to be in harmony all the time, I lose the beauty of what’s there, what’s mine, the fruit of my own mine.

I think the chords of independent observations, independent assertions, a bit unsettling for Smith. I’ve suddenly started talking again.

I worry that I haven’t written many love poems for Smith. I have the thought that a mere love poem to him is like saying Jehovah, that saying a love poem profanes it, for I have sullied the form and objectified Smith, my holy object, in an imperfect work. Before Smith, I would sometimes write love poems using someone else as a proxy, poisoning my pen.

Smith is holy. Talking about Smith is a way of talking about him as an object, objectifying him, and he is so much more than that. He is a distinct lifeform, my everything, my Steve.

So for a long time I couldn’t get over the holiness of our relationship enough to even talk to other males, except briefly. Worried about the sin that comes out when I open my mouth. I mull over interactions recursively, iteratively, finding casualties in the aftermath of what my subconscious has wrought. It’s a very real thing, the subconscious. What we have on the surface, our conscious thought, is incidental to strange currents within.

Talk is holy and a sin.

Irrational thoughts cause me to close up.

I’m experimenting with being more communicative. I’m feeling more communicative and creative, living with irrationality and disagreement.

Maybe my current gusto for communication has something to do with being home, with experiencing the dissonance of raw winter again. We missed winter for three years. The tug of season here is a wild violin, or a concert warming up before the grand performance. Or like Eeyore. I’ve got Eeyore braying, playing a musical saw in my chest. I’ve got something tight and excited in me. My mental interior’s lit up determinedly like Christmas lights on a beat up Cleveland porch…

I’m trying to stop feeling frantic. The frantic thing comes from trying to fly a kite for a theme, trying to grapple with the All all at once. Instead I’m turning over my moment-by-moment pebbles to find the underlying revelations, artifacts like beautiful centipedes & strange potato bugs. I don’t have to feel frantic. It’s all there. All I have to grapple with is each breaking wave as it comes in.

Lady K

3 Responses to “IMPERFECT WORK”

  1. Jack McGuane says:

    It’s called going in the right direction

  2. jc says:

    I agree with Jack.

    And I think this is a pretty darned good love poem to Smith.

  3. smith says:

    you are far more than receiver — you are strong, central, essential force. you’ve changed my life for the good.

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