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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 )

Lady’s beginning creation mist


Lady K’s writing a creation story, inspired by her brother/sisterlaw’s impending double adoption of a 4 yr boy 6 yr girl . . .

Story continues…

A long time ago or now in some way there was a bigness in the itness, a colorful bigness tight against itself. Sometimes colorful, and sometimes bereft of color. Sometimes blackness hugging the big colorfulness. Other times the big colorfulness hugging the blackness. Sometimes pleasantly cool, sometimes pleasantly warm. It depended on the itness’s mood.

It could think in itself and around itself. It worked throughout itself and made thought. OR if it felt like it, the thoughts came from it doesn’t know howwhere unless it intuited wherehow.

The bigness felt so lush, like the inside of it was covered in velvet, and the outside warm. Or, like there was no insideoutside, but a lot of itself to turn thisthat way like a churning of sometimes distinct and nondistinct constituent parts. Like a massage insideoutside itself but smeared through totality.

It could make itself really, really small, the bigness itness. But that was just mathematically seen in one way for the germ of it all wasis there like a kerchief in a magician’s magical sequestration space tightly waiting to be pulled into the hungry for fullness of fluttering nonvoidness.

It knew most everything about the simple and nonsimple facts about itself. Even if it couldn’t put words to it, it felt it and knew it that way.

This urge it had was like an itch pushing on the leftrightleft of itself. When the smallbigitness realized it was itchy it wanted to relief itself by inflating like an egg or flattening into a sheet, something to be cracked. Like getting a paycheck and paying the bill. The definite and in.

The bigsmall flattened itself and felt the itch on the leftness of itself like its left ear listening for crunching of creatures solving stiff grasses. Cracks hatched on the left of itself like bubblewrap pop or a scab drying and flaking pleasantly on a scrape, art jutting into mountains of grit and crystals buckling and piling, hatching up. Something made more tangible and textured of its closedsurfaceness, like bark on hands.

Wasn’t all through hatched not like grand canyons or earthquakes or fracks. Was someplaces easy round tessellations of pieces fitting together from completeness. Questions and answers contained in itsbigself. But a tension to pull an orderedness from the right and heap it on the left in piled disarray.

A side note: puzzles are kind of strange because a puzzle could mean that the puzzle is either solved or not. If it’s all together it’s not puzzling, so it’s kind of not a puzzle. But if it’s apart, then it is kind of unpuzzled in that it is not all held together in the puzzle. But it’s also *puzzling* because then it has to be solved. What do you think?

Bigitself thought more could be had pulling the pieces apart and mulling them over. It’s strange, this big thing acting on itself, pulling itself together and apart again again again. Sometimes from the left to the right, sometimes from the right to the left. Wherever it felt something hatching.

One day (day for convenience’s sake) the bigsmallitnonitness felt a kind of urge to play. It felt that more could be yielded of itself, that it had this idea of bobbing waves of trees in a sea of greenness and bobbing waves of water in a cool deepness, of feet walking walking, of its clay wondering, thinking. The undense liquid of air an easy medium for the acts of experiment, of play to be carried. Stars like hot diamonds in the cool easiness of ample space. Stars witnessed through eyes defining our.

– Lady K, to be continued

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