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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 )

small stuffed tigers running up the steps


One of the reasons this is my 21st day of not smoking grass is financial, but the real reason is daily toking dumps my dreams from short term memory as I wake. I finally woke remembering this doozy of a dream Friday night.

Cleveland Dream 2016.5.28

Lady and I walking down the street were cut off by a late 1950’s Buick slow turning left in front of us. As it turned, its left rear light was slow clipped by a late 50’s Dodge. We didn’t want to be caught up in the police investigation so veered around the cars. Police started chasing us so we ran around the corner to an elevator a woman had just stepped into and we dashed between the closing doors. By the time we got to the top, the woman had disappeared although the elevator had not stopped anywhere. At top we got out, looked around for the woman and saw two lower legs and feet protruding from the ceiling.

In the dream I realized I was dreaming and took out my pocket pad to take notes for my blog, but at this point in real life, a bit past midnight, our neighbor below’s friend once again pushed our doorbell to get in to see her and woke me. I got up, picked up the remote doorbell receiver and moved it into the living room so it was out of transmitter range, then realized I’d forgotten the rest of the dream and what I had wasn’t special enough to post, so went to sleep.

Then Lady and I were house setting this extremely rich English couple’s place. It was huge, a mutant cross between an English mansion and a warehouse. It was dusty and antiqued and art was stacked thick everywhere. I wandered around taking fotos of the special pieces, most of them featuring closeups of eyes. I leaned in close to one painting, looked through the viewfinder to focus, and the art disappeared. Looked and found the camera lens had suddenly over-extended and pushed through the painting leaving a foot wide round hole. I knew we couldn’t afford to pay for it if I admitted I’d done it and was mulling my mind about lying. Then more people appeared, some we knew, most we didn’t. Thought maybe the painting was so old the owners would think it’d decayed away by itself, then thought there were so many people now no one could possibly know who’d damaged it.

Before I resolved my moral dilemma, I found myself in a huge room filled with gigantic Anselm Kieferish paintings. Someone said they were by John Robertson’s girlfriend, Jane. I stared at one piece of grays and blacks and browns that was basically two big eyes, then stepped closer to see more and it transformed into a Robert Rauschenberg type collage painting. Kept stepping back and forth, watching the painting repeatedly change.

Walked down to the kitchen and saw the girlfriend painter feeding a baby at the table. I asked, “Are you Jane Adams?” “Close enough,” she said, “Jane Brussels.” “Sorry,” I replied, “for some reason John Robertson’s name changed into President John Adams in my mind, so you became Jane Adams. Did you paint those paintings that change back and forth with each step?” “Oh, you noticed. You’re the first.” “How do you do those double images?” She answered, “Not easy, especially if the lights go out, then I can’t complete them cuz it just flows through me from somewhere.” “I know what you mean. I’m going outside to the car to get a copy of my memoir to give you, be right back.”

I walk down the outer steps as the police come to break up the gathering, which by now seems to be a hundred people. As I walk down, dozens of individual small stuffed tigers are running up the steps, with more stuffed tigers in cardboard boxes, and the boxes themselves are running up the steps. I overhear two well dressed tramps in the yard — who are wearing fine old expensive clothes which are now dirty, tawdry — sitting against the stone wall. They remind me of the two Waiting for Godot tramps as one says to the other, “This is the best they’ve done yet, party number 1437.”

I wake, get up at 2:14 a.m. and sit with a flashlight and pen writing three pages of quick notes without my glasses to keep dream alive while listening to neighbor below giggle and laugh loud in what I suspect is sex with her wrong doorbell ringing boyfriend..

I bought a Pick-4 Lotto ticket using my dream number of 1437. Winner was 4047, so two of my dream numbers appear three times in winning number and I lost my dollar. That’s twice I’ve played the Lotto — once on dream number, once on weird wrong fone text, lost both times.

My dream last night was so-so. I was the prisoner of the Nazis. I was the only prisoner they had. I believe I was also the Nazis. They kept moving me around, threatening violence, showing me to groups of people. But nothing ever happened, no hurt, no misuse, just psychological violence which didn’t bother me. Except for interesting setting and my remembering the dream, it was rather banal. Guess all my dreams can’t be surreal blockbusters.

Social Less

A dram of dream measures heft of beam,
mind and spirit esteem schemes in seam.

Our surface acts walk creaking crack
yet crawl long through lack.

This is horrible writing, I know, but true.

Subconscious creeps in dark unknowns,
un-no-able, control most times undoable.

I suppose were I in total command
I would not be me, but who would be?

My inner stark barely bound by due.

And so I smile at you, say hello,
measure knife to throat, offer toast instead.

My success rests less on best
than simply getting through.

How about you?

– Smith, 5.29.2016


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