AD.

WALKING ON THIN ICE

Thought about things, August 11 by Lady

Lady wrote this this morning trying to process the 10″ thing growing inside me that most likely has to be removed and possibly radiated… they mentioned chemotherapy as well but I’ve never read a postitive thing about chemo so told the doctor that wasn’t going to happen and she replied that it doesn’t seem to work all that well anyway. Going to get another cat scan with dye, and then they’re going to stick a needle through me to sample it for deadliness before deciding which way to go.

I beat throat cancer in 2005. Lady beat eye cancer in 2017. Our 1st cat died of cancer in 2016. Into the ring re-go.

(I lucked out when Lady knocked at my door in 2005 ignoring my GO AWAY unwelcome mat. She’s at minimum as talented as I in word, foto, and art (some say better), and she’s 3-7 IQ points smarter than I… AND, she has a goodness about her, a kind heart, a sharable sweetness. I am one lucky outlier. May you all be so fortunate.)

~ ~ ~

Thought about things, August 11
by Lady

My hope is that it is benign and they decide to leave it in or can even break it up and drain it some way if it is benign. If it isn’t benign, maybe it’s sufficiently slow in growing and encapsulated so that we don’t have to worry about it.

The doctor woman says she needs more images. She showed us slice show slices of his body, a progression of an MRI, then a CT scan, how one kidney is pushed inches to his front by an unusual gray area, a gap that persists through a number inches in slides. She showed me how his upper stomach is up near the heart. They need a new scan with dye to understand more about the various grays and what they mean. There needs to be more clarity. I asked her if his scoliosis could be making things all funky. Maybe the body is just trying to cushion him. Do you think?

My husband is really tough. To give you an idea, when we traveled, he walked around for three years with a 60 pound backpack all the time even though he needed a hip replacement and didn’t know it. He also had a hernia at that time, and he’d hold it in as he walked!

We finally fixed the hernia in Mexico in a small clinic that looked like it came out of the forties. We handed the doctor $1800 for the whole thing. Husband said that during the operation he heard his heart monitor stop which really freaked him out, and then it came back on. I guess he must have been under twilight sedation? His clinic bed was this flimsy thing like a war time hospital bed from the old times with bouncy springs and tired, thin sheets. I had to help him out of it as we left. We were in and out the same day but I remember waiting for him to come to liveliness enough to help him up. Then we hailed a taxi and returned to our temporary home in Oaxaca.

The water in Oaxaca was not safe to drink from the faucet. I had dysentery twice there until I finally learned about pills people take as a proactive measure to get rid of the amoebas. We picked coffee in the mountains with a family, and they said the water was safe from the faucet. It was not so safe for me and resulted in much time working slime out in the bathroom and bushes as the others put the coffee cherries into their hanging buckets a mile down the mountain and a mile back up again to their house.

They had a kitchen camp at the shade grown field, and a pineapple grew right out of the ground and lizards made love on a log. The woman made chicken soup with vegetables I’d not seen before. We marched back up the mountain.

The man sang in the morning on the roof, drying out the laid out cherries.

In their kitchen the tile was a beautiful turquoise blue and an orange cat would amble across the floor. We pressed masa from a cauldron at a local vendor into home made tortillas. We poured and spread masa onto something that clamped it down and cooked them into corny papyrus. We drank grainy homegrown coffee from large ceramic cups. I do not understand the economics of their heavenly place on this planet and their whitewashed walls. Richer than many people here somehow, yet poor. There was a banana plant on the side and they showed us how the plant is macheted down and grows back up again. Voila, more bananas.

The first time I had dysentery I was in a bed for a week and I remember the bed. It had a huge carved headboard, but I don’t remember the week.

After my husband’s surgery week a year later, he pulled his own stitches out from his surgery and decided to take showers in the dirty water. I worried about his wound, had a breakdown and couldn’t sleep for three weeks, bad time cured by drinking a beer in the afternoon and reading a book from the expat library (a group of misfits) on the rooftop of our place.

The roof was where we spent most of our time, and we had a lime tree up there. During the long rush hour around the city, there was a two hour cacophony of car horns that we loved from the roof. At the end they sounded like witches screeching by. Each building’s façade was a different color which to me had different meanings I’d assign to them.

We could see the mountains around, and a roof dog who lived lower down across the street. We lived right by the wheel of road around the city, a 10th of a mile down the spoke leading to the old town square. At twilight the air turned blue and the banana man came down the road with a cart of roasting bananas and he’d blow a mournful whistle. Everything announced itself with its own signature noise, including the garbage truck all of us chased after in our nightgowns and slippers to toss in our weekly trash. Every dawn, a man came by and swept the whole road.

There was a weekly parade down our street, either people celebrating and usually with their own little marching orchestra, or a march for labor rights. One day we saw some circus trucks from our second story window, and could see a tiger in one. We walked to the circus, which had a big tent and a small amount of animals who were more on display than anything. We did not catch performances.

My husband’s doctor also took care of me during my husband’s recovery, but he gave me medicine that took away my thoughts (Geodone, which somehow made me think of a fake simulacrum of the planet) and hence gave me depression and made me collapse onto concrete doorway stoops or even the sidewalk as we walked, so I weaned myself off it, grew weary of the long dustiness of the dry season of Oaxaca. The grit from the adjacent freeway was so bad that we had a hole in the wall of our kitchen for sluicing the mop water off of the floor and onto the driveway. And during the rainy season, water ran down from our roof onto our tile steps into the kitchen and we pushed it out the same hole.

My husband is a man of epoxy and duct tape. He’s been known to epoxy his broken tooth to itself and give his dentist nightmares. He has many interesting stories. In his autobiography he has a chapter called “bone.” When he was little, he tried to jump a fence or some such thing, and he opened a slit in his leg that went down to the bone. He said that it was pure gleaming white, and he touched it with curiosity. Imagine! He said that when he was on his way to the hospital with his parents he kept trying to keep them calm.

Now we burn frankincense here and our deck encroaches Zoo property. In the morning we hear elephants from our bathroom window. We hear coyotes howl at the sirens on Pearl Road going to Metro Health hospital. Sometimes the owls hoot at the coyotes. Sometimes the coyotes howl at the dogs.

  • Lady 8.11.2023

Lady’s latest

The First Weekend in August, 2023
by Lady

Friday we had that slash of light
between the warm and chill humidity
The Early Augustness of August
in an Ohio whose green fields
pool in an oasis of the lake’s
memory, its capacitance – north here,
protected rim, Midwest. But looking
at the vantage points of Terminal Tower
and where they manifest around town
you can read the books of the bridges
of this city,
Cleveland.

Our Echinacea are a variety that shoots
up to my head and then falls over in
its own headiness from the heavy violin
that plays the sun and rain
that germinates the marigolds
gone to seed
returning om deux poof

Now I am a friend of both clover and
shamrock, the mint takes over the
patio, the never used rue, lavendar
like prone blue explosions happy to
bloom, dry out and end up in some
sache or forgotten left out for the gods
that which with the days,
grows in full sun,
partial shade
and darkness.

In the church of our living room
there was that slash of light –
the slash divided two on each side
of an overgrown golden Labrador
in his heaven on Earth, lifting his
eyebrows, groaning assent, tousling
the freshly vacuumed carpet, basking
in the banter of four primate friends
two cats and one plant.

Then the window behind your lazyboy –
it was still a gold beam and now it’s
over there, on that last window,
now a full rectangle
of light.

We must remember that we have
had such Augusts and that like dandelion
seeds, they float out from Saturday’s fairy day
firefly decanter and it’s here again, we’re in
perennial darkening Forest City and with
the lights turned out, the lacy loops
of grandma’s letters left over
in some folio, we eat ganache,
knife, peach.

– Lady, 8.5.2023

Breakfast at the Borderline by Lady

Lady’s today poem . . .

Breakfast at the Borderline

Breakfast out into the Sunday Gestalt
The slow burn highway
quest of focal vision right through
landscape of peripheral

Sit on bench beside the door
it sticks a little before you
can get it open, wait for eat
to become eight

Drink full coffee down before
waiter comes around for
fresh pot proper cream cup
proportion

Good time motown music and
a two year old’s occasional cry in a
high class greasy diner

Young woman in a sea shell
dress and a man with scrambled egg voice
comfortable making money
two years from college

Elbows on the table I
cradle my head against my knuckles
like a sumo wrestler ready for the
next locution to ooze across
the table

Got my glasses off and stare at
fuzzy you, remember myself dreamy-eyed
in a 20 year old photo another
20 years of us to go

Panhandler on the
highway entrance has a nice way
Have a nice day folks
he says

Russian dolls gotta have
a sense of humor – being a Russian doll

— Lady, 7.9.2023

. . . Lady’s poem 4.30.2023 . . . My Cleveland Dog

. . . Lady’s poem 4.30.2023 . . .

My Cleveland Dog

Rasping, oxygen-burning pants are
Drawn from his voluminous white whirled chest
Hideous octopus suckers
Stud his maroon jowls

“Dog boy,” husband says
“Dog boy, yeah”

Dog bows his orange lion head
Husband tousles and cradles his ears
It stops and dog galumphs into a heap
On the carpet

Dog’s a lion, a magnificent warmth
for a bleary rainy Sunday

“Dog walk walk dog,” I say, and he’s up!
Massive weight – big dog –
Prances his skittles of nails
On the foyer floor

I harness him one leg
Then the other, good dog,
And slam the witches’ bells
on the door

I turn to check the door handle
It’s sure in its mechanical mind
It secures the damp entrance to house
Littered with new and bruised
maple flowers

We’re up and out!

Dog bumps nose to
Broken robin egg looks like
sugar shell Easter candy

What is it, Dog? Dog dog?”
Whimsical, not urgent
Wind chimes from behind the house

We walk the red brick road

Blocks away
Another dog barks mystery
And the sound of dog is brick

Home
Wind chime temple bells softer
Now in the cotton batting
3pm of the day

Our living room clocks
Stagger tocks then chase each other
Or race each other

Our dog slops up laps of water
From the metal of his saliva bowl
An unrelenting repeat of seasons
Everywhere

– Lady

(Bio — Lady is a stubborn woman who lives on a red brick road in Cleveland next to the zoo with her curmudgeon poet husband, dog and two cats.)

Vidrick poetry via Lady via Dall-E

Lady ran these lines of Russell Vidrick’s poetry through the A.I. art app Dall-E.

Where to, how, and what to
do. Four and a half billion
years and my nose appears,
crooked.

Venus and Jupiter painted
on my hand. Purple, green
sky swimming in sand.

Auction of morning and
raven of wind. Cathedral
of dove and blossom of
sea.

In a clutter step storm of
galloping thunder, the very
same fire still rages.

Lady’s poem 10.30.2022

Octobers

Bees fly by our wavy green window
fuzzy gold comets on solar missions
stitches of insects are more magical than sparkles

And the light of sun on the wind water of trees
olive diamonds flop in and out
like frankincense Saturdays

I remember pictures of boy scouts camping
unloading Grandpa Ireland’s VW bus
technicolor apples of their cheeks
the daub of a palette knife
gulped in a throat

In my mouth, the rock taste of water
the eyelid of a lip
divining rod in the secondary growth forest
paths tangle in my eye
woman girl

– Lady, 10.30.2022

Smith & Lady travels more or less Aug 2006 – Mar 2009

Smith & Lady travels more or less Aug 2006 – Mar 2009

We first left with 70 pounds of backpack each — returned with 35 pounds each . . . quickly learned you REALLY have to want something in order to carry it on your back.

>>>>> to chiplis (1 mile)
>>>>> to chicago — (312 miles)
>>>>> to london — (3,954 miles)
>>>>> to north england — (250)
>>>>> to london — (250)
>>>>> to amsterdam — (221)
>>>>> to london — (221)
>>>>> to lodz poland — (719)
>>>>> to krakow poland — (204)
>>>>> to lodz poland — (204)
>>>>> to london — (719)
>>>>> to pula croatia — (788)
>>>>> to zagreb (122)
>>>>> to pula (122)
>>>>> to trieste — (54)
>>>>> to venice — (71)
>>>>> to pula — (125)
>>>>> to beziers — (914)
>>>>> to barcelona — (156)
>>>>> to madrid — (314)
>>>>> to marrakech — (652)
>>>>> to essarouira (95 miles)
>>>>> to marrakech — (95)
>>>>> to london — (1,432)
>>>>> to braithwaite — (250)
>>>>> to london — (250)
>>>>> to marseille — (623)
>>>>> to albeilhan — (120)
>>>>> to paris — (393)
>>>>> to albeilhan (393)
>>>>> to barcelona — (156)
>>>>> to nyc usa — (4,083)
>>>>> to cleveland — (402)
>>>>> to mexico — (1,946)
>>>>> to cleveland — (1,946)
>>>>> to mexico — (1,946)
>>>>> to cleveland — (1,946) = 26,499

revamped Memorial Day poem by Lady

This is the revamped version Lady read at her Coventry Library reading last week . . .

Memorial Day

We were recovering from Covid
and me from my tummy tuck.
We were too weak
to mow the lawn, and it rained
and it sunned, and half the lawn
was grass, and half the lawn was
clover. I trampled through clover
to plant the sunflower rootings
that came in the mail,
the lavender clumps before it was
too late in the spring, bent over
holding my tummy tuck in one hand
lest I bust my stitches, digging
with my spade in the other

I found a garter snake
under decaying fall leaves.
The snake moved like water to the
faucet on the back side of the house.
It slipped into a gap between
the foundation stones.

Snakes do not have hands
but we do – here is the church
here is the steeple, here’s some cave
carved from an ancient river,
handprints paint souls
like leaves on trees.

I found a morel
in our yard by the compost gate.
It came up ready, nary any pull
ripping noiselessly from the ground

The honeycomb head wilted as I carried it
I brought it just to show it to my husband
I turned around to put it back –
I could not find out where it
came from

What can I say
but clay tests the hand
and it makes pottery

Last year I found one too,
a morel, and I expect next one
next year

We hold hands on our morning walk

Our dog stops at the telephone
pole at the end of the street,
looking for sweet new blades
of spring green grass

A neighborhood dog barks.
Somewhere out there
there’s agreement

On Audible we learned
birds recognize each others’ calls.
The robin hears the sparrow
the jay mimics the crow

The birds feel like we feel
It’s going to be OK
The mirror in the garden
says namaste

This year’s bees are cleaning
out last year’s hive beyond
the grand pine you can see from
the bridge on Pearl

The tree’s how we know
where our house is. Smith wants
to paint the other side of the
picket fence white so we can see
it from Pearl

In July as you step off the deck
you can smell honey from the oven
of the hive’s hot hatchery.
They fan their wings,
evaporate water from the nectar
to thicken into honey

The bees give warning bops
but rarely sting. We are on
their flight path to the field
they dance and waggle about

Last year they went up and up into
the trees, half the hive, I watched
them, a dark cloud up and over the
pine until they looked like
gnats in the robin’s egg sky

I watched until the view
evaporated

This year
regardless of their tolerance
we will check every frame
until we get to the bottom of it
and wipe out the queen cups –
cells that look like peanuts dripping
off the frame bottoms – the bees make them
to propagate their hive, to swarm

We keep them –
we are keeping them regardless
of their consensus

Golden and angry
they’ll stay in their nest
and in the winter you can put your ear
to the hive, hear the beating
whir of the lion’s heart, an engine
powered by honey

And birds –
You know, birds’ eyes have four cones
where we have three. They can see
kingdoms in an ultraviolet canopy

Thoughts are in the trees –
living books, and mycorrhizal fungi
tap out signals from their feet

Pick up a leaf with the labyrinth
of your fingerprints –
it drains into a palimpsest
the map on your palm,
the rivers on the leaf

– Lady

Lady’s dream spirits

Lady’s drawing and explanation of dream spirits from last night’s lucid dream:

“Dream spirits I saw last night. I asked them if they were manifestations of my mind or if they were external, but I don’t think they were able to speak, or maybe they don’t speak English, or they didn’t want to. When I confront these things lucid dreaming, they seem startled, sometimes angry, like it is unexpected that I see them. Benevolent or indifferent spirits normally, but odd-looking. Material or old bodies inhabited by spirits of either ancient humans, dolls made by humans, maybe spirits that take on anthropomorphic forms out of bone, sticks, mud, teeth, rags, hair, skin of their own volition, maybe just there.”

new Lady poem this morning

(new Lady poem this morning)

Memorial Day

We were recovering, too weak
to mow the lawn, and it rained
and it sunned, and half the lawn
was grass, and half the lawn was
clover. I trampled a path through
the clover to plant the sunflower
rootings that came in the mail,
the lavender before it was
too late, holding my tummy tuck
lest I bust my stitches

I found a garter snake
under the decaying fall leaves.
It moved like water to the
faucet coming from our
foundation stones and
slipped into a gap

Snakes do not have hands
but we do – here is the church
here is the steeple, here’s some cave
carved from an ancient river,
hand prints paint souls
like leaves on trees. Lay back
and watch the innate kindling
of the TV in the mind
passenger’s trip

We hold hands on the holiday,
the morning walk

Our dog stops at the telephone
pole at the end of the street,
looking for sweet new blades
of spring green grass

A neighborhood dog barks.
Somewhere out there
there’s agreement

On Audible we learned
birds recognize each others’ calls.
The robin hears the sparrow
the jay mimics the crow

They feel like we feel
It’s going to be OK
The mirror in the garden
says namaste

Memorial Day –
the Grand River –
sedimentary layers
clay limestone shale
dog shit on the bank

It’s fecund
it smells like rusted blood
it smells like coffee

We’ve canoed the river and
on its banks I’ve picked up rocks
to find salamanders

I carry the memory of days there
like a lotus of a transcendental sobriety

I found a morel
in our yard by the compost gate.
It came up ready, nary any pull
ripping noiselessly from the ground

It wilted as I carried it
I brought it just to show it
I turned around to put it back
I could not find out where it
came from

What can I say
but clay tests the hand
and it makes a pot

Last year I found one too,
a morel, and I expect next one
next year

This year’s bees are cleaning
out last year’s hive beyond
the grand pine you can see from
the bridge on Pearl

The tree’s how we know
where our house is. Smith wants
to paint the other side of the
picket fence white so we can see
it from Pearl

In July as you step off the deck
you can smell honey from the oven
of the hive’s hot hatchery.
They beat their wings,
keep it just right

The bees give warning bops
but rarely sting. We are in
the flight path to the field
they dance and waggle about

Last year they went up and up into
the trees, half the hive, I watched
them, a dark cloud up and over the
pine until they looked like
gnats in the robin’s egg sky

I watched until the view
evaporated

This year
regardless of their tolerance
we will check every frame
until we get to the bottom of it
and wipe out the extra queen cups

We keep them –
we are keeping them regardless
of their consensus

Golden and angry
they’ll stay in their nest
and in the winter you can put your ear
to the hive, hear the beating
whir of the lion’s heart, an engine
powered by honey

You know, birds’ eyes have four cones
where we have three. They can see
kingdoms in an ultraviolet canopy

Thoughts are in the trees –
living books, and mycorrhizal fungi
tap out signals from their feet

Every day I thank the Lord
the shape that’s buoyed me
in its volume of ancient
recorded oxygen

Pick up a leaf with the labyrinth
of your fingerprints –
it drains into a palimpsest
the map on your palm,
the rivers on the leaf

~ Lady