Excerpts from ÒSmiley-Man ChroniclesÓ, by Jeff Harris © 2005, Jeff Harris available as ebook on Kindle (Amazon), Sony, ibooks (itunes), bookbaby.com, iuniverse.com, and as print-on-demand paper back on iuniverse.com
ÒRather than be thrown for a loop, he threw loops for a living, and he hung out with the kings of the unreal world, and he made a beautiful living, he was exactly right for that kind of kiddingÉ.Ó ---from ÒHe Threw Loops for a LivingÓ, by Lefty Jones Band, Factory Tape #3
When I was a little boy, I went out to find the secret knowledge; at least, I thought that was my job description. If I acquired the knowledge, I was to tell no one. I divined certain methods for discovering it: one was to walk in a straight diagonal from my house as far as possible without getting hit by a car or falling into a lake. Also I was to fall in love with many little girls, and kiss them. This was another way straight into the secret knowledge. And, of course, kissing was not for telling.
All the poets of the hidden mystery are quietly trying to tell what they know. All of our parents were trying to tell us all along, or so we thought. Some of us decided our parents knew nothing. Our poor parents--they were hiding just nothing. This was the first grown-up thought that you could get into your little head. This was a hard thought to have in yonder head. Once that thought gets in there, you start dying. Before that, you are out of time, quite literally. There is no time. That is the glory time in being a kid.
One day, as I was on my bike searching for the hidden mystery, I experienced the whole world turning and rotating about other heavenly bodies. And one of these heavenly bodies was Susan Mauer, and the whole galaxy was expanding about Susan MauerÕs body.
She said to me, ÒMichael, come and kiss me up in the tree.Ó We got married inside of that kiss, for real. Actual miracles occur everyday. This is part of the kissing history of the clocky-turnings of the hidden mystery.
I grew up in a rough neighborhood--at least it was rough on the edges--and the edges were always moving center. I learned early that if you just looked at somebody the wrong way, that could make them want to kill you. That old saying about how Òif looks could killÓ is really only true in reverse. Much of the secret knowledge is obtained by reversing the common thought either a full l80 degrees, or just tweaking it 45 or 90 or whatever degrees you need. Nothing is known for sure.
Apropos of this is that some people (and I am one of them) can stare at somebody--even at the back of their head when they are walking far ahead up the street--and make them turn around. They can feel that stare. And it even works through glass! This sounds like an ad for a new cleaning product, but itÕs true. I can stare at somebody through the glass window of a store, even if they are facing the other way, and make them turn around. This is testimony to the vibrational nature of the universe. This is part of the secret knowledge that is still secret though everybody knows it, so I guess this is a bit of the paradoxical hidden mystery that exists in the world of being blind--or blindom as I like to call it.
The world of blindom is the black-hole of luck. ItÕs like when your lucky ring disappears. It doesnÕt just get lost; it actually de-constructs. It rolls off your finger, rolls along the ground and then quite literally disappears--matter destroyed (despite NewtonÕs first law of physics). Other aspects of The Chronicles will testify to the destruction of other physical as well as moral laws, because even if folks really need that government check, we sure as hell are gonna make it hard for them to get it. ItÕs not really Old Testament (do unto them the same kinda thing that got done unto you); itÕs more like leaky New Testament with a kind of Old Testament eye-for-an-eye meanness to it.
Now I know that youÕre probably wondering about now where this is all heading. Is it heading into your bedroom window and then directly into your body? YouÕre wondering if this could be heading toward a happy ending or a tragic beginning. YouÕre wondering if this will be boring, plotless, sexless, rambling and if it will squander youÕre money. That is, will it be expensive, both spiritually and financially. You see when I was a child, that same guy kept showing up all the time. That guy who chased you off the stoop for playing step-ball at your building, that guy who thought you were always making a little too much noise for him. Then that same guy turns out to be one of your relatives, a third cousin, who the hell knows. Maybe he wanted to pull your pants down, who the hell knows. Maybe he wanted to kiss your little person. Maybe you donÕt even have a little person, who the hell knows!
You see, in the old days it was well known that through the cracks in the heads of crazy people, some of the secret knowledge comes through, and that these people, be they just fools, are our fools, and we are suppose to take care of them and listen to them and learn from them and respect them. Come hell or high water. The American Indians knew this, and the medicine men made big medicine out of it. But the white man made big business and disintegrated the free range, because the White insists that everything be owned by somebody--even the beach, even the oceans, even the very thoughts in your head. This is innately an irreverent and anti-religious concept. No wonder they got to go to church so much. Just swivel this concept around about 49 degrees and youÕll see what I mean. Where did compassion go? The world is starving for compassion. But now THEY are running everything. And of course THEY think that what the world needs are just real good problem solvers, net-workers, and businessmen, and good technology people, and then, therefore, thereÕs nothing that these little suckers canÕt solve. If we only knew what the problems were! Hold off on the answers. What we need are some creative minds to elucidate the problems.
Who better to talk to than to somebody whoÕs been all over the map, who actually WANTS help, plus who has an ego as big as a whale.
Or as Kevin Donnelly once said, Òfuck it, IÕm sick of all these fuckheads, they can just go and kiss my ass,É like two people, thatÕs it, thatÕs what weÕre meant for, ultimately, thatÕs it, you know, Ôcause--check it out--weÕre here, right? Well, they can just kiss my ass, Ôcause IÕm sick of kissing ass, Ôcause tomorrow, man, IÕll be in fucking Mexico, Ôcause thatÕs what Mexico is made for, man. Like weÕre here, right? And Mexico, well, itÕs over there, right? And thatÕs what weÕre suppose to do, go there. ItÕs over there, right? And thatÕs what weÕre suppose to do, go there--to Mexico--thatÕs what MexicoÕs for, right?
Because they can all go fuck me, you know. Like look, IÕm suppose to meet someone there, right? Well they can go and fuck themselves, see. These things are the plane. IÕm the only one in this bar who knows about that plane. It costs five million dollars.
Like itÕs like this, IÕm sick of it. Like, look: fuck it, so, they fuck, fuck it, you know, and fuck, so they fuck you and before you fucking know the fuck, theyÕve fucked you to the fucking point that the fucking point of the whole fucking thing is like if you were going to go and fuck something, well, the fucking point of the whole fucking thing is fucked to begin with in the first place, you know what the fuck IÕm saying?
Because look, I donÕt fucking give a shit anymore, I really donÕt, IÕve fucking had it, so many girls, thatÕs what it comes down to. After itÕs all over, thereÕs only you and those memories, and those beautiful girls you should of married, and it all comes down to one girl, that girl youÕve got to find, because, look, IÕm older, you know what IÕm talking to, and you donÕt want to be coming home alone.
When my papers here--the planes--when they fall over behind the bar, well, I know IÕm losing control. But look, IÕm looking at them, theyÕre looking at me, and fuck it, just we have an appointment, and I say, well, kiss my fucking ass is all, itÕs a shame is all, but two taps, I donÕt know, IÕm suppose to meet you, IÕm suppose to kiss your fucking ass, and I say, well fuck it, because before you fucking know it, IÕm in la Mexico.
ItÕs like this, IÕm suppose to meet them, IÕm suppose to tap them on the shoes, IÕm just supposed to hand the hose to them--well, they can go kiss my fucking ass! IÕm suppose to meet them for ham and eggs, anything, lend them some paste, it doesnÕt matter, it doesnÕt even translate, they can go kiss my fucking ass!
We meet, we say hello, I order a buttered roll, doesnÕt matter, fuck them! I donÕt know, itÕs sort of funny, I know it, IÕm funny, I know, youÕre laughing, I know, I come in, thereÕs laughter, itÕs funny, maybe my wifeÕll walk in hereÉÓ
He-Who-Causes-Trouble was coming up to the country. He-Who-Cracks-His-Own-Self-Up was already up there. The later was floatinÕ in the boat waitinÕ for the former. The former had a friend who he had just married called Little Sail. The two of them were a couple of human beings.
The birds were talking all day, and so was the sun. The new dragon flies down the lake were wild colors this year. Each year they were new colors. At night the lightning bugs were like floating stars, everywhere. Most were the on-off-space-on-off variety. Except for one. He was three quick on-offs, long space. He was an original. Sent down from God to wake all of us up down here by the lake.
He was like that trigger fish that lived in the Baltimore Aquarium back in the early Nineties. The Baltimore Aquarium has a huge room all lined with one enormous tank. The fish swim all around the circumference of that room. They all swam the same way—hundreds, thousands of themÉexcept for one: that trigger fish.
She had no name. She wasnÕt even famous. All of them swam the same way except for her. She swam in the opposite direction all along until she met up with the throngs of others, which she would swim through, they making room for her to slip through.
He-Who-Cracks-His-Own-Self-Up thought about her a lot. Maybe her name was Lulu. If that fish got reincarnated as a human beinÕ, he would marry her. He-Who-Cracks-His-Own-Self-Up was in fact waitinÕ for his Lulu to come back.
He-Who-Cracks-His-Own-Self-Up had decided to become more friendly. Little Sail had told him of that necessity. She said that he could learn that from He-Who-Causes-Trouble, but he learned it from her instead.
Dragon Flies are brave bugs. They like to show off, and they like to have sex with each other right on your body. They like to form fly-away trains. They are some of GodÕs happiest bugs. Ants arenÕt happy. They work too hard. But dragon-flies like to hang out. You donÕt see them rushing round for no reason. This is why the White man called the Indian lazy.
Indians saw no reason to work for no reason. The accumulation of the most money and wealth was no reason. There was nothing more pathetic to an Indian than a great big fat White man dying with a big, fat bank account full of money with no-one to leave it to but a bunch of spoiled white brats that he had brought into this world. This is something that He-Who-Cracks-His-Own-Self-Up just naturally knew. Nobody taught him that. It was as clear to him as day.
He was sitting in the boat typing this, He-Who-Cracks-His-Own-Self-Up was, when a huge Blue Heron flew very low over the boat. He-Who-Cracks-His-Own-Self-Up could practically shake his hand. Blue Herons like the sound of typing. That is quite clear. Many huge birds do. This is one of GodÕs little known facts. God keeps all the little known facts secret for as long as he can, and then letÕs them dribble out very slowly over time. This is clear as dayÉÉÉÉÉÉÉÉÉÉÉÉÉ..
March 8, l993
Dear Saturday Night Live:
How about a skit where President Clinton goes on TV to address the American people with his idea for dealing with the war in Yugoslavia? He states that after a lot of thought by himself and the State Department, that they have decided to drop huge plane loads of human excrement and urine all over that war-torn landscape. This is an attempt to shame the people committing atrocities. Some people in the government think that cow manure will work, but the President insists on 100% human shit.
The President believes that even though politicians like to consider themselves political Òscientists,Ó thereÕs nothing very scientific about them, but he himself just stumbled over this idea while walking through Grand Central Station.
Lefty Jones Band
Now we donÕt know when exactly The Royal started being serious about going to the moon. But he might have been hinting at it in some of his obscure ways, but nobody really even thought two thoughts about it, until after a while things started to progress. All these books were showing up all over his tent, and equipment of various kinds, and he himself was always studying, like I said before. Finally, it became apparent. Jones was really planning on getting out, really out, and taking us all with him: TO THE MOON. That was his plan. Short and sweet. Nobody was too shocked. We were perched on top of the fence-post of JonesÕ mind, and from there, it was clear sailing! Hell, if NASA was doing it, why couldnÕt we? So everything just continued on as usual, more or less—the show, the crowds, the side-trips back home—except for one little biddy thing: we were going to the moon! ÒYup, weÕre goinÓ!Ó Jones would say.
>>>>>This is a little poem called ÒFred The Mustard-Head/Commander Blue-CheeseÓ It really has nothing to do with The Chronicles except for the fact that itÕs in them. But, after all, as with most things, isnÕt that the most important thing. There will probably be a lot of these coming up, so I think IÕll indicate them with these arrows >>>> so youÕll know: rough road ahead on the smiley man train.
>>>>Fred The Mustard-Head/Commander Blue-Cheese: I was sitting there with Fred the Mustard-Head, and he was full of mustard, when a bang was heard comin out of a pipe in the middle of FredÕs head. The bang on the pipe reminded Fred that it was time to re-fuel. Winter was coming on, and in these parts that could only mean one thing: Delia Mae was gong to come for a visit.
Well, Ôbout mid-week, sure enough, here comes Delia Mae. WhatÕs she laughing about? I sure as hell donÕt know! Delia says that this whole life is quite amusing; you just got to know how to look at it, is all. This is why Delia Mae gets the big bucks. Even with regards to typewriters, be it tab, shift key, back-space, or bell: these things are all up for interpretation along with all the rest of the plumbing.
Delia Mae is making a movie, or, better yet, Delia Mae is the movie that apparently got made sometime long ago and far away. Fred the Mustard-head and she were on a ship-wrecked boat together in the middle of this marshy island on a wet, barren slope, in the middle of the desert, by a lake. They all had nobody clothes on. They were real smooth and marbley. They had several children in succession until a parade came through their town. This was back in 1962 way before that jet-liner crashed from that ocean peak out there on that dude ranch that was run by that man who used to be a cowboy but he retired and went into the uniformed police rescue squad and then sold stuff out on the street that apparently was stolen. It was in all the papers back then. Anyway, the Mustard loves to act crazy, and even if heÕs not, well, nobody understands him anyhow. He coulda got over, and shoulda, and he could have been the star of the whole chronicles, but instead, he took a nude model on a canoe trip around the world. Delia Mae is coming from this kinda talk about nude models, at least I think she is. God, I hope so, unless sheÕs faking it.
Anyway to make a long story short, Fred faked being a robot, and then he got language, and even more lazy, and then he came around my house to bother me again. I get up, go to work after a long hard day, walk to the bathroom, brush my teeth, read the morning paper, watch the late show, talk to my fish: Commander Blue-Cheese, and then shuffle off down the highway with a cane and a pack-mule. Other people look at me real funny, but you never do. These people can do these wonderful things; they just do them and theyÕre wonderful! I just do them, and you trust me to do them. ThatÕs all. ThatÕs what I love about this job, itÕs the trust and the devotion. Commander Blue-Cheese is always telling me, kid, he calls me kid, I like you outta water or in, no matter what, youÕre still good, you still got it, youÕre still the one, youÕre still runninÕ, youÕre still my kind of dill-- youÕre dilly, youÕre ducky, youÕre willy, youÕre wucky-woo, you wheely are, wonderfool!