4 hours of sleep, 10 pounds lighter

It probably seems like I’m not even a writer anymore, based on the intensity of these endless blog posts lately.  But, sadly, such is not the case. I am not only deranged in my private life, I’m going into overdrive in the writing area, as well, and not really understanding the direction the Muse is trying to take me in.

In order to fool my colleagues into thinking I am still sane and productive, today I am going to force myself to finish typing up a truckload of notes for the stage version of Tell My Bones and send them off to LA. I also have some research to do re: my CLEVELAND TV pilot and I am going to force myself sometime this week to get on top of all that research (requires streaming/studying the work of another TV writer).  Even though it depresses me that the project hasn’t sold yet, the feedback I am getting from producers re: just me as a writer has been staggering and I don’t want to lose that momentum, even if I can’t sell the darn show.

But meanwhile, the Muse seems to be pushing me toward finally writing — my memoirs. What the fuck? Where is this coming from, right now, all of a sudden? And what about the Hurley Falls Murder Mystery I was so excited about???

Loyal readers of this lofty blog no doubt recall that this time last summer, the publishers of SomethingDark said that they wanted to publish my memoirs. “How much do you have now? What can we see?” Me: “I’m back to just making notes, but I will get right on it.”

Real loyal readers of this lofty blog no doubt recall that back in, like 2012, SomethingDark said they wanted to publish my memoirs…. But I just didn’t like the voice of what I’d written back then. I wanted to find another way in. My life has been kinda dark, you know, and I didn’t want readers to set down my memoirs halfway through Chapter One to go shoot themselves in the head in order to make the pictures of my misguided life just stop coming… I was aiming for something a little cheerier than that.

Well, as most of you know, through some amazing blessing, through some miracle of benevolence, the Muse came back into my life a few weeks ago, and this one is unlike any true Muse I’ve ever had before. This one is just amazing, folks. The most amazing energy that has contacted me, ever.  And he doesn’t seem to be leaving, even though, every morning when he rips me from sleep (this morning, it was after only 4 hours of sleep), and is already filling me with so many lovely, bittersweet, painful, beautiful images that I try like heck to type into my cellphone in some sort of coherent manner after so little sleep; even while he does this every morning, clearly not leaving, I still find myself begging him, Oh my god, please don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t leave me.

I don’t want to go back to that dead zone of having no Muse. It dragged on for about 5 years, maybe more. I lose track. But it’s a dead zone, gang.  Even though I am completely crazy now — horny as hell, surviving on 4 or 5 hours of sleep every night when I always used to sleep for 7, like “clockwork”. And I’m barely eating. I’ve lost 10 pounds since the Muse came only a few weeks ago. I’m half-starved all the time but I can’t make myself sit down and eat. Food seems like it takes too much time, drains too much needed imagination. On Sundays, when I’m not in some sort of masturbatory frenzy in my room, I drive into town and buy groceries, and I’m noticing that the grocery bill is getting lower & lower & lower. This past Sunday, I spent $50 on a week’s worth of groceries for me and 8 cats. Now, that is ridiculous. But when I came home and unpacked the groceries to put them away, I discovered that most of the same items I’d bought the week before were still in the fridge, and now I had duplicates of food I would barely eat.

Yes, it’s a little alarming. But when I read over all those notes on my cellphone and see how incredible they are, I no longer care if I’m crazy. Although, this morning, I did read over a hurried note I’d scribbled on a torn corner of paper that I’d stuck under my laptop as I was rushing out the door yesterday, and it said:  Requires a lapsed Catholic. Cleansing of sexual punishment. Sadism of redemption. Trust me; it made sense to me when I scribbled it down, when I was trying to capture something really beautiful about my years of being lovers with Valerie. I took one look at that note and shook my head: Crap. SomethingDark is the only publisher left on earth who would touch a memoir like this.

And then my Dad’s voice from last week is in my ear: “You’re not selling anything. You’re not making any money.” And a memoir like that is definitely not going to make me any money, and yet, gang. And yet. The Muse still says: Write it. (Heck, even Valerie says, write it.)

Yesterday, driving into work after having had a long, trying, argumentative day with Jesus, I was listening over & over to Sins of My Youth by Tom Petty on the car’s CD player. Such a haunting song. It cuts into my core, and now it only makes me think about the gorgeous guy from work, the guy I was arguing about with Jesus nonstop for about 24 hours straight. Because not only do I want to fuck this non-single guy, I also just really want to talk to him.  And even that seems to be out of bounds. But I really, really want to know who he is now because I know I knew him before, as in: in another life. I want to know who he is this time around; who he came into this world being. He’s a scary man, in that he is so different from me. His mind goes to places that my mind doesn’t go to.  But he’s also very kind. And I just want to talk. (And other stuff.)

But meanwhile, Jesus is on some sort of tape loop in my head about the betrayal of trust, and do unto others, and setting an appropriate example… Yadda yadda yadda.  And Tom Petty is on another type of tape loop, saying, “You say you love me/ wish you liked me more; I’m no angel, that’s for sure; Said you forgave me each time I was caught, but you still paint me as something I’m not.” By the time I was getting out of my car, tears were coming out of my eyes. I just want what I want, damn it; and I want to have it. I want to smoke again and drink and not care about anything or anyone else at all except getting what I want.

As I was walking toward the backdoor that goes into the inn, the gorgeous guy is just sitting right there, smoking. Oh no. And I notice a voicemail on my cell phone. What’s this? When did this come in? And it’s one of the Mormon elders, saying, “Marilyn, we’re expecting you at dinner on Sunday. Can you just confirm?”

Now Jesus is sending in the Mormons at the final hour, to try to keep me from opening my mouth to this guy about wanting to fuck him even though I know he’s not single.  The very guy who’s now sitting right in front of me. Unfortunately, the Mormons are people who respect my integrity. What they can see of it, anyway. And the voice message sort of squishes me back into “good behavior” mode. And I really was crying then, not in an overtly sobbing kind of way but the tears were there. I know I don’t want to go back to being that person I used to be. I do care about people and the quality of their lives. And smoking and drinking is just smoking and drinking.

But the gorgeous guy looked at me and said, “Marilyn, are you okay?” Me: “oh yeah. I’m good,” I can barely reply.

And then I walk right into my work area and there’s a new guy at work. A very, very pretty boy. Sort of like a blueprint for a vacuous surfer boy. And he looks at me. He looks again. And then won’t stop looking at me throughout the entire shift. I can tell he thinks I’m a silver cougar and that sex is right around the corner. And I’m not looking away, but only because I’m curious how far he’s going to take this.

I’m not a cougar. I’m not looking for a boytoy, not even for an hour. And I know that if the vacuous pretty boy surfer ever had sex with me, he wouldn’t know what hit him. I don’t just have baggage in the bedroom, gang, I have really fine, hand-sewn luggage, piles of it, enough to sustain me for a year-long, sea-faring voyage. That’s what sex with me is like. You have to get a notarized document that says you agree to all the potential dangers of boarding this ship before you can even come onboard for a drink.

But the gorgeous guy? For Christ’s sake. I know he would board the ship, saying, “This is the map for the route we’re going to take on the year-long sea voyage. And these are the knives I’m bringing. Careful, Marilyn, they’re sharp.”

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