2nd Attempt to get Tuesday Right!

Yep, we’re gonna give it a go. Try to see if this week’s version of Tuesday will not be a day from Hell.

Diane is here. She spent the night. Shortly, we will attempt to get in the sporty Honda Fit and go retrieve her car from the auto body shop that is far, far, FAR, so FUCKING FAR away!!! I’m hoping that now that I actually know where it’s located, and since she will be in the car with me, last week’s descent into madness will not return.

You know, also re: last Tuesday (post is below). After giving it some honest thought – because, actually, all week, I couldn’t stop thinking about how mean I had been to my friend – I realized that what I put in my post was not true. It wasn’t that the mean thing I’d said was out of my mouth before I knew what I was saying. The truth was that I knew exactly what I was saying. I knew it was mean and manipulative, and I said it anyway because I was feeling incredibly insecure, and then I only REGRETTED saying it because he wouldn’t let me off the hook and it started this huge bunch of awfulness between us, and by nightfall, he didn’t want to be my friend anymore and I had to beg him to re-think that and I apologized profusely for being such a bitch.  He did forgive me, thank god. But he also did say he forgave me about 20 times before I actually felt like he meant it.

Needless to say, after really looking at it, I did feel just terrible about me and my damn mouth. And my relentless insecurities. And what it started with someone I really love.

Not sure why, suddenly, I’ve started to be so honest with myself. I really like various other versions of myself a lot better. But I guess, in the long run, it’s best to just be honest and try like hell to change.

My conference call with Peitor went so great.  He gave me really good insights into how best to handle the stage adaptation of the Helen LaFrance piece for Sandra.  It will be much more challenging for me as a writer, but it’s a type of writing I’m better suited for. So we’ll see.

But during our conversation, I told Peitor about what’s been happening with me and my mouth (other things happened last week having to do with things I actually did say by accident that were not good, including but not limited to, telling a supervisor at my much-needed part-time job: “fuck you.”  And that truly was a mistake.  I did not expect that to come out of my mouth, I was just so stressed.  And I was, like, “Oh my god, oh my god, I take that back, I take that back, I take that back!!!”) Anyway, Peitor said, “Wow, Marilyn, you’re sort of like a garden hose; fix one leak, and the water springs out somewhere else.” Too funny, and too true.

On Sunday, I not only renewed my vows to Christ in Holy Communion – you know, to try to not be the lamest excuse for a minister on planet Earth. We’ll see how that goes. But I also made incredibly great progress on the revisions I need for the CLEVELAND TV pilot.

In response to all this, though, I am taking all of next week OFF. Just gonna stay home and work on the novels. Get some rest.  Steer clear of all my fellow human beings for a few days.  And then hopefully re-emerge all bright and new.

On that happy note, have a terrific Tuesday, wherever you are in the world.  I gotta scoot and go get Diane’s car. Thanks for visiting! See ya.

Image result for vintage images bad little girls

 

 

Still Learning How to be Human

Tuesday turned out to be sort of a day from Hell.

Peitor woke up with a raging migraine, so we postponed our conference call until later today. Disappointing, but it suddenly freed up my schedule to run an urgent errand for Diane.  Her car broke down and the auto body guy wouldn’t begin repairs until she gave him a rather substantial deposit. So off I tootled in my little Honda Fit, to bring the guy a couple hundred bucks.

Well, I could not find the fucking place. One thing about living way, way out here in the Hinterlands, places you need to get to can be several counties away. It took me 2 hours to find the guy. And it would have been a really lovely drive — all full of farmland and hills and lovely green trees and such — but I was getting steadily deeper into this weird mental place, suddenly doubting my ability to recognize chronological addresses because I just could not find this auto body shop . I drove up & down State Route 668 S, a million times, not realizing that I still was not even in the right county yet.

Well, after – yes – eleven (!!) phone calls to Diane, I finally found it. Then I got home, tried to just get to the laptop and start writing, but inadvertently said something indescribably mean to a really, really dear friend. It was out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying, and then couldn’t take it back. You know, he was so pissed off, hurt, astounded that I would say something like that to him. He forgave me but it still, well, you know, I really need to watch my mouth. Then the rest of the day I could get no writing done because I felt terrible about myself. And on into the night I felt like I was on Mars.

Yesterday was really good, though. I got great writing done on both of the new novels. (And I finally felt forgiven by my friend because I asked him probably 20 times if he would please forgive me. And even though he kept saying he forgave me, he finally just really yelled at me and said “don’t ever, ever, ever talk to me like that again,” and at last I felt forgiven. )

And also yesterday, an angel appeared in my yard! By that, I mean, one of the guys who takes care of cutting my lawn.  He’s in his 60s but he looks about 102 years old. Covered in tattoos, long white hair, beard, etc. Overalls. Unbelievably nice. Retired. Used to build pole barns for a living. Anyway, he told me that for $75 he would tear down the old rotting fence in my backyard, saw down all the posts, and haul all the wood away! I was speechless.  I was, like, oh dear God, thank you! That fence really, really needs to come down but it was taking me forever to get the money together to have it done. He also told me he’d scrape & repaint the barn for a good price, then repair the roof on the barn with used tin instead of brand new tin, and it would save me a fortune.

Wow, I just felt so blessed.  I’m hoping to at least have the fence removed before this happens:

The grown woman was my biological grandmother, Louise. She died a couple years ago. We didn’t always get along. You’d never guess, but often my obstinate, stubborn, bullheadedness and unstoppable mouth would get on her nerves. Go figure! (She’d frequently say things to me like, “Missy, you’ve really opened a can of worms this time!” And then follow that with not speaking to me for a while.)

But the baby girl in the photo is Cherie. My birth mother. She’s coming to visit for a few days, once the leaves start changing. I can’t wait. I have not had time alone with my mother in I don’t know how long. (This is not the mother who raised me; this is the mother who was forced by my grandfather to give me up for adoption when I was a couple weeks old, because, sadly, she was only 13 when I was born, and my grandfather finally said, “I’m sorry, but this is just not happening. The baby’s gotta go.” So out I went.)

Over the last several years, I’ve only seen her at funerals, really. Well, not really, but I haven’t spent as much time with her as I used to do when I was in my 20s and 30s, and just getting to know her.

She’s 71 now, retired and living on a farm with both of my half-sisters.  Yes, my mom & dad (she 13 & he 15 when I was born) were both from way, way out in the Hinterlands of Ohio; grew up on farms.  It’s not really that strange, is it? That even though I love NYC, I wound up way back out here, nestled amid farmlands in the Hinterlands, and love it so much. It’s just in my bones, I guess.

My mother and I are so similar, it is almost like we are slightly different versions of the same person. It’s uncanny.  It’s not that easy to talk to her. She’s very quiet. Very private. She’s had a really, really hard life. But I can write her letters and tell her everything. Just everything about myself. Things that confuse me, confound me, upset me about myself. Things it’s not easy to tell anyone else. And she’ll say, “The apple didn’t fall too far from the tree with you. You’re just like me.” And then say nothing else.

But, that actually says a lot, doesn’t it?

The Proverbial Cow/Milk Analogy

Yeah, well.

First of all, a personal thank-you to all of the total strangers who came from all over the world to look at a really terrible photo of me in my underwear! Too funny. I mean,  I’m used to a certain number of people checking out my blog each day, and I know they come from specific countries. But put up a blurry photo of me in black stockings and write a simple paragraph about a pair of 41-year-old fetish shoes and people flock from all over the world. Just too funny.

So, anyway. No, J. (aka MG #2) was not at all satisfied with that photo and I knew he wouldn’t be. “I can’t see your legs. Take that robe off and send me another one!” No. It’s a really, really pretty robe. And actually it gets prettier, if not even more see-through-ier, the higher up it goes.

It’s not like he hasn’t seen my legs a bazillion times, but still. I refuse to send photos that satisfy! You know, why buy the cow if you’re getting the milk for free…( Isn’t that a truly lovely analogy about female sexuality?) (And what is this idea about getting purchased somehow? Buying a cow = getting married. And buying a cow = giving up your pussy. Yes, by golly, it is really fun being a girl…)

I can’t tarry here today because in about an hour, I have a phone conference with Peitor Angell to get some work done on the Helen LaFrance stage adaptation. He is at the Toronto Film Festival right now so he is actually in my time zone! And I have to catch him early, before he goes off to see a zillion films with his husband who is a Canadian movie producer.

However, I have to say, “focusing” is becoming a  real issue for me. Too many writing projects going full-steam ahead and I have to keep switching mental gears because each project is so different. Keep working, keep not sleeping, keep eating very, very strangely because I don’t take time to actually cook anything. I’m actually making myself sick again, but I don’t give a fuck, frankly.  If the words are coming out of me, the words are coming out of me. I’ve gotta catch them or they’ll be gone forever.

And then every few days, a phone call with J. and that always makes  me happy, too.  It’s funny, you know, we used to argue a lot. But I’m realizing that being on a phone with someone (and I refuse to do facetime with him, either, so it’s just a regular phone call), weeds out a whole lot of other stimuli. You’re just getting the voice and vocal inflections and that’s it. It’s so different from talking to someone in person, being with that person, and being bombarded with other stimuli that create expectations. And so now, as we talk, it’s just the intimacy of our voices talking, and  I notice all the old trigger points in our conversations that used to make me start an argument with him, but now I can just let it go. Just let it go, Marilyn; he’s just wanting to tell you something. All of reality does not hinge on what he’s thinking about.

I really just used to be so argumentative.  Mostly because, you know, he is on this whole other planet and I guess, back then, I would have preferred he be on my planet, instead.  And he would pretty much let me be argumentative and just let it roll off his back.  He was heavily involved in mob stuff back then, 24/7, and so my little angriness was sort of “pesky  gnat-like” in the scheme of things. He was also going through a divorce back then and his estranged wife was making him nuts, so , in comparison with her and the mob, my nonsense could roll off his back. It took a lot for him to get really angry with me.  But when he would, wow. Jeepers McCreepers. His vocabulary became quite visual.  He was never violent with me, ever. But, boy, did he say stuff to me that no one else had ever said to me before. And a lot of it seemed to be based on how I really was, so it hurt, as the truth so often does, gentle readers.  And even though he would always eventually apologize — in writing, no less — I don’t really need to go there again.

He’s coming to visit soon, you know. Going to stay for several days, so we’ll see if I can park all my insecurities in some far away parking garage and not let them swoop down into the house while he’s here. I don’t want to argue at all.  I just want to be nice, and see how that works out.

All righty, gang. I gotta scoot! Need some more coffee. Need to switch those mind gears. Thanks for visiting. Have a terrific Tuesday! See ya!

okay, don’t get used to it

And, yes, I am the world’s WORST photographer. But looking okay for 58. (Yes I took this for J.  He only wanted to see the legs. And true to my obstinate nature, you can’t really see them too well, can you?)

I draw your attention to the shoes, though — if you can make them out at all. They are black leather, open-toed, ankle straps, 4 1/2 inch spiked heel…. they are 41 years old!! I bought them in London, in August 1977. Yes, I was 17 years old. And yes, my mom let me buy them. They cost 60 BPS — which, back then was $120. I will never forget that amount bc I was so excited that my mom let me buy them. I don’t think either one of us ever dreamed they were fetish shoes…

Ah well.  I have taken very, very good care of them.

I am actually writing TWO novels at once, right now. The Hurley Falls Mysteries and another new one, titled Blessed By Light. And beginning Monday, I start back to (long-distance) work with Peitor on the Helen LaFrance stage adaptation, and still need to finish the revision of the CLEVELAND TV pilot, so gang, I am just super busy right now. But have a super Saturday, wherever you are in the world!! Thanks for visiting. See ya.

Me + Reality = Never a good combination

One thing I’ve realized that is so cool: now that I only get about 4-5 hours of sleep a night, I have increased my waking time by 672- 1008 additional hours a year.

This means I get so much more time to write. I can finally be like Michael Hemmingson and start blasting out a ton of projects every year!

Long-time followers of my career know that Michael Hemmingson was a very dear colleague of mine for many years. He was a prolific writer. For every sentence I wrote, he wrote an entire novel and had it turned into the publisher.

People who live in the real world (this does not include me in any way whatsoever), seem to think that Michael Hemmingson died over 4 years ago.

I am unwilling to accept this, to process it, to believe it. I have not grieved Michael’s death because I have remained in denial about it this whole time. I prefer to believe he assumed a new identity and went to live abroad, indefinitely.

Michael always had very, very difficult politics. His non-writing world was actually a little frightening to me. He was always at odds with some very dangerous people, both here in the States and, more aggressively, in Tijuana, Mexico.

Michael was the one who warned me not to fuck around with the FBI when they came calling. I got on the phone with him — me, in NYC; Michael in San Diego. He told me to just walk away. I said, it was too late; that I couldn’t. They knew who I was, what I wrote, knew where I lived, had my private email address, they had Xeroxed copies of my short-story, The Urge Toward Jo, from the collections of various known pedophiles.  His advice was, “Well, just do what they want, then, and get it over with. Don’t provoke them.”

Crap. This was 20 years ago. I used to be really naive. I had no inkling that the FBI was at all sinister back then or anything. Don’t provoke them? Jesus. It was an eye-opener.

Michael lived in a whole different world from me, and in the various few fleeting moments when my brain tries to tell me that Michael really did die down there in Tijuana, the only way I can accept it, is to believe that he was murdered by one of the various drug cartel problems he had down there.

Michael tries to contact me from time to time, in spirit, and I block him. Only because if I don’t, it means I have to accept that he’s dead.  This morning, having coffee at my kitchen table, 6AM, Michael came through. I was well into a conversation with him about a new collection of erotic stories that I want to write that I know he would really enjoy, before I realized what was happening. Then I finally acquiesced and said to him (in spirit): I guess this means you’re really dead, doesn’t it?

Damn it.

Michael was probably my only male colleague back then who (like me) had huge quantities of extreme sex but who did not either try to have sex with me; ask me to have sex with him; suggest strongly I should have sex with him; try to coerce me to go to an extreme BDSM orgy with him, or put me in a position where it would seriously trash my career if I did not have sex with him in some way.

Michael and I were actually just friends. We could talk about anything, not just sex. He talked to me about his family, his parents, his childhood, how much he really, really wanted to have a daughter (which he eventually did have & he loved her like crazy). I really, really liked him a lot.  And I could confide in him about the others among our colleagues [who are obliquely mentioned above] who weren’t so savory, or who were downright sexually manipulative with me regarding my writing career.  I couldn’t talk to anyone else about that stuff, because I found it so humiliating. But for some reason, I could talk to Michael.

One thing that was true about 99% of the erotic writers I knew back then, was that we were all practicing the things we were writing about. We lived primarily in NYC, San Francisco, London, Paris, Boston, and LA. In those days (the 90s), we were a relatively small group of writers, and we were just constantly having sex. And many of my colleagues were having sex with each other.  Play parties were a huge thing. To me, it seemed really inadvisable to have all that unbridled orgy-type sex with a bunch of your colleagues. I just never could wrap my mind around that. I didn’t judge anyone else for doing it; I just never participated. I had one-on-one sex with one male writer/publisher, but it was a long-term relationship where we were lovers, we were extremely close for a very long time. But for the most part, my sex life involved people I didn’t work with. And Michael was the same way.

I was eventually put into a situation where I was pretty much forced to have sex with a publisher and it really, really made me sick. I worked well with him, thought that I really liked him, but I was never sexually attracted to him. But the day came where I was starting to get really well known, my career was on the brink, and my number came up, so to speak. I had to have sex with him or my career was not going to get to the next level.

He totally tricked me. You know, I was so naive. It was late afternoon in NYC, and we were on our way to a big press event for another writer, but an event where he knew all the important journalists who would be there and I knew none of them. I followed him, of my own accord, into his office “just to grab some paperwork”.  And as soon as he closed and locked the door, I thought: You have got to be kidding me. I just fucking walked right into this.

He very plainly told me what he wanted me to do. I’ll only say that it involved me having none of my clothes on and him staying completely dressed. His office had a private adjoining bathroom, so I said I had to pee. I went into the bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror. Really looked at myself. I asked myself, are you really going to do this thing?

I had come up against this very thing in my music career. Back then, though, I had been 22 years old, unbelievably naive, and had not known what reality was all about yet. A very powerful man in the music business, in the genre of music I was in, wanted to have sex with me, assumed I would have sex with him, and when I declined him, literally overnight, the potential for my career evaporated. All the doors closed. The silence that followed my music career after that was deafening.

it took me so long to understand what had happened. I ask myself to this day, if I knew then what I know now — how, sleeping with him, even once, would have ensured that I became a famous singer-songwriter all over the world — would I have gone to bed with him?

Standing in that private bathroom and looking at myself in the mirror, remembering my music, my songs, the death of all that — well, my writing career meant everything to me. Everything.  It was my baby; my life. I knew full well what this man was capable of handing to me if he wanted to. I wasn’t sure he could destroy my career by then, because I was getting well known; however, I knew that with very little effort, he could put me right over the top. Open doors for me all over the world. Most “porn” writers don’t become famous.

So I took off all my clothes. I folded them into a neat little pile on the counter there, tried not to look at myself completely naked in the mirror, although I remember checking my hair, my make-up, and I went back out into that room. And what he did to me just degraded me so much. And the very worst part of it was that I had an orgasm. I could not help myself. I had no clue I was going to come; I suddenly just came. And I was, you know, privately horrified at myself for coming. And then he said, “I thought that would make you come.”

Wow. Talk about feeling completely, thoroughly, utterly humiliated.  He knew that was going to make me come?! I had no clear idea what that said about me, but I did not want to think about it. Still don’t, frankly.  But, then I got dressed. We went to the press party.  I felt completely demoralized for the rest of the evening. Smiled as I was introduced glowingly to everybody who was anybody. And pretty darn soon after that, I got famous.

How do you weigh that? I’m just not sure.