WTF??!! Life’s GOOD!!

You know, my coffee actually seems to taste better in my new coffee mug. It honestly does. (See last evening’s post for a full-color photo!!)

And I am not one to ever purchase black dishes of any sort. Not even a mere coffee mug.

I’m the kind of person who owns an unfathomable amount of fine porcelain china. Most of it imported from England. And if it isn’t white etched in 22k gold, then it is white and has delicate hand-painted flowers all over it.

I have porcelain dishes for every season and I never mix & match.

Example of ME in the old days, getting ready for a dinner party: “That’s not the bread plate that goes with those dishes – are you out of your fucking mind?! Yes, I know they look exactly the same!! But that one has two bands of gold and this one clearly has two bands of gold and a tiny band of laurel leaves between them!! Come on!!”

I’m exaggerating, but still. I am usually all about the dishes. It makes moving a colossal headache.  A couple years ago, when I was putting everything into storage, I went to the packing store to buy really sturdy packing boxes for good china, and the guy who was gathering all the boxes for me, really politely inquired: “How much good china do you have?”

I could see that he thought I was crazy so I lied and said I inherited it all.

And somewhere on Manhattan’s glorious Upper West Side was an ex-husband still reeling from the amount of dishes I was always carting into the house. “Marilyn, come on – there’s no more room; where are we going to put all this stuff?”

But the very polite guy at the packing store did give me pause: How much fine china do I have? Wow. Way too much.

And what was worse was that, while everything was in storage, I used one dinner plate, one bowl, one juice glass, one water glass and one coffee mug for nearly 2 years.

Uh-oh, I thought. This means I don’t actually need all that stuff. Could it possibly be that for once in his life, about this one specific thing having to do with me and my mental state, that my ex-husband was actually right?

I’m kidding. Of course he was constantly right about all my fucked-up weird shit. Both of my husbands were. It was a little uncanny how accurately they could pinpoint what was fucked-up and weird about me.

But the truth remains that I do have a lot of porcelain china and I love every single piece of it.  And yet, as a single woman who lives in the middle of nowhere and never leaves her desk that is tucked away in the far corner of an upstairs bedroom, I use none of it anymore.

And I have porcelain teacups galore, too. And porcelain teapots. And more types of tea than you can possibly imagine practically spilling from the cupboards above the stove.

I use none of that, either. Now, it’s all about the coffee. Just get it into me as quickly as possible because I have words to write and Pulitzer Prizes to win!

And up until yesterday, I was perfectly happy with my vintage Kellogg’s coffee mug depicting a smiling, carefree 5 year-old blue-eyed blonde girl swinging way high up on a swing, with a baby blue background and puffy white spring blossoms on it. I loved how you could readily see the happy little girl’s white underpants because she was wearing such a short little blue dress and swinging up so high and it always made me wonder: What pedophile designed this Kellogg’s packaging in 1952?

Back when all of America wasn’t trying to protect our children from everything on Earth that we can possibly imagine…

But for some reason, now I totally love my inexpensive black ceramic coffee mug that actually has the word FUCKING on it.

I’ll even go so far as to say it gives me a lot of joy.

And I don’t mean to disparage all those people (women, mostly) who take such issue with my using the “f” word all the time. And I don’t use it all the time.

If a cop stops me (which never happens), I’m not gonna say, “How the fuck are you, officer?”

Or if I’m helping a little old lady to cross the street (which I never do), I’m not gonna say, “How’s your fucking day going, ma’am?”

I am a little bit self-aware.

Back in the days before I was so self-aware, I was out walking in Stuyvesant Park with the writer Joe Queenan. His daughter (who has long-since graduated from Harvard) was 4 at the time  and skipping merrily out ahead of us. And I was saying something to Joe about “so & so being a fag,” and she came skipping merrily back to us and said, “Daddy, what’s a fag?”

It was astounding; the speed and the keenness of her sense of hearing.

He sighed and looked at me with disgust and said, “Thank you very much, Marilyn.”

I did find it extremely funny, but from that moment on, I have at least tried to be conscious of the words I’m using out loud.

But the “f” word clings to me, for some reason, and I just got tired of everybody getting so tired of hearing it, that, for the most part, I have given up censoring myself.

And so my new coffee mug absolutely delights me. And I hope that whoever designed it was a woman who uses the “f” word a lot.

On other topics of interest…

I am on that border of getting overwhelmed so I am just trying to stay focused on one little word at a time, you know? I am going to finish writing Blessed By Light before I so much as look at Tell My Bones again. But I will finish the revisions on the script before rehearsals begin in late July.  I’m just simply going to do it.

And I am still learning a little more Italian every day, and I am going to keep learning this new approach to teaching music so that I can teach this guy how to play the piano while relying on his inner sense of music and not on reading music at all.

And I also really, really do want to thank readers again for their really kind & continuing feedback on Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse, and I am going to finish writing that book, too, but not before Tell My Bones goes into rehearsals, that’s for sure. But it is next in line, after Blessed By Light.

All things above considered, I guess I just feel entitled to my “f” word these days. (Mostly in front of the cats, though. I stare at all the piles of manuscripts on my desk and spilling onto the floor and I see the calendar and I say: “FUCK!”)

Needless to say, I gotta get moving here today.

I leave you with this: my staring-out-the-open-window-listening music from last evening, as the sun was going down and I was thinking about Nick Cave, and love, and words, and my life. And about how words, really, have become all I have.

It’s another oldie from my bonny girlhood, but what a wonderful song!! I can’t even tell you how many times I listened to this record, all alone in my room, just wondering what it meant. The song – I mean. I had no clue yet what love was, or what relationships might even be, or how it was gonna feel to have to rely on words to stake my little claim in the world, you know? I think I was about 8 at the time…

Okay! Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys. See ya!

“Words”

Smile an everlasting smile
A smile could bring you near to me
Don’t ever let me find you gone
‘Cause that would bring a tear to me

This world has lost it’s glory
Let’s start a brand new story
Now my love
Right now, there’ll be
No other time and I can show you
How my love

Talk in everlasting words
And dedicate them all to me
And I will give you all my life
I’m here if you should call to me

You think that I don’t even mean
A single word I say
It’s only words, and words are all
I have to take your heart away

You think that I don’t even mean
A single word I say

It’s only words, and words are all
I have to take your heart away
It’s only words, and words are all
I have to take your heart away

c-1967 BARRY GIBB, ROBIN GIBB, MAURICE GIBB

Yes, Well, Update

Lunch was exceedingly interesting (see post from this morning).

Yes, rehearsals begin in late July. Yes, Florida is probably going to get bypassed entirely and Tell My Bones will go straight from staged readings in NYC & Rhinebeck,  to either Off-Broadway or Midtown Manhattan.

Yes, I need to finish revisions on the entire play before late July. Yes, I’m stressed. Yes, I want to finish Blessed By Light before that. Yes, I’m not sure how I’m gonna do that. But yes, I am going to try.

And most importantly – YES!! I have a new coffee mug!!

My new coffee mug!!

What Is It About Brides?!

I look good in the dress, you know.

I wear the wedding gown really well. But the moment it goes into storage…

Wow. I just don’t know what it is.

I’m bringing this up because yesterday was the 18th anniversary of Tom Petty’s marriage to Dana York and she posted video footage of their wedding on Instagram and those two looked happier than you can possibly imagine. (Second marriages for both of them.)

I was happier on my first wedding day than I was on my second, but that’s still not saying a whole bunch. (I guess it says that I can be persuaded to do just about anything – twice.)

I awoke at 3:46am today – yes, awash in those wonderful waves of Eros, yet again. But then the first thing I thought of was that video of Tom & Dana’s wedding and of how happy they were. And I began wondering what (if anything) was the matter with me.

I have just never been the kind of gal who thought much about the idea of getting married.  Partly because I was born in that part of the 20th Century where men still owned everything imaginable, and I thought of marriage as ownership. And I have never wanted to be owned. The thought of being an ornament on someone’s arm has always horrified me.

The other part was of course my sexuality. Even as a young teenager (when I started getting raped by guys from the outside world and then men from inside my loving home), I could already tell that my sexuality was more than most people could really deal with.

At least, in Ohio.

When I moved to NYC everything changed. It was so great, so liberating, in the truest sense of the word.  Because  NYC in the 1980s – well, my sexuality fit right in.  Everyone was off the charts. I think Manhattan was not only the casual sex capital of the world at that point, but also the extreme casual sex capital of the world.

Then, of course, most of the people I knew got AIDS and died. I was certainly spared in that regard, but it was just really stupid of me to think that I could squeeze myself down into something that could fit into a marriage.

I always wanted to have kids. Even back as a very little girl, I just assumed I was going to have a lot of children. I really, really wanted children. But I never really wanted to get married.

Instead, I got married twice and had no children.

The only marriage that ever truly appealed to me was the marriage between E.B. White and his wife, Katharine Sergeant Angell White.

E.B. White is probably my favorite essayist of all time. He also wrote children’s classics like Charlotte’s Web and Stuart Little, but his essays are literary gems that struck chords really deep in me and have stayed with me forever. (“Once More to the Lake” is probably everybody’s heartbreaking favorite, but I also really love his essay “Goodbye to 48th Street,” among many others.)

His wife was a legendary fiction editor for The New Yorker when that magazine was in its literary golden age.  They met, fell in love, she left her husband, they got married, moved to Maine and bought a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. And then  seem to have done nothing but amazing things for each other’s literary lives.

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He was, of course, neurotic, and she was often the rudder keeping him pointed in the right direction.  But the part I always loved most about their marriage was that, in their house, they had offices across the hall from each other.  They’d each go into their offices in the morning, write all day, and then both emerge at 5 o’clock, have one martini and a cigarette, talk about what they’d written (or angst-ed over) and then have dinner together and go to bed. (Sadly, I don’t know what they did in bed, besides sleep, otherwise I would of course regale you with all those details here.)

To me, that has stuck with me as the idea of the most perfect (as well as unattainable) marriage.

Another “relationship” that has always really appealed to me was Lillian Hellman and Dashiell Hammett’s. But it seems to have involved tons more booze & cigarettes and a lot of shouting.  I’m not big on the shouting stuff.  And they did not get married, but stayed together for 30 years and wrote various masterpieces. And that appeals to me enormously.

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I guess you can see that I am all about the writing.

It’s not that I am not all about love, or not into love, or a disbeliever in love. Love is everything to me. But love is woven in there inextricably with my writing. I don’t know why I can’t separate it. And I guess it does make me very self-involved, although I don’t feel like I am. I feel like my love is enormous and spills over into everything, benefiting everyone – and yet, more importantly, love helps me write better. And that means everything to me and so I guess it makes me self-involved.

But it’s still all about love.

Loyal readers of this lofty blog are no doubt painfully aware that I am totally, 100%, thoroughly in love with my muse. He has changed my life – and so quickly, so unexpectedly. Came into my life on all cylinders, blasted open my writing and turned it completely around.

It’s not that he is my reason for being – the kind of thing that maybe people feel when they are wearing those beautiful clothes and having weddings; but he gives me clarity on my reason for being, which has wound up being the most amazing gift I could have ever hoped to receive.

Clarity on my reason for being.

I don’t know that I would have ever realized just how much I needed that if it hadn’t happened of its own accord.

You know, I watched that short video footage of Tom & Dana’s wedding on Instagram yesterday, over & over & over. And I was simply astounded by how happy they were. (Yes, I pondered it!)  And it wasn’t any kind of bullshit – those two were incredibly happy. You could just see it.  And I felt a little bit like a failure because I can only seem to feel that happy when I’m alone, finding the most perfect word.

So I don’t understand myself and my “alone-ness” any better than I ever did, but I still feel happier than I’ve ever been and just so blessed to have the most amazing muse.

It’s probably best to just not think about it too much. Because I think it’s going to end up being something good for the whole world; I really do.

Okay. I’ve got lunch today with the director of Tell My Bones at 12:30. So I’m gonna scoot now and try to get some writing done before that. I think today is going to be just another stunning day out there. I’m so looking forward to it.

I hope your Tuesday is just as splendid, wherever you are in the world.  I leave you with this, the song Tom Petty wrote for Dana, long before they were married, back when he was heading towards some real dark times, but (he has said repeatedly in interviews) he was already in love with her & waiting. Okay! Thanks for visiting! I love you guys, See ya.

 

I dreamed you
I saw your face
Cut my lifeline
Went floating through space
I saw an angel
I saw my fate
I can only thank God it was not too late

Over mountains
I floated away
‘Cross an ocean
I dreamed her name
I followed an angel
Down through the gates
I can only thank God it was not too late

Sing a little song of
Loneliness
Sing one to make me smile
Another round for everyone
I’m here for a little while

Now I’m walking
This street on my own
But she’s with me
Everywhere I go
Yeah, I found an angel
I found my place
I can only thank God it was not too late
I can only thank God it was not too late
I can only thank God it was not too late

c-1995 Tom Petty

Just A Swell Day On All Fronts!

First off, the weather has been fantastic today.

There’s a spot out on the highway where I can see all the way to Coshocton County  when the sky is clear, and today was one of those days. The sky was just so blue. And all the hills and trees for miles and miles were so green. It was breathtaking. And it was only about 72 degrees Fahrenheit, no humidity at all.

I was driving home from giving that piano lesson. And I have to say, this new teaching stuff I’ve been studying is really just amazing.

The guy I’m teaching has no musical training whatsoever – never, none – but he was grasping so many basic concepts so quickly because I now have this new language for explaining stuff.  It cuts right to the chase.

Toward the end of the lesson, I was talking about the black keys being half-steps, and then I pointed out how B & C are also a half-step, and I said, “Like in ‘Chopsticks’ – see?” And I played the beginning of “Chopsticks” and then hit a wrong note.

And he said, “That was wrong! What did you just play?”

And I showed him, and right away, he started trying to play “Chopsticks,” and even though he couldn’t find the right note to play, I could see his mind looking for that note – trying to hone in on where it could be and match the right key to the tone he was hearing in his head.

He was frustrated with himself, but I said, “No! This is exciting! You’re hearing the right note in your head. It’s in there and it wants to come out and you’re going to find that note.  This means you’re musical!”

I don’t think he believed me, but I definitely saw it happening. I saw his mind working and I knew for sure that he had music inside of him.  And it was exciting.  Even just “Chopsticks.” Not everyone can hear the right notes inside themselves.

On a  thoroughly unrelated topic, but equally exciting – almost.

I have a new Wrangler jeans jacket. And I just love it. It fits great and it is super soft. Already. Just so soft.

I was sitting out on my kitchen porch in my new little jacket because it was chilly out and this young woman I sort of know was coming over. She smokes so we hang out on my kitchen porch so that she can smoke.

She’s a really butch dyke kind of gal. She is definitely my type but she is way, way, way too young for me – over 20 years too young. I actually have no idea if she’s coming on to me these days, or what. But she’s chatting with me a lot more.

She asked me about the Writer’s Retreat thing in Italy and when that was happening, and I said, “Next year.” And she said, “Well, what is it that you’re doing later this year?”

And I said, “One of my plays – in New York.”

And she said, “I wanna go to New York. I want to see one of your plays. I’ve been saving my money. I wanna see what a hillbilly like you looks like when she’s in the big city.”

Hillbilly??!! Excuse me? I just said something like, ” Well, I’m sure it’ll be nice.” I still can’t quite figure out what’s going on there.

I was also wearing my aviator shades and she wanted to take my picture and I hate having my picture taken. I really, truly hate it.  And I told her no. But she said, “Come on.”

I finally said that if she could make me look like a sex kitten and not a hillbilly, then she could take my picture. So she gets her phone out and, you know: click/delete, click/delete, click/delete, and on and on. And finally she said, “Oh this one’s good.”

I said, “Do I look like a sex kitten?”

She said, “No, you look like a biker.”

Jesus Christ. Go home. Smoke on your own fucking porch.  But she is actually very personable and articulate. And she wanted to use my bathroom before she went home. So we went into my kitchen and I’d forgotten that I had been listening to T. Rex “Bang A Gong (Get It On)” – it was set on repeat on my little CD jukebox on my kitchen table. And it was still playing.

And she said, “What are you listening to?”

And I thought, Oh god, please don’t tell me that you have never, ever, ever, EVER even heard of this song.

But she had never, ever, ever, EVER even heard of that song.

And I said, “It was, like, the sexiest song to come out of 1971.” (She wasn’t born yet – not even close.)

And she wanted to know what the song was about but I said, “I’m not telling you. You’re way, way, way too young. ”

HER: “No, I wanna know what he’s saying.”

ME: “He’s talking about a girl who’s built like a car, with a hubcap diamond star halo.”

HER: “And that’s sexy? Really. ”

ME: “Yes, really. Go home.”

It was too funny. I felt 177 years old.

But after she left, and I went to teach the piano lesson, I put the CD on in my car and kept playing the song over & over. It’s quite hypnotic, and I actually hadn’t thought about the song in ages. It was only that mention of “Cosmic Dancer” at one of those Nick Cave Conversations in the Netherlands that made me think of it.

And I was listening to the lyrics and thinking how I never really understood that song at all. I still love it, but it kind of makes no sense whatsoever. And even though it is a sexy little song, if anyone who was even remotely interested in having sex with me for whatever reason, ever told me I was built like a car, with or without a hubcap diamond star halo, my answer would be no.

An unqualified no. Built like a car, indeed. It’s hard enough being a fucking hillbilly biker. Jesus Christ. (But a sexy song, nonetheless.)

Well you’re dirty and sweet
Clad in black
Don’t look back
And I love you
You’re dirty and sweet oh yeah
Well you’re slim and you’re weak
You’ve got the teeth
Of the Hydra upon you
You’re dirty sweet
And you’re my girl
Get It On
Bang a gong
Get It OnGet It On
Bang a gong
Get It On

Well you’re built like a car
You’ve got a hubcap
Diamond star halo
You’re built like a car
Oh yeah

You’re an untamed youth
That’s the truth
With your cloak full of eagles
You’re dirty sweet
And you’re my girl

Get It On
Bang a gong
Get It On

Get It On
Bang a gong
Get It On

Well you’re windy and wild
You’ve got the blues
In your shoes and your stockings
You’re windy and wild
Oh yeah

Well you’re built like a car
You’ve got a hubcap
Diamond star halo
You’re dirty sweet
And you’re my girl

Get It On
Bang a gong
Get It On

Get It On
Bang a gong
Get It On

Well you’re dirty and sweet
Clad in black
Don’t look back
And I love you
You’re dirty and sweet oh yeah

Well you dance when you walk
So let’s dance, take a chance
Understand me
You’re dirty sweet
And you’re my girl

Get It On
Bang a gong
Get It On

Get It On
Bang a gong
Get It On…

Take me
Meanwhile, I’m still thinking

C- 1971 Marc Bolan

Oh, People! This Astounding Voyage Continues!

Around 2am, the wind kicked up something fierce, so not only had it begun to rain again, but the wind was blowing rain in on my bed. Short of sleeping in some sort of  adventurous, seafaring schooner, having rain blown in on me while I sleep is not my idea of a nice night.

So I got up and closed most of the windows again, and missed the morning bird songs and overslept again.  Awoke at 6:30am to a bright, shiny bedroom.

And to two very intense texts on my phone.

Both texts had apparently been hanging there unanswered by the soundly-sleeping me for hours.

One was from Peitor. We had been texting before I went to sleep last night at around midnight, and I thought we were done texting and so I set down my phone and turned out the light. But it seems I was wrong. Because he texted something intense, unhappy and emotional (he’s in Italy right now, checking in on his elderly mother), and I left him hanging for over 6 hours! I felt terrible.

You know – lurch yourself from sleep, start typing: Oh god, I’m so sorry. I fell asleep!

And the other text was from a girlfriend that I am very close to and we had gotten into an intense conversation late last night, because (like Peitor) she is also going through some intense family stuff. And she looked so tired and so angry and so fed up last night, and  I just wanted to fix that.

I try so hard not to tell people how to live or what to think or what to do.  And I went through all that training in Divinity School on counseling people, and all of that, and I’ve counseled a lot of people. And I can be a remarkably effective counselor if I don’t actually know you and don’t have to get emotionally involved. I’m perfectly at ease with allowing you to find your own way in life and the “f” word does not come flying out of my mouth…

However. When it’s someone I actually know and care about, suddenly I can find myself saying things like: “You need to do such & such!!”, trying to tell her how to live her own life, in an escalating tone… because I am emotionally involved and I want my friends to be happy and I think that “being happy” means thinking the way I do.

Even though we ended it in a good place, I still felt bad about not giving her enough of her own space last night.  And then her text was there from during the night, continuing some of her thoughts from the conversation and I had to force myself (not even out of bed yet) to not let my mind go to that place where I am trying to fix her life for her – even though I know full well she is not asking me to do that.

And even though I didn’t go as far as the “f” word last night, I still felt like I had. Because I truly prefer to allow people to be themselves, and to have their own thoughts and approaches to the world; and yet sometimes I don’t choose to actually do that. I jump in there and try to “re-script” them in a rather emphatic tone.  And then I don’t feel very good about myself. I don’t want to simply paste my own perceptions of the world onto people, it dismisses the importance of how they feel about living their own lives.

And that was all, you know, before I even got out of bed this morning.  I was still just lying there, under the cuddly blanket and my 1700-thread-count Italian cotton sheets, my head surrounded by all my soft expensive pillows – and I was staring at the phone, feeling like a terrible friend.

So I guess maybe it’s going to be an interesting day.

The Conversations with Nick Cave are on hiatus for a couple of weeks. Well, at least the Conversations that have an uppercase “C”. The conversations with a lowercase “c” that he will undoubtedly be having over the next couple of weeks are apparently private and his website is not revealing where he is planning to spend those evenings.  This likely also means that no one will be posting photos of their lowercase “c” conversations with him to Instagram, so I will not be able to tell you what he is wearing. Or if any of those people he converses with in private call him God.

Yes, this means I will have to fixate on other things.

Like, for instance, my own life.

On Tuesday, I’m having lunch with the director of my play (Tell My Bones) so that I can discuss with him what Sandra said on the phone the other night. And move forward. Most likely at a pace I was not anticipating even a few weeks ago. We’ll see.

I still have some writing to do on that play. Revisions, I mean.  But I’m waiting for rehearsals to start before I actually do that. And the pressure on me feels intense because the cart is officially before the horse now – meaning that a bunch of publicity about this play got “out there”  in the world and on the Internet without me knowing it was going out there.

And now people all over the place are using my “award-winning script” as a way to try to drive up the value of Helen’s paintings.

When I first wrote the story about Helen, it was a TV movie script (and it is an award-wining script now and it did well in a lot of the top contests and at the Austin Film Festival). I was working for Gus Van Sant’s production company back then, working for his amazing dad, who was his business manager and who also managed Helen LaFrance’s career and that’s how I got exposed to her truly amazing paintings.

And I wanted to write about her specifically to expose more people to her incredible paintings.  To her life.  In my opinion, her paintings need to be hanging in everyone’s homes.

And so now, to find myself in this position where, you know, the play hasn’t even been mounted yet; you can’t actually go see it anywhere yet.  And total strangers all  over the world are taking it as a given that the play will be great and that it justifies their wanting to make more money off of Helen’s paintings right now

It’s not a bad position to be in, but I am under a lot of pressure here.

Which is also why I want the novel finished and off my desk, because I need to focus on Tell My Bones, even though I love this novel and I’ve loved every moment I’ve spent writing it. I don’t really want to rush through it. But I also don’t want it being shoved to the back burner again.  I had wanted it completed by Christmas and it is practically summer already.

So that’s that. My brain on a lovely Sunday morning.  Still in my PJs and already way too stressed…

I hope that you’re having a super-duper Sunday, though, wherever you are in the world.

I leave you with this. I was actually listening to this song again yesterday, because I came across something I’d written several years ago – about how it had felt to be 12 and to love this song and to listen to it late in the night on a tinny transistor radio, after sneaking out of my house and just walking the dark suburban streets by myself, listening to the local AM hit radio station, thinking it really was going to be incredible – being a powerful woman in the world, living my dreams, making them happen… (I leave it to you to decide to what degree that has worked out for me.)

Anyway. Thanks for visiting. I love you guys. See ya!

“I Am Woman”

I am woman, hear me roar
In numbers too big to ignore
And I know too much to go back and pretend
‘Cause I’ve heard it all before
And I’ve been down there on the floor
No one’s ever going to keep me down again

Whoa, yes, I am wise
But it’s wisdom born of pain
Yes, I’ve paid the price
But look how much I gained

If I have to I can do anything
I am strong (strong)
I am invincible (invincible)
I am woman

You can bend but never break me
‘Cause it only serves to make me
More determined to achieve my final goal
And I’ll come back even stronger
Not a novice any longer
‘Cause you’ve deepened the conviction in my soul

Whoa, yes, I am wise
But it’s wisdom born of pain
Yes, I’ve paid the price
But look how much I gained

If I have to I can do anything
I am strong (strong)
I am invincible (invincible)
I am woman

I am woman, watch me grow
See me standing toe-to-toe
As I spread my loving arms across the land
But I’m still an embryo
With a long, long way to go
Until I make my brother understand

Whoa, yes, I am wise
But it’s wisdom born of pain
Yes, I’ve paid the price
But look how much I gained

If I have to I can face anything
I am strong (strong)
I am invincible (invincible)
I am woman

Oh, I am woman
I am invincible
I am strong
I am woman
I am invincible
I am strong
I am woman

c-1972 RAY BURTON, HELEN REDDY

Blissed Out!! (Brain Like Mush!)

Good morning, glories!!

Yes, I overslept again. I am not sure why. I think it was because I got up in the middle of the night and closed most of the upstairs windows. It had gotten into the 50s (meaning, of course, the 1950s! And many a capella doo-wop groups had gathered down on the street below my window, making quite a racket!).

No, of course what I really mean, is the 50s Fahrenheit. It got chilly. So I closed the windows and apparently missed the daily wake-up call of the Muskingum County Bird Chorus and so slept straight through until 6:25am.

The sun was filling my glorious bedroom and I awoke totally blissed-out, gang. In no hurry whatsoever to get out of bed. Just totally digging cozy sheets & cuddly pillows and the wave of Eros that was all over me yet again.

However, get out of bed, I did. Cats were looming impatiently. Their opposable thumbs have still not arrived, even though I have Amazon Prime and they guaranteed 2-day shipping…

Yes. So. I had to get up, open cans of cat food and feed the cats. They don’t give a hoot about waves of Eros.

And so here I finally am and it is a beautiful morning out there today. And I feel terrific but, curiously, my brain feels mushy. It wishes me to go right back to bed and not do anything today!

However, that is so not gonna happen. I am going to dutifully work on Blessed By Light.  I’m in a challenging segment of Chapter 22, where it is basically all about sex. But unlike all those earlier chapters, when these 2 did not really know each other yet, it was a lot easier to find ways to deal with the sex.

I say “deal with” because this whole novel is written in 2nd Person. And if you’re going to write a passage about having sex in the present-tense and in 2nd Person, this means that the guy has to talk all through the sex!

I need this section to be present-tense (meaning, he’s not referring to “the sex last night” or something like that, where he can talk about “what happened”) because things are getting extremely emotional for him.  So it has to be “in the moment.” And even if he were a great orator like Billy Graham, you still don’t want him talking all through the sex!

Although, actually, no disrespect intended to the late Billy Graham, but I bet that would have been incredible – to be orated to by Billy Graham while having sex with him. He was quite the dynamo in that department (the orating, not the sex). (Although, perhaps he was really good in bed, too. I actually have no clue.) ( And when he was young – wow, he was certainly in earnest. All tall and magnetic. If you watch any of his really early TV appearances on Youtube, from like 1959 or 1960 or something like that. He definitely had an overpowering and charismatic way of honing in on what he was saying. I mean, plenty of people found God while listening to him, which would probably make for unbelievable sex.)

Well, anyway. I digress.

It is sufficient to say that I am being challenged by this segment of Chapter 22.

On an unrelated note…

Instagram made me so sick yesterday. I am so disgusted by this whole Tom Petty Trust/Estate thing.  I really am. I know it isn’t actually any of my business, but just as a fan, he was always Tom Petty “AND THE HEARTBREAKERS.” Those men meant a lot to me, too. A lot. Even when he did solo records, or Mudcrutch records, there were “Heartbreakers” in there, too, along with tons of other really talented musicians & songwriters. He was never “alone.” And to try to erase these men now just disgusts me.  Tom Petty put the lyric to the melody, for sure, but he always brought those songs in to everybody else to add to them and build on them and turn them into the hits they were. What is going on now just wreaks of greed and ego and narcissism and all that crap.

Anyway. I had to keep going onto Instagram yesterday, even though it was making me sick, because I needed to know what was going on in Sweden, for godssakes!! Where Nick Cave was having a Conversation!!

Man, the Swedes are big Instagram-posters. I mean, it’s like they had barely left their seats and they were already posting. Mostly in English, too. And in color – which, based solely on, you know, Ingmar Bergman or something like that, you’d have perhaps expected tons of artistic black & white. But no. Swedes apparently live in the here & now and know all about full color.

So that was cool.

The one thing that, of course, jumped right out at me was someone posting that “Nick Cave was in the house.” (And not the customary comment that “God was in the house.”)

Now, you’d think this meant that this particular Swede was breaking ranks and not calling Nick Cave “God.” Yet, if you ponder this more closely – as you know I did – what this Swede was really saying was diabolical indeed! Because he/she (I don’t recognize gender in Swedish names) was in fact saying that GOD HIMSELF has a new name, and it is Nick Cave.

So you can probably readily see now how this has jumped the track and is getting, well, blasphemous! Indeed!!

Too funny.

Anyway. Everyone seems to have really loved it, yet again!!

All right. I gotta get moving around here, gang.  I leave you with my breakfast-listening music from, well, breakfast. Since I was so blissed-out, I listened to one of my favorite “music to listen to while blissed-out” songs, over and over and over!! And that is, Simon & Garfunkel’s “Only Living Boy in New York,” from around 1970 or something like that. I was a wee bonny lass in Cleveland when it came out, I know that much for sure.

So have a blissed-out Saturday if you can, gang, wherever you are in the world! Thanks for visiting. I love you guys. See ya!