This Is Why You Have To Stay Married!

It used to be that when I wanted Wayne’s feedback on something I’d just written, all I had to do was get up from my desk chair, go into the other room and hand it to him and then stand there while he read it and then listen to what he had to say.

But once you get divorced, you relinquish those rights!

Now you have to do this thing called “patiently waiting”!! (Nobody warned me about this, btw, and that just doesn’t seem fair.)

When I was married, I didn’t have to be patient about any fucking thing under the sun (and I’m sure he would be very willing to concur on this. I think, if I recall correctly, that far distant dialogue went something like this: “Christ, Marilyn, can you just give me a fucking minute??!!” Exact topic involved is immaterial.)


Nowadays, I have to email him a doc file and wait for him to have time to get on the PC and download the file and then read it, formulate a (glowing) opinion and then text me.

(Which reminds me!! Nick Cave sent out a Red Hand Files thing today, sort of all about texting. It was very fun (and even educational — although he neglected to include the phone number where we can all text him at when he’s hanging out in an airport). (I’m thinking that’s just an oversight that he will correct later today.) Anyhow. You can read it here if you so choose!!)

Well, Wayne did at least text me again yesterday, saying that he was going to read the new version of Tell My Bones “soon” and get right back to me. However, “soon” is one of those words that is wide open to interpretation.

And when you’re no longer married you also relinquish the right to “badger” the person who used to be part of your legal property. You can’t just keep going over and disturbing whatever it is he’s trying to do at his own desk, and say, “Come on, man. I’m waiting.”

So now, with no legal rights left, I’m just sitting here, waiting. If you can imagine that. And I really, really do want to know his opinion on how the play is ending now. That part is not a joke. I’m really relying on his insights here and I don’t want to look at the play again without hearing his opinion of the ending first. (Which I don’t believe is working as good as it could be but I’m not sure why.)

The director is really busy with some other project in NYC right now, and I won’t be able to get his complete attention about this until something like February 15th. And I just don’t want to wait that long. And I can’t concentrate on any of my other projects right now because I want to sign off on the play. And I want to feel that I’ve made it the best it can be, for now.

So I’m waiting. (We’re going into Day 3 here…) (Of course “three’s the charm” is something we so often hear but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything at all.)

Meanwhile, I keep getting weather alerts on my iPhone telling me that it’s snowing out. I’m not 100% sure how they define “snow” because I keep going to my window, all excited, and seeing only freezing rain.  And I love snow, so it just feels like it’s one of those days where everything, on all fronts, is sort of working against my ability to achieve bliss.

You know, in sort of a round-about way — thinking about bliss, lack thereof, marriage, etc. — one of the things the late bandleader/clarinetist Artie Shaw says in the Ken Burns Jazz documentary, is how he began to really hate having to play the song “Begin the Beguine” because that was what the audiences always wanted to hear and they never wanted to hear anything else.

I can understand why he felt that way (this is going all the way back to the late 1930s, btw), but it made me kind of sad because, in all honesty, if God himself asked me what my actual very favorite song of all time was, it would not only be “Begin the Beguine,” but it would also be Artie Shaw’s version of it.

I’m really serious. Nothing moves me like that specific song does. That song is really the only song ever written that fills me with enough hope about love that when I hear it, I can actually imagine getting married again. (I don’t know to whom, I’m just saying that song makes me feel that hopeful about the nature of love.)

If you don’t know the song, Artie Shaw didn’t write it — Cole Porter wrote it. And tons of people have recorded many versions of it over the years, but Artie Shaw’s instrumental version of it from 1938 was the most popular version of it, ever. (Followed closely by Ella Fitzgerald’s version of it, which includes the lyrics, which are wistful indeed.)

So, even though I understood why Artie Shaw felt that way about the song, it made me feel a little sad because I am just so grateful that he recorded it at all and that he did such a brilliant job of it. It is so joyful, so smooth, so free. (And it makes me just want to drink a vodka martini straight up, with 3 olives, and light up an unfiltered cigarette, too!) (But not alone.)

Okay, well. I am going to get back to sitting patiently, awaiting a text. See how the day unfolds. Thanks for visiting, gang. I hope the world is going your way today, wherever you are in it. I love you guys. See ya.

“Being the Beguine”

When they begin the beguine
It brings back the sound of music so tender,
It brings back a night of tropical splendor,
It brings back a memory ever green.

I’m with you once more under the stars,
And down by the shore an orchestra’s playing
And even the palms seem to be swaying
When they begin the beguine.

To live it again is past all endeavor,
Except when that tune clutches my heart,
And there we are, swearing to love forever,
And promising never, never to part.

What moments divine, what rapture serene,
Till clouds came along to disperse the joys we had tasted,
And now when I hear people curse the chance that was wasted,
I know but too well what they mean;

So don’t let them begin the beguine
Let the love that was once a fire remain an ember;
Let it sleep like the dead desire I only remember
When they begin the beguine.

Oh yes, let them begin the beguine, make them play
Till the stars that were there before return above you,
Till you whisper to me once more,
“Darling, I love you!”
And we suddenly know, what heaven we’re in,
When they begin the beguine

c- 1935 Cole Porter

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