More Miracles Approaching!

And, no — by “miracles” I don’t mean that my cats are finally cleaning!

What I do mean, is that I have to clean — well, that’s not the miracle, either. I do try to keep my humble, cat-infested abode clean. But I haven’t actually vacuumed in weeks.

The last time I vacuumed, some sort of pebble-thing got sucked up into the vacuum and kept rattling around in there and freaking me out. So I figured that if I just let it sit quietly in the dark hall closet for many weeks, it would fix itself.

I feel pretty confident that it did.

But that’s not the miracle, either.

The miracle is that I happened to see a mortgage-banker that I know casually and as I was saying hi, I suddenly asked him if he knew a reputable & affordable plumber who could fix my upstairs toilet, since he deals with home mortgages and all that. And he said, “I’ll do it. Just take some photos of the parts you need, text them to me and I’ll swing by on Sunday and fix it for you.”

Whoa. (That’s the miracle part there, in case you didn’t recognize it. He’s saving me a fortune!)

He’s friends with my friend Kevin — not the director of the play, but the other Kevin, who stores his vintage 1965 VW camper van in my barn all summer. So he’s bringing Kevin along with him. And since this constitutes “people in the house,” I decided that I’d better fucking vacuum today.

I figure the pebble-thing has certainly had plenty of time to de-manifest from the vacuum cleaner by now. I guess we’ll see.

This has already made me feel very spring-cleany-ish, though. I put the Easter wreath up on the kitchen door this morning (yes, while it was still dark out — God knows, you gotta put your Easter wreath up at 5am on a freezing cold February morning…) and I put out all the little spring/Easter things in the kitchen. Not sure what the hurry is, it’s not even Mardis Gras yet. I think it has something to do with all the birds returning.


Today is my older brother’s 61st birthday. (Yes, there is a mere 49-year age difference between him & me.) (And what’s even odder — when I was first adopted, there was only a 17 month difference in our ages!) (And what’s even more weirder – I will still be 12 on my next birthday!) (I know — like, how weird is that? Just one of those mysteries of life that’s best left un-pondered.)

Anyway. My indescribable immaturity aside. I haven’t seen my older brother in 26 years. I know he’s still alive. And he’s happily married — and has been for 26 years. (Yes, I haven’t seen him since his wedding, however, I was actually invited to that wedding.)

(That was his second wedding — I wasn’t invited to the first one because our adoptive dad paid for that wedding and it was one of those years where being really mean to Marilyn was seriously in vogue with my adoptive dad.)

(Honestly, I have no idea why I wasn’t invited to my brother’s first wedding. I wasn’t invited to my dad’s 3rd wedding, either. I can understand not being invited to my dad’s first wedding, because I wasn’t born yet. And I can understand not being invited to his second wedding, because it happened hurriedly, the night before I moved in with him, briefly, when I was 14, and he decided that to remain shacked up with his 27-year-old cocktail waitress girlfriend while I was living there with them would set a bad moral example for me. (I know — don’t laugh. To see those words “moral” and  “me” in the same sentence, but he tried.) (And I have to say that after I did move in and my new 27-year-old stepmom and I were hanging out together in the living room, smoking cigarettes while my dad was out on the road, and she was having a cocktail and sort of sharing it with 14-year-old me, she said, “Thank you so much for moving in, Marilyn. I didn’t think your dad would ever marry me.”)  Anyway, there are just a whole bunch of family-related weddings that I wasn’t invited to, even though I behave really well in public. I do. I’ve got that whole “how to attend a wedding” thing down. I know how to dress, what to say, I’ve got table manners and stuff. And I bring gifts. So who knows.)

Well, so, I digress.

My older brother is 61 today and I haven’t seen him in 26 years.

He used to look like this, though (and I used to look like that):







And of course, all of this makes me wistful — I really don’t know my brother as a grown man; I know him more as a little boy — and it makes me want to spend some time working on In the Shadow of Narcissa. But I’ve still got to finish up the new Life Story Rights documents for Tell My Bones and get those off in the mail. And the longer the files stay open on my desk top, the more I seem to resist them. So I really have to just force myself to get those finished and back into the mail.

After I vacuum, though.

And do Booty Core.

My Booty Core program is almost over, by the way. 4 more days. Then I will just do it maybe 3 times a week and do yoga the rest of the time. And then just sail off into old age as a sort of splendid swan.

Oh, and I finally broke down and bought glucosamine chondroitin supplements, too. So I guess we’ll see how that goes. I’m really not trying to stop myself from aging. I’m just trying to, I don’t know, keep walking? Stay on good terms with my lovely legs? When I bought this house, one of the reasons I bought it was because the dining room can easily be turned into a first-floor bedroom (and I think it was one in the past) and there’s a full bathroom on the first floor, too, so in case my now elderly adoptive dad wanted to live with me as he got elderly-er, he could have these things. I didn’t get that stuff so that I could be elderly here, you know? It was for him. But, for some hard to discern reason, he doesn’t want to be elderly here in the wilds of distant Crazeysburg where there is absolutely nothing at all…

Well, the script work with Peitor went very well yesterday.  We got a lot done. On Tuesday we will finally begin working on my very favorite scene in the whole 8-minute  film! The only scene in it where there is a person who actually has lines of (erotic) dialogue!! I cannot wait!! (Honestly, it is going to be so fucked up and so cool!!) This is one of the reasons why I love not living in the regular world. You can just open up your mind and the most entertaining stuff comes out. Seriously.

I haven’t lived in the regular world in such a long time. Actually, I don’t think I ever did. But for a lot of those years, people thought of me as mentally ill. But I’m not ill. I’m just not able to live in a half-sort of world, where you have to squish yourself down and worry all the time about what other people might be thinking of you. Of course, when people think you’re mentally ill, they can just say, “Oh, she’s like that because she’s crazy,” and give you all sorts of leeway and social dispensations and still invite you to parties and stuff. But when you’re not crazy, people don’t know what the fuck to make of you so they just give you a wide berth and leave you mostly alone.

But I don’t really like parties anyway.

However, one part of the regular world that I do live in involves having to deal with that pesky film budgeting stuff. Peitor and I discussed that yesterday, too. And it seems that MovieMagic budgeting & scheduling software is the industry standard and people will be expecting us to work with that, so we will breakdown and buy it (it’s really expensive) and then I will break down (hopefully not in tears) and learn how to use it.

And we shall sally forth into the great creative unknown!!

Well, on Instagram yesterday — quite a bevy of happy folks buying tickets to see Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds on their North American tour! Tickets went on sale yesterday. That was so cool to see, even though when I saw someone post a receipt for their ticket to see them at the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville, my heart kind of, you know, winced a little. However, I am extremely happy with how things are turning out for me, regardless. But what’s weird, though, is that I know for a fact that the guy who bought that ticket for the Nashville show lives in fucking Australia. Isn’t that funny?  People going all over the world to see stuff? (You can  buy tickets at that link there, btw.)

Meanwhile, I must get going here!! Jesus. I’ve been working on this post for 3 hours already. I’ve got to get this house clean!! Okay!! Have a great Saturday, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys! See ya!!!

“Even the Orchestra is Beautiful!!”

The above is one of the opening lines from the musical, Cabaret:

M.C. (with great irony and a heavy German accent): “In here, life iz beautiful! Za gurls are beautiful! Even za orchestra iz beautiful!”

And that’s sort of how I feel about today! Only without the irony (I still keep the heavy German accent though — in my head, anyway).

Gus Van Sant Sr has a birthday in a few days, so I went outside first thing this morning and walked across the road to stick his birthday card in the mailbox, and even though it was quite cold out and frost was everywhere, guess what?! The birds are back! They were out there singing!

I would not have known this had I not ventured forth into the frozen dawn, still in my jammies & flip-flops!

What a blessing, right?  To be rewarded with that reminder that Spring is on its way. And those happy words came to me (without the irony but with the German accent):  Even za orchestra iz beautiful!!


Yesterday was a little intense. I did not get to work on Thug Luckless much at all, because more legal stuff came up re: Tell My Bones and I had to deal with that, and with trying to re-write even more legal documents without losing my fucking mind.

ME (on the phone, not really saying this, only thinking it): “Just give me the rights to my fucking play! Fuck all this other shit! That’s all I fucking care about right now, you fucking assholes! We’re going into table-reads in New York in a few fucking weeks here and you’ve had years to object to this other shit! I’ve already gone above the industry standards on these fucking options and these percentages and at this rate, I’m not going to see any fucking money from this thing until I’m 72 and half years old! For Christ’s fucking sake! Fuck!!”

ME (what I really said, in my nice-Ohio-girl voice, wherein I actually do sound 12): ” Oh I see. Sure. I understand. Let me just make a phone call, okay? And see if I can work on maybe just re-wording this document a little bit because, you know, I’ve given you all of my babysitting money already. So, um. Would that be all right?”


That aside, though. I slept great last night because I had been reading an email from someone that I don’t even know, and I believe that people really are beautiful. They just fucking are. You know, we all have our little roadmaps that we follow in life, trying our best to find our way through whatever is thrown at us. And I think it’s so beautiful how most people just keep trying and keep tweaking that map, maybe, but they find their way. (Me included, of course. God knows.)

And I did oversleep a little bit this morning because, deep down in my subconscious, I knew my script work with Peitor today wasn’t going to begin until this afternoon because he has to go to the eye doctor. And I also knew that I didn’t want to do Booty Core this morning, either — I wanted to take a break. And my bed felt so cozy and I was breathing great because I’d finally changed the furnace filter and everything just felt so perfect in my little world, that I decided to oversleep! And so I did! And then I was still up early enough to hear the birds singing. In February.

Sort of a joyful start to a morning, right? And I’m going to try really hard to make today’s script session better than it was on Tuesday.

I’m still not sure if the tension was coming from me, or not, but I do know that I was upset about that whole Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds North American tour thing that day but I wasn’t talking about it with Peitor because he gets really tired of hearing about Nick Cave. (I know — how weird, right?! He even says stuff, like, “Marilyn, could you please focus? We’re trying to work here.”)

(Although, to be fair, it’s probably not easy having a business partner who’s only 12 — ME: “I found another ladybug today! Oh, and I saw a hoverfly on my kitchen window! And I rescued him in a Kleenex and I put him outside and he just flew away, he really soared. He seemed so happy!” PEITOR: “I’m sure he was. Can we look at scene 5?”)

However!! Now, because of the overwhelming kindness of complete strangers, that whole issue regarding Nick Cave has not only evaporated, it has become this truly amazing thing! This gift in my life.

So. I’m just feeling really good about today.  And I probably can’t work on Thug Luckless today, either, because I still have to work on rewriting the legal stuff for the play. But I did realize yesterday, that the atmosphere I’m visualizing for P-Town feels a lot like that comic book, Fell, written by (the other) Warren Ellis & Ben Templesmith. It began in late 2005. I’m not a comic book fan, but I always really loved that one — that series. I actually have never met anybody who was familiar with that comic book, but I just loved it.

Image result for fell by Warren Ellis & Ben Templesmith


And so I got out all those FELL comic books and sort of flipped through them again. And still just loved it.

(Which, in a round about way, reminds me that the guy who turned 18 the other day, and I bought him a lighter? He’s becoming a Navy SEAL. Which is sort of jaw-dropping to me, because — I’ve never told him this, or anything — but he really reminds me of my father, my birth dad. For one thing, he’s always singing these songs that were huge hits back during the Vietnam War, and yet this kid is only 18. But it’s one of the reasons I feel so  drawn to the guy’s personality — he seems so much like my dad. And, of course, my birth dad was a Navy SEAL, in Vietnam.  It was another one of those things that stopped me dead in my tracks and made me wonder: who are we, really? You know? What are human beings beyond this constant transference of energy, of beingness?? That just keeps recycling and expanding and never ending. Wow.)

So on that note!! I better get going here. Have a great Friday, wherever you are in the world!! Thanks for visiting, gang. I leave you with the opening song from the movie version of Cabaret, “Willkommen”. (It includes the quote from up above — and if you’ve never been exposed to this film, this opening song here will give you an excellent idea of what you’re getting into when watching it. I was actually 12 when I saw this movie and was blown away by it. My adoptive mother was with me, though, and her being Jewish, well, she was very disturbed by the whole movie, and understandably so. But anyway. It is now a classic.)

All righty. I love you guys. See ya!!

Dear Diary, What A Difference A Day Makes!

First of all, Nick Cave’s Red Hand Files thing today was really cute. You should go check it out. One of the people who wrote to him today was really funny! I laughed out loud. (He has now had 20,000 letters written to him by way of The Red Hand Files!) (And, no, I did not write 19,993 of them…)

Okay. Yesterday saw a brand new Page One come into existence for Thug Luckless: Welcome to P-Town.

I was very, very happy with it because it feels to me like Thug has really found his voice. I’m re-writing the whole thing from scratch, by the way.  So, a new “page one” appearing is a really exciting thing. I call it “finding my way in.” Once that voice comes, I know that a book is as good as written. Now all I have to do is actually physically get it down onto the page. But the excitement factor for me in creating something new in the world has certainly arrived and I just love that feeling.

(If you’re new to the blog: Thug Luckless is my new novel-in-progress. He is an AI male sex robot who is abandoned in a post-apocalyptic town after his female owner dies suddenly. And no one in the town knows how to turn him off so he just goes around, fucking all those jaded and lonely women that you so often find in a post-apocalyptic town. He becomes a sort of misused fixture in the town (called P-Town — and not because it’s Provincetown). But it’s actually a story about coming into a gradual awareness of Self. Self-awareness, self-discovery, the Higher Self, through the intimacy of sex, whether it’s sort of forced or otherwise. ) (I guess it’s “spiritual pornography” — that always-easy-to-market book publishing category…)

Anyway. I’m excited about it. I really am. I love Thug Luckless. And as God is my witness, someone will publish it!

All righty!

Some other really, really exciting things happened yesterday! In addition to discovering more auspicious ladybugs in the house (!!), and a plethora of hoverflies (what’s up with that?? I found three in my house just yesterday afternoon — those are the flies that look like bees but aren’t), I also went down into my creepy basement and finally changed out the filter in the furnace. It was several weeks overdue and my sinuses were acting up again.

I can’t emphasize enough how much I really don’t enjoy going down into that 119-year-old unfinished basement, replete with a bonanza of spiders, passing the cold winter months near the toasty furnace, and just a bunch of other stuff that you glance at and think: “what the hell is that?” And then you just quickly change the filter and get the heck out of there…

So that’s done for the next 3 months. I’m already breathing better. It’s practically instantaneous. (Not only is this a really old house that’s just naturally full of dust and I’m allergic to dust; but it is also a house filled with 7 cats and I’m allergic to cats.) Anyway. I’m breathing better.

The other thing that happened yesterday is not quite as exciting as finding a bunch of insects and going down into my creepy basement, however — I was very kindly and generously invited to go to Switzerland in June and see the lovely country and meet its lovely people (and hopefully get some more cool coasters in the airport) and also see Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds at the Hallenstadion!! Yay. And the ticket has now officially been purchased!!

How cool is that, gang? I mean, honestly? I’m really so excited and so grateful. What a great day yesterday was. People can be so wonderful.

And to be precise: this will be the first actual vacation I’ve had in years. Truly. I always travel for work-related things. They are never “vacations.” Ever. Ever. Ever. I don’t think I’ve been on a vacation since I went to Copenhagen with Wayne back in, like, 2001 (wherein, I also decided that I wanted a divorce so that was a super happy vacation). I’ve traveled a huge amount since then — London and Paris a few times; Bristol,  NYC many times, and LA a few times, San Francisco — even to Cleveland, for god’s sake. But they were all work-related trips in one way or another. Doing readings, book-signings, taking endless meetings, setting up massively time-consuming new business endeavors with colleagues overseas, etc., etc., etc.

So, I am so excited. A vacation. Meeting new people. Going someplace that I’ve always wanted to go. I just can’t wait.

However, between now & then — man, I have a lot of work to do. And I guess, on that cheery note, I’m gonna get started here. Thanks for visiting, gang. I hope Thursday is really just spectacular — full of unexpected delights and reasons to rejoice. (I know — I don’t ask too much from a mere Thursday, do I?) I love you guys. See ya.

What the Heck Happened to All the Good Taste Around Here?

Okay, gang. Today I’m going to try to move forward joyfully!!

None of this “shooting her” business! We will deal with fucking movie budgets if we have to deal with fucking movie budgets.  God knows, I’ve dealt with worse things in my life. I’ll just buy MovieMagic budgeting software, like everybody else, and see if it will “magically” just do everything… (Loyal readers of this lofty blog perhaps recall that I am not super good at math. I am good at algebra. But, oddly, algebra does not feature hugely in movie budgeting.) (Not yet, anyway.)

Even though I really want to get back to some new chapters for In the Shadow of Narcissa, I’m thinking that some new pages for Thug Luckless: Welcome to P-Town will win out today. I’m sort of in a Thug Luckless kind of mood. (I always like to use the image below for quick reference — are we in a Thug mood today, or not?)

Yep, he’s resonating, gang…It’s officially a Thug Luckless kind of day








I’m not sure what happened yesterday — why it was that, midday, my energy completely turned around and became so stressed. It actually never got better.

(I think part of it is that I don’t see any reasonable way for me to attend any of the Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds concerts this time. I have too much to do with my various far flung projects and I will have to travel for all of those already. So Nick Cave just doesn’t seem like a reasonable expectation. Yeah, I know — I’m the one who decided it was going to be great to live alone in the middle of fucking nowhere so that traveling becomes such a fucking ordeal. And I am not a person who accepts “having to be reasonable” with any sort of grace or anything like that. I get pouty and frustrated, because I feel like I should just be able to do anything I want, right? And not have to fuck around with intensely complicated movie production budgets and playwright contracts that look suspiciously like the playwright always gets screwed, etc., etc. I think my barely suppressed attitude was fucking up my whole day yesterday and on into the night.)

Well, I did do Booty Core after I posted so angst-ily to the blog last evening, but the final ten minutes were so intense on my knees, that I just gave up on that, too.

I did watch a really cool episode of Ken Burns’ Jazz, though. We are now in the post-WWII era. Dave Brubeck is putting in an appearance now, along with Miles Davis. So we are inching into contemporary jazz, which is not my favorite.  But it is still just a really great documentary. I am almost done with all 10 episodes.  How many months has it taken me to watch this thing? But I have just really, really loved it and I’ve learned a whole lot about various jazz musicians that I just grew up taking for granted.

Even though I’m not a Charlie Parker fan, or even much of a Miles Davis fan, either (although I did meet Cicely Tyson back in the mid-1980s and she was really, really cool and just so sweet), (Miles Davis and Cicely Tyson were married at that time, in case you’re wondering what the fuck I’m suddenly talking about). Anyway.  In the documentary, they were saying that Charlie Parker’s impact on music fans was just as startling as Louis Armstrong’s had been on people in the 1920s.

I found that perspective really sort of jolting. It gave me something to think about, because of course I grew up in an era where Louis Armstrong was a household name, there was nothing at all startling or emotionally arresting about his sound. As far as I was concerned, he’d simply always been there. (I’ve learned a ton of cool stuff about him in this documentary, as well.) But it gave me a different perspective on Charlie Parker, too.

Anyway. I’m learning a lot. I still don’t understand what it means to actually be a human being — you know, why we exist and what we actually are (although I’m leaning toward believing that we are just vibrating energy that gets filtered through our senses, only appearing as something physical on the surface). But in the meantime, music is fucking cool.

In fact, on Instagram last evening, I was exposed to Miyavi for the first time.  @alysoncamus, who writes for RockNYC, always posts really cool photos and videos of bands playing in smaller clubs (in LA, I’m pretty sure). It’s almost always bands I’ve never heard of before because it’s not usually the kind of music I listen to. Still, I always find it really interesting. So many, many talented musicians out there in the world, making so many different kinds of music, and it is just so hard to earn a living at it nowadays.

However, Miyavi (from Japan) has been around a long time now and seems to be doing just fine. Although I had never heard of him until last night. I’m going to quote what Alyson Camus wrote about him on RockNYC because it seems extremely accurate: “Miyavi is a born rock star, electrifying the air with his powerful stage presence and his incredible energy, he is a blue-haired silver bullet with a theatrical style and a guitar on fire.”

I always love that feeling when you encounter a musician for the first time and your jaw sort of drops and you feel that kinetic energy just rush through you. Even on a tiny little screen like Instagram. (And it’s exactly things like that, which make me wonder what exactly human beings are, you know? What are we, when I can feel something like that through a tiny little screen on my fucking phone? And it wasn’t even live — the show happened Monday night. But anyway.)

So that was cool. And I had a wonderful exchange with a reader last evening, too. About an older story of mine that appeared in Italian translation a long time ago.

It’s really nice to finally be getting such life-affirming feedback on my writing, as opposed to the amount of letters I’ve gotten over the years from men in prison. I don’t judge people in prison, even though the people who have written to me have tended to be convicted murderers and pedophiles. I honestly don’t judge that. I still believe that the human experience is really just a transference of energy — choices that are constantly being made.  For whatever reasons. You know — if you choose to murder somebody, you’re making a choice about the energy you’re putting out and then you have to receive the energy that comes back from that.

So I don’t judge that. It comes down to choices. And I know the choices that I prefer to make in my own life; choices about who I want to be in the world. But it did feel incredibly great to hear from somebody who seems to have lived a really great life — free of prison and murder and pedophilia — and something I wrote got to be part of that. That really made me feel good.

So all is not lost!!

And who knows; maybe for some inexplicable reason, I’ll have to be in, like, Nashville on October 4th and, just like Charlie of “Chocolate Factory” fame, I’ll buy some sort of candy bar and inside of it will be a coveted  golden ticket to see Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds at the Grand Ole Opry! (I mean, how fucking mind-bending would that be? As much as I’d like to see, maybe, Ernest Tubb at the Grand Ole Opry (he’s quite dead, btw, in case you don’t know his music, plus, he would have played at the Ryman, not at the new one), still, it would just be too fucking amazing to see Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds at a venue like that.)

But anyway. Life goes on.

And on that note, I’m gonna get to work here on Thug Luckless! Pour a little bit of my frustrating angst into him!! Thanks for visiting, gang. You probably have a sneaking suspicion about what I’m leaving you with today — from the RockNYC YouTube channel! Miyavi. The full version of what I was watching on Instagram last night! Have a good Wednesday, wherever you are in the world! I love you guys. See ya.

Honestly, why doesn’t somebody just shoot her?

You know — like, 14 months ago, when I was sitting in that French place at that farmer’s market with Peitor out in LA, eating taste-temptingly delicious little chocolate pastries, drinking espressos, laughing hysterically…

That part where I said:  “Come on, Peitor, let’s start a production company and just make these films ourselves!”

Or when, after he finally agreed because I badgered him into it, and then it became apparent that, even while both of us are creating the stories together, he is clearly going to direct this stuff — because he’s actually shot movies before, like, on real film and got awards in film festivals and stuff — and I am clearly going to be the person who gets all the little ducks in a row, because I have always been the person who puts all the little ducks in a row…

Well, somebody should have just shot me. Right then.

Jesus Christ, you know? That fucking film budget seminar this evening was intense.

ME (texting Peitor the minute the seminar was over and while my brain was still almost functioning): “Man, Peitor. That fucking film budget seminar was intense.”

HIM: “Great!!”

Jesus, you know?? I was hoping for a little more — I don’t know. Hot cocoa or something. Shit. What the heck am I getting myself into?

I don’t know. All I do know is that I’m doing it again.

Like, back when I was showing Sandra my screenplay for a TV movie based on the life of Helen LaFrance (which won a writing award at a film festival), and she said, “We should make this a play. Something simple. A one-woman show with a few musicians who can sometimes voice a couple characters; something easy that we can put on in a church auditorium up in Harlem…”

And then, right here at my little mini-desk, I turned it into this multi-million dollar budget ordeal and my accountant had to sit me down (metaphorically, over the phone) the other day and say, “Um. I’m going to send you some sample contracts, Marilyn, and I want you to read them over very carefully so that you can get a better idea of what you’re really getting into here, at the various levels…” Shit.

Somebody should have just shot me then, too. I mean, way back at that point when I thought it was a good idea to write about Helen’s life.

Or even yesterday, when I was finally talking over the phone with the director of Tell My Bones about the recent changes I had made to the script, which deal with lynchings and slave auctions during, you know, a musical number… he said, “You’ve taken a lot of risks here, but good job. You’re really brave. I’m so proud of you.”


Shit, you know? Should maybe somebody be shooting me now, too? Before some sort of weird fallout hits the proverbial fan? What did he mean by “risks”?

Man. I am in need of some sort of vacation from life right now.  I really am. I cannot emphasize that enough. I’m getting a wee bit stressed.

Why am I always just out here, doing this stuff? Making my life so intensely complicated, when all I really, really want to do is just sit alone in my room and write. I don’t even need to get published anymore.  The writing part of it is enough. Emotionally, anyway. Why does everything always just grow into this whole other thing when it comes to me and my brain and all my marvelous ideas?

Life just fucking confounds me.

I used to date this Line Producer in NYC. And one day when I was picking her up on location, she said, “Do you want to see one of these budgets? Are you interested?” I was. So I said, yes. And she said, “These numbers are confidential, but this is what it looks like.” And then she explained what all the various numbers meant, and it all seemed super cool & interesting, because we were lovers and getting ready to go back to her place and drink red wine and fuck like little sex-starved bunnies… Cute bunnies.

Well it was 35 years ago, but maybe I can look into sleeping with her again and see if I can persuade her to do all these fucking mind-altering budgets. Because I’m sure not feeling really super cool & interested about doing it.

Christ. Life goes on, though, doesn’t it.

And my script-writing session with Peitor today was one of those tricky ones, where we had to, you know, not step on each other’s toes. And I couldn’t figure out if I had a weird attitude today or what? Where was it coming from? The tension. I mean, we got very good work done today, but it felt a little bit like work. It was just one of those days.

And I had started my day in a really frisky and cheerful mood!! Goddammit!! What happened???

Well, I haven’t done Booty Core yet today, so I still need to get that done. Actually, it will probably make me feel a little bit better. Because I am just feeling so indescribably DOWN right now, that anything will probably be a tiny step in a better direction.

I’m going to close with this, and try not to cry, and try to think instead about that man I love so much who’s as dead as dead can be and see if maybe he’ll come visit for little awhile. You never know. He might.

Have a good evening, gang. Wherever you are in the world. I love you. See ya.

“A Love Song”

There’s a wren in a willow wood
Flies so high and sings so good
And he brings to you what he sings to you

Like my brother — the wren and I,
Well, he told me if I try, I could fly for you
And I wanna try for you ’cause

I wanna sing you a love song
I wanna rock you in my arms all night long
I wanna get to know you
I wanna show you the peaceful feelin’ of my home

Summer thunder on moon-bright days
Northern Lights and skies ablaze
And I bring to you, lover, when I sing to you

Silver wings in a fiery sky
Show the trail of my love and I
Sing to you, love is what I bring to you

And I wanna sing to you, oh

I wanna sing you a love song
I wanna rock you in my arms all night long
I wanna get to know you
I wanna show you the peaceful feelin’ of my home

I wanna sing you a love song
I wanna rock you in my arms all night long
I wanna get to know you
I wanna show you the peaceful feelin’ of my home

I wanna show you the peaceful feelin’ of my home

c – 1974 Kenny Loggins, Donna Lyn George

My Goodness, What A Morning!

(And as May West would have responded: “My goodness had nothin’ to do with it!”)


Wow, I’m in a mood today. I guess you know your morning is off to an interesting start when you’re still on your first cup of coffee and you’re already flipping through page after page after page of your many collections of Baudelaire’s wide and various writings, looking for a mere stanza about the girl who is like a pal and will have anal sex with you.

I don’t even remember what got me thinking in that direction in the first place, but since I couldn’t remember if it was in his journals, or in a poem, or in his other writings, it was seriously like trying to find a needle in a haystack. I knew I’d quoted it before — decades ago — in one of my own journals, but trying to find it in one of those, is like the other haystack that the needle is within. I have something like 42 journals.

But what I did re-discover, is a stanza from “A Madrigal of Sorrow” that I used to have taped to my wall for years. I’d forgotten all about it. I think it was sort of a combination of my mantra and my mission in life. I don’t remember when it came off of my wall. Probably when I left E.12th Street and moved in with Wayne.  From an English translation of Flowers of Evil:

My queen, my slave, whose love is fear,
When you awaken shuddering,
Until that awful hour be here,
You cannot say at midnight drear:
“I am your equal, O my King!”

Interesting, isn’t it? My whole life, I have always flown under the radar; Topping from the bottom. (Meaning, I’m submissive in nature and always have been, but I am always taking mental notes; always. I’m watching you like a hawk. Because the day is going to come when I am going to reveal myself to be just like you.)

Well, another poem of his that I always loved and had forgotten about: “What A Pair of Eyes Can Promise.” Also from Flowers of Evil. Basically, a poem about having sex with a woman who has black pubic hair. (Oui, c’est moi!!! Yay!) (I know — if you’ve never read Baudelaire before, what the hell are you waiting for?)

Anyway. I’m just frisky today. I have no idea why. And I have quite a non-frisky day ahead of me: finish the laundry, then do Booty Core, followed by several hours of script work over the phone with Peitor, followed by a one-time online course in the proper formatting of professional film budgets.  (I know — don’t envy me for my glamorous life!!)

I woke up at 5am, as usual, and today I was singing “Higgs Boson Blues.” Not my favorite Nick Cave song. I don’t dislike it, or anything, but it’s not like — for instance, last night, I was listening to Let Love In and could not get past the first two songs without having to constantly press repeat because I love both those songs (“Do You Love Me? Pt. 0ne” and “She’s Nobody’s Baby Now”) so fucking much that I can’t stop listening to them. I never got to the rest of the CD.

Anyway. Why “Higgs Boson Blues” today? Specifically the line, “I’m driving my car down to Geneva”? I played the song during breakfast and still could not figure out why I was thinking about Geneva.  Much like yesterday, suddenly singing a Pink Floyd song. (Although, except in that instance, I don’t actually like Pink Floyd, so it was even weirder.)

Still, you know. At least my curiosity got me out of bed. And then I realized that I felt quite frisky. And that seems to bode well for whatever I have to do today. Because frisky is good!

In fact, here is the tee shirt I suddenly decided to wear this morning. I’ve owned it a couple of years now, so the booty core curvy-wurvy factor has nothing to do with this tee shirt. It has always fit me like this. And I only paid $3 for it at the dollar store (or the three-dollar store, in this case). But whoever designed this cheap tee shirt is a fucking genius because I guarantee you that no other shirt I own or have ever owned makes me look quite so BLESSED!!!

Me, right this minute, just SUPER blessed








I know! I look like I could be in Playboy or something. But trust me, I can’t. It’s the darn (or should I say lovely?) shirt… (And I’m not even wearing a b-r-a; nor have I ever had any sort of surgical enhancement that keeps me looking perky. This is all just God’s handiwork by way of a cheap tee shirt, blessing me like nobody’s business!!)

All righty!

So this morning, I jump-started Mardis Gras and the beginning of the Lenten season by switching to my pre-Easter breakfast dishes. The ones from Germany that I accidentally used a few weeks back when Nick Cave was having a Conversation in Germany and for some unknown reason I was inexplicably zoning out at the breakfast table: pink with a white skull & crossbones motif, and the little juice glass with the tiny polka dots of pastel green, yellow, pink, blue, and purple.

I have no clue why I decided it was suddenly time to move forward, but move forward, I did.  By way of my dishes. And it felt quite cheery at the breakfast table — skull & crossbones notwithstanding. (And “Higgs Boson Blues” notwithstanding, either — it’s not really what you’d call a “cheery” song.) However, I felt quite cheerful. And quite frisky. And I’m not going to ponder everything to death today. I’m just gonna flow with it.

(Oh, and if you live somewhere in the United States that is not Crazeysburg (and that’s not a hard thing to achieve, trust me!!), you can get tickets to see Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds on their North American tour, beginning at 10am, your time, this Friday, 2/21. Check the tour schedule here!! And Weyes Blood will be on the bill in some of the larger cities.)

Okay!! I gotta scoot. The morning is just about gone here. I hope you have a terrific Tuesday, wherever you are in the world and to wherever it takes you. Thanks for visiting, gang. I leave you with something you’re probably not expecting at all, but it’s a song I love that always enhances my friskiness factor! “Jockey Full of Bourbon”!! Off of Tom Waits’ truly awesome album Rain Dogs, from 1985. Okay! I love you guys!! See ya.


“Jockey Full Of Bourbon”

Edna Million in a drop dead suit
Dutch Pink on a downtown train
Two dollar pistol but the gun won’t shoot
I’m in the corner on the pouring rain
16 men on a deadman’s chest
And I’ve been drinking from a broken cup
2 pairs of pants and a mohair vest
I’m full of bourbon, I can’t stand up

Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone
Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone

Schiffer broke a bottle on Morgan’s head
And I’ve been stepping on the devil’s tail
Across the stripes of a full moon’s head
Through the bars of a Cuban jail
Bloody fingers on a purple knife
A flamingo drinking from a cocktail glass
I’m on the lawn with someone else’s wife
Come admire the view from up on top of the mast

Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone
Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone

I said, hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone
Hey little bird, fly away home
House is on fire, your children are alone

Yellow sheets in a Hong Kong bed
Stazybo horn and a Slingerland ride
To the carnival is what she said
A hundred dollars makes it dark inside

Edna Million in a drop dead suit
Dutch Pink on a downtown train
Two dollar pistol but the gun won’t shoot
I’m in the corner on the pouring rain

Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone
Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone

c – 1985 Tom Waits

Off We Go!! Or Maybe Not!!

I have been trying to get to this blog post for, like, hours. I keep getting distracted. By weird stuff.

You know how your mind will just follow all these weird thought-currents and you don’t even realize you’re doing it? And you’re sort of puttering, too? And everything’s getting to be just a big sort of tangled up ball of thought-strings as you’re puttering far from your computer??

Yes, that’s me. Almost always, frankly — but this morning it seems to be more pronounced. Because I’m finally just sitting down to blog, one and a half hours later than I usually do, and I haven’t actually done anything different today.

I woke up at 5am — and this is truly weird for me — thinking about the Pink Floyd song “Shine On You Crazy Diamond.”

I do not care for Pink Floyd.  And the only song of theirs that I actually ever liked was “Shine On You Crazy Diamond.” But I think it could have been greatly enhanced by being 3 minutes long instead of over thirteen minutes long…. but that’s just me. (Yes, I miss the entire point of Pink Floyd’s music. I’m okay with that, though.)

To me, Pink Floyd was always “boys music.” All the boys loved Pink Floyd, but I didn’t know a single girl who owned a Pink Floyd record (including me).

But I laid there in the dark, wondering why I was singing “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” immediately upon awakening. I hadn’t thought of that song in probably 47 years. (Actually, I think that means I hadn’t thought of the song until well before it was written.) Still. Long time.

Then I realized, well, I was in the mental hospital the first time I heard that song. Maybe that’s why I was thinking about it. I googled the lyrics and thought, “Well, it is a cool song so that’s probably why I liked it. Still, it’s way too long….”

And then I remembered that a really, really long-time girlfriend of mine, from my wee bonny girlhood in Cleveland, dated David Gilmour briefly. They met in an airport, during some sort of bad-weather layover.  Boston, I think. This was somewhere in the 1980s. I think. I can’t remember. But she was/is really beautiful. At that point in her life, she was a very successful fashion designer for Pierre Cardin in NYC. She got me my first job in NYC, actually, so I was able to move there and have a job waiting for me — I was a receptionist for a really successful menswear designer. (Not Pierre Cardin.) And I worked in the Empire State Building and I sat at a big desk behind big glass doors with gold lettering on them. And I was fresh from Ohio, mind you. Right off the boat, as it were (although I arrived in an airplane…)

In those days, I have to keep stressing that we didn’t even have something like MTV yet — it wasn’t even close to existing. The world was still an enormous place — it got much smaller and much more global with cable TV. And especially with MTV.

It used to take forever for current fashions to reach the Midwest because we had no real frame of reference for information to travel quickly. Ohio was always a couple years behind the fashions of either coast. And NYC, in particular, was intensely haute couture.  So there I sat, behind those huge glass doors, at that big desk, at a hugely successful fashion design company, in my Ohio dresses that were outdated by a couple of years.

I couldn’t afford to buy any new clothes yet because NYC was incredibly expensive. It was hard on me, emotionally, because I was only 20 and, you know, those things like “what you wear” matter a lot when you’re 20.

Well, I quickly learned everything about the fashion designing business and I thought it was super cut-throat and mean and diabolical and fake and just awful. And was I terrible at my job. Just abysmal. They fired me after 6 months, but I hated that job and that world and I was super excited to get fired, so, you know, “don’t cry for me, Argentina,” or anything.

However. I think David Gilmour was a bit of a heavy imbiber/recreational drug-sort-of user back then, and so my girlfriend didn’t really hit it off with him too well and stopped seeing him pretty much right away.

But I do find it exceedingly interesting that his current wife, Polly, is a dead ringer for how my girlfriend looked. It’s uncanny, really — how similar they look.

None of this is leading to anything, though, because this is just an example of all the strange stuff going on in my head this morning. And I still have no clue why I was singing that song when I woke up.

And I did fall back to sleep, btw. And had a couple of those sort of astral projection type dreams. I don’t usually have those. But when I do, I only astrally project within my house. I don’t travel anywhere else. So that’s weird, right? Why go to all this trouble to leave your body and then just go sit at your kitchen table? You can (and do) do this while you’re awake…

So that’s a big question mark, too, this morning: Why on Earth do I do the things I do?

Well, who knows. So.

The director of Tell My Bones is set to call here momentarily, to begin the discussions for getting the table read in NYC underway. So that’s exciting, but it’s also making my tummy a little nervous. I’m so glad I don’t have to cast that thing. Seriously. It makes me a little anxious. Let’s just do some sort of creative visualization (meaning: right now, you & me) that everyone who’s incredibly and astoundingly talented will just show up and be there. And then all I have to do is show up and be there, too.

You know, strategies like that have actually worked well for me. So I’m gonna stick with it.

Meanwhile. I’m gonna get moving here!! It’s been such a weird morning. But thanks for visiting. I hope Monday is all you’re hoping it will be and then some! I’m leaving you with my theme song! I think they’re gonna play this when they bury me (or enshrine me or something like that)… All righty. I love you guys. See ya.

“Don’t Cry For Me Argentina”

It won’t be easy, you’ll think it strange
When I try to explain how I feel
That I still need your love after all that I’ve done

You won’t believe me
All you will see is a girl you once knew
Although she’s dressed up to the nines
At sixes and sevens with you

I had to let it happen, I had to change
Couldn’t stay all my life down at heel
Looking out of the window, staying out of the sun

So I chose freedom
Running around, trying everything new
But nothing impressed me at all
I never expected it to

Don’t cry for me Argentina
The truth is I never left you
All through my wild days
My mad existence
I kept my promise
Don’t keep your distance

And as for fortune, and as for fame
I never invited them in
Though it seemed to the world they were all I desired

They are illusions
They are not the solutions they promised to be
The answer was here all the time
I love you and hope you love me

Don’t cry for me Argentina
The truth is I never left you
All through my wild days
My mad existence
I kept my promise
Don’t keep your distance

c – 1976  Andrew Lloyd Webber, Tim Rice

Sunday Morning, Coffee in Bed!!

I know, right? I made it seem (on my Valentine’s Day post) like it was some sort of unobtainable dream — coffee in bed! When in reality, I do this every single day.

And I love it.

And I loved it today! I didn’t really want to get out of bed. It was too amazingly cozy in there. And I toyed with the idea of blogging from bed today, too. However, I had to keep getting out of bed to go downstairs and get more coffee. So on this last trip, I decided it was time to simply get out of bed. (That’s 3 hours of getting in and out of bed… and chattering at my many adorable cats along the way.)

(Sometimes I fantasize about just bringing the percolator up here to my room, getting one of those little refrigerators up here, too, to keep the milk in…. I know. So then why bother to own a whole house??!! I’d seriously never leave my room then.)

Anyway. I have fantasies about other stuff, too. Not just about how to better experience more and more coffee. (But I guess you know you’re getting old when you’re even bothering to have fantasies about coffee at all. Jesus.) (And you also know you’re getting old when you’re lying in bed, with your coffee, happily thinking about these really great old Iggy Pop records from your wee bonny twenty-something girlhood and you know for certain the albums were great — for instance, Party or Blah-Blah-Blah — but you can’t remember a single song on them now. You only remember for certain that the albums were great.)

(Then of course I got onto google, got as far as looking up the songs on Party and just got swept away. The songs on that record were so fucking FUN. )

(I no longer own Party. I’ve had to gradually give away a couple thousand albums, as I’ve moved, and moved, and moved, and moved again since the years on E. 12th Street. I do own several different formats of Blah-Blah-Blah, though, including the original album, because that was really just, I don’t know, an awesome album. I couldn’t imagine ever parting with it, ever. However, Party is on YouTube, in full, and sponsored by SONY so it’s okay to listen to it because somebody somewhere is gonna get paid…) (And I  recommend “BANG BANG” to start, and “Pumpin’ For Jill” — my personal favorite on the record because it’s a love song!!)

Okay! Right back to love! (It’s always all about love for me.)

This young guy here that I absolutely adore to the moon and back turned 18 yesterday, so I bought him a lighter. Mostly because it pisses me off that you have to be 21 in the State of Ohio to buy a freaking lighter. (He doesn’t actually smoke; he’s just a pyromaniac and loves fire.)

But it just bugs the shit out of me that people think we need more and more and more laws to keep young people safe from themselves, instead of, you know, investing in quality time and teaching them how to think for themselves.

What the fuck happened to that? You know?

Do I want to smoke? Do I want to play with matches and burn down my house? Do I want to have unprotected sex and maybe have a baby that I can’t afford to feed, whether or not the father of it sticks around? Do I want to be with some guy only because we created a kid by mistake in, like, under 20 minutes? Do I want to go out in the world and try to make myself happy? Do I want to go to war and kill a bunch of people that I don’t even know just because the Government wants me to?

(Or nowadays: Do I want to play video games funded by the United States Military complex so that I can feel psychologically programmed enough to go to fight in a war for them? Or play video games to try to overcome my PTSD that I got from going to fight a war for them?) (We used to call it all brainwashing in the old days, but now it’s often just called video games.)

Stuff like that. That’s the kind of stuff we learned about in school in the old days. Because our teachers assumed we had brains and could learn how to think.

You know, I started smoking when I was 11. I didn’t have any kind of a smoking habit, ever. I would just go through phases where I loved to smoke. I could walk up to any cigarette machine anywhere when I was a teenager, put in 35 cents and get a pack of cigarettes and smoke.  You didn’t need any kind of ID or anything at all. Just the 35 cents. But I also had really great teachers at school — throughout all my years of public education, I just had great teachers. I knew that certain things were not good for me. And even though, for awhile, as part of the process of learning about life, my body, my world, what I wanted for my future — I tried all sorts of things that weren’t good for me and eventually did away with the stuff that made my life less enjoyable to live.

I guess I was, you know, using my brain and thinking about stuff.

So I bought the guy a lighter for one dollar. Because I think its stupid to be 18 and not be allowed to buy your own lighter, but you can go legally kill people in foreign lands if the same law-makers tell you to.

And I bought a lighter that had a picture on it of an astronaut walking on the moon, because I think it’s cool to dream big. You know — aim for the moon and you land among the stars. That kind of thing. (I know — the Government was involved in all those rockets to the moon, too.  But it seems like they decided it was more cost effective to put the money into launching satellites instead so that we could more effectively kill people down here on the ground!! Yay.)


It’s weird to think that when/if that brand new 18-year-old gets to be my age, I’ll most likely be dead. I’m okay with it; it’s just weird to think about it. I hope he has a really, really cool life, though. He’s super smart, super rebellious, and seems to be 99.9% concerned with just living his own life. I just love that about him.

Well, okay. I’m gonna get Sunday under way here!! Thanks for visiting, gang. Have a good one, wherever you are in the world. Try not to think too much today — you might end up making life-altering decisions that will astound you!! I leave you with the titular song from the masterpiece, Blah-Blah-Blah. (A bit of an ode to the chaos of war and such.) All righty! I love you guys. See ya.


Pop before the war
lunch before the score
steady as she goes
following my nose
I’m a bull mongrel
that’s me

Shimon Peres
whatcha gonna do
I’m from detroit
blow the reveille
deatho knocko
that’s me little ol’me
glamorous me

Johnny can’t read
blah blah blah
I can’t see
blah blah blah
tuna on white
guns all night
blah blah blah

Cat taboo girl-
raped by an ape
cat taboo girl
jam the sucker in
you dig the mongrels
guardian of the state
says you gotta go
bombin’ low

Senator Rambo
merrily you go
monkey butcher knows
a cab to find a bank
a bank to find a loan
’cause you can’t be alone
you dig the mongrels

Violent peace
blah blah blah
buy it right now
blah blah blah
we are the world
we are so huge
blah blah blah
johnny can’t read
blah blah blah
I can’t see
blah blah blah
tuna on white
guns all night
blah blah blah

blue jeans coolies
everything huge
petrified food
pizza killers
from napalm to nice guy
nifty fifty
hit ’em where they live

the most spoiled brats
on god’s green earth

pop before the war

c – 1986 David Bowie, Iggy Pop

The Joys of Teeny Tiny Movies!!

Wow. I’m going to start right off with a digression.

Valentine’s Day on Instagram is quite a fertile little world, in and of itself. The things people choose to post can be just really illuminating.

A poet I follow who lives in Canada — I actually know her, but we haven’t worked together in years. She seems to have quite an eclectic assortment of vibrators. And they also seem to have some sort of seasonal appeal. Meaning — much like me and my dishes — she has favorites for various times of the year and she photographs them (just the vibrator itself) and posts it to Instagram.

Yesterday, of course, she posted a photo of her Valentine’s Day vibrator. (It was red and looked almost sort of like a heart – in a Salvador Dali kind of way).

It would never, in a million years, occur to me to post anything like that to Instagram (or anywhere, actually). (Not that I have an eclectic assortment of vibrators. I’m just saying.)

But I guess, in a way, that’s art. Or perhaps visual erotic poetry, or something like that. (When she’s not photographing vibrators for the various holidays, she photographs chairs — all sorts of chairs that she sees abandoned on the streets.) (There are quite a huge amount of chairs abandoned on the streets in Canada, in case you were curious.)

Of course, Dana Petty posted a beautiful photo of herself with Tom, and said something about love, quoting Anais Nin. And then, moments later, one of Tom’s daughters posted a photo of Tom with his first wife, Jane. (So the step-mother-daughter feud seems to be alive and well out there in LA.)

Tom, of course, didn’t post anything at all to his Instagram page this year because he’s dead.

(Although his “official page” is still alive and well.) (And kicks into high gear whenever there’s something new from WB Records to merchandize — to make money off of him, posthumously.)

(Which only always makes me think of that staggering song he wrote, “Joe,” from The Last DJ album in 2002: So burned out Johnny thinks the books are shifty/ What good’s that alky to me when he’s fifty?/ Well we could move catalog if he’d only die quicker/ Send my regards to the gig and a case of good liquor/ He gets to be famous, I get to be rich/ He gets to be famous, I get to be rich…)

Then there was the usual assortment of really, really cute animal videos for Valentine’s Day.  (And I mean, really cute, gang. From owls to koalas, to tiny kittens playing with baby pigs. Just too fucking cute.)

And, of course, the veritable deluge of Keanu photos for Valentine’s Day. Currently, they are mostly of him with his mom at the Oscars (his fall-back female when he wants the paparazzi to fuck-off). (He has taken his mom to many, many, camera ops over the decades. And she always looks so fucking good. That mom of his doesn’t age at all.)

Image result for keanu with his mom at the oscars
Keanu in 2020, at age 55; Mom, ageless

(I’m seriously hoping that he and that really cool artist woman haven’t broken up, and that her absence was only a case of her saying “no way am I ever appearing with you in public again, dude, ever” — because she seriously got eaten alive by the tabloids after that last thing at the LA Art Museum-Gucci thing.  They just seemed so fucking happy together, though, so I would really hate to think they broke up. And he still looked really happy at the Oscars — (not that I watched it, I see the world through my Instagram feed!) (I hate awards shows) — I don’t think he’s got any kind of a broken heart or anything; I think maybe he just enjoys fucking with the tabloids.)

Anyway. A lot gets revealed on Instagram. Especially on Valentine’s Day. Or perhaps even very early the following morning. I, however, only ever post photos of my various cats or what the weather looks like outside of my various windows, or if there’s a full moon over Basin Street. Always the same sort of non-committal thing. (The blog is revealing enough, I think.)

Oh, and the official Nick Cave page posted a promo for his upcoming art exhibit in Copenhagen that was very humorous — and extremely short. I watched it 3 times before I realized I was watching the same clip over & over. But it was funny.

It had all the elements of an Abstract Absurdity Production, in fact!!

Which actually was what I wanted to post about today. All that stuff up above this is just a massive digression.

Peitor and I got such great work done on the “Lita” script yesterday! And I know this will sound perhaps absurd and abstract in and of itself, but we still only got 3 scenes onto the written page. And those scenes will each last 45 seconds or less. Still, it was great work. And even though it took hours, we were really, really happy with what we had accomplished when we were done working for the day.

(And then Peitor texted later in the evening, to say that we needed a shot of “the desk against the wall once we hear the keys in the door” and, once I thought about it, I saw that he was completely correct. I know that we probably seem insane, but this movie is going to be so fucking cool. Totally absurd and abstract and even a little erotic and disturbing and also quite lovely to look at!)

(And our micro-micro-micro shorts are going to be completely awesome, gang. Every time I think about them, I can’t help but chuckle out loud. We are planning to shoot 2 of those this year. I don’t think we’ll be shooting the “Lita” script this year, or, if we do, it will be very, very late in the year– yes (!!), probably when The Guide To Being Fabulous is premiering in Toronto. Because we refuse to even consider beginning shooting “Lita” until I get that specific A-list actor that I want for the key role. I’m so absolutely serious about that, gang.)

Well, we are planning to have the Abstract-Absurdity web site launched on April 1st, and a couple of the micro-shorts will be streaming there. So, I’ve gotta  lot of work to do there. But I will, no doubt, keep you posted.

Today, I am either going to work some more on In the Shadow of Narcissa — OR — write something Thug Luckless-related! Yes, gang, he’s pushing against the insides of my brain, trying to get onto the paper, too! So we’ll see.

And I spoke at length with Sandra yesterday — she’s up in Canada, now. And, based on her rehearsal schedule up there,  it sounds like the table-reads for Tell My Bones will begin in NYC in March. Shit. So — yeah. I gotta get my mind around that. March is, like, 14 seconds away. Thank god I don’t have to cast that thing. All I have to do is show up.

(And — NO! — even though it is super-duper incredibly easy to get to Copenhagen from JFK, I am not going to try to fit in a micro-short trip to Copenhagen to see the Nick Cave art exhibit! It is not going to happen, because it will only complicate my schedule, my work, my bank account, my life — so it ain’t happening. I’m not even going to think about it, or so much as ponder the logistics of it. And all the airline-booking-deal-alerts that pop onto my computer to tell me what flight deals might be lurking in the direction of Copenhagen will simply be ignored!!)

Yep. Absolutely.

And on that note!!! I’m gonna get started here, gang!! Have a wonderful, wonder-filled Saturday, wherever you are in the world!! Thanks for visiting, gang. I’m not gonna leave you with “Joe” today, even though it is an intense little song — it’s a bit too jaded and acerbic for my tastes here this morning. But I will leave you with something else from The Last DJ (such a great album, gang): “Have Love, Will Travel.” So fucking beautiful. All righty! I love you guys. See ya!

“Have Love, Will Travel”

You never had a chance, did you baby
So good-looking, so insecure
And now you say you can’t remember
When the lines you drew began to blur

Yeah, when all of this is over
Should I lose you in the smoke
I want you to know you were the one

And may my love travel with you everywhere
Yeah, may my love travel with you always

Maggie’s still trying to rope a tornado
Joe’s in the backyard trying to keep things simple
And the lonely DJ’s diggin’ a ditch
Trying to keep the flames from the temple

Oh, and if perhaps I lose you
In the smoke down the road
I want you to know you were the one

And may my love travel with you everywhere
Yeah, may my love travel with you always

How about a cheer for all those bad girls
And all the boys that play that rock and roll
They love it like you love Jesus
It does the same thing to their souls

And when all of this is over
Should I lose you in the smoke
I want you to know that it’s all right

And may my love travel with you everywhere
Yeah, may my love travel with you always

c- 2002 Tom Petty