Trying to Make this Day Not Suck!!!

Even though I don’t have television and I don’t listen to the radio, I still get plenty of really terrible fucking news.

It can get so difficult to pull myself up out of that garbage once it gets into my head.

COVID 19 is, of course, surging everywhere once again — and not just in America. And even though the vaccine is really really close (yay!! — Phase 3 of the clinical trials are beginning), the cure is what we need because…

Nick Cave’s Instagram feed announced this morning that tickets for the Ghosteen tour of Europe next summer are back on sale and even though I already have my ticket — thanks to my friends in Switzerland — at this rate, without a cure, as an American, I will likely never be allowed to travel anywhere ever again.

So a cure would come in really handy right now. (I’m getting really tired of worrying about absolutely everybody; it’s time for me to be really selfish now. I want to see Nick Cave. So please find the cure!!)

Also, the surge in the violation of the 1st Amendment Rights of college and university students all over America is the scariest fucking thing I’ve encountered short of the white Anarchist-Socialists absconding with the Black Lives Matter movement — and leaving Black people — whose lives actually do matter — once more in the fucking dust. (“Black Lives Matter” now basically only means “I Hate Trump”.)

If you are interested in helping to fight for the Freedom of Speech rights of students, you can check out (and join) the Speech First movement.  They are a not-for-profit, run primarily by women, fighting for the rights of students. On Instagram, they are @speech_first.

If you aren’t aware of how bad it’s getting here in the US — students who express opposing viewpoints to the extreme Leftist/Socialist/Progressives masquerading as Democrats, are not only physically assaulted on campuses but receive death threats and have vicious online hate campaigns started against them, which are often sanctioned by the faculty.

And those “old school” teachers  who don’t get on board the new train to violent Intolerance Land, also get those online hate campaigns started against them and can then even lose their fucking jobs.

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury (Full-length Play)

And lest we forget, gang, this once actually happened:

Auschwitz pleads with 'disrespectful' visitors to stop posing on ...
Train tracks leading to Auschwitz

Well, okay.

The earthquake in Los Angeles did lead to canceling my meeting yesterday with Peitor (which has been moved to today instead.) (I know — it’s my day to focus only on writing Thug Luckless: Welcome to P-Town, so, yes, I am a wee bit irritated. ) But I did do a ton of Abstract Absurdity Productions work on my own, yesterday. Including a one-hour phone conference with the accountant in NYC, regarding setting up our LLC, etc., and my brain had pretty much exploded by the time I got off the phone call.

But as far as I know, the earthquake was not Peitor’s fault, so I’m going to try really, really hard to not be irritable through the entire 2-hour phone call today.

And then the rest of the day (and whole weekend, in fact) will be devoted to working on Thug Luckless. So I need to look at the bright side.

Okay. I know you’re really dying to be updated on this: My workout routine now consists of 2 mornings of yoga, 2 mornings of the treadmill, and 2 mornings of aerobics — and then one morning to just say “fuck it” and not workout at all.

I really feel great — I do — but I am not losing even an ounce of fucking weight. It is making me completely insane because, as loyal readers of this lofty blog know so well, I eat really really boring, healthy non-fattening vegetarian food. So why I’ve put on 12 pounds and can’t budge it off of me, is something that leads only to madness if I ponder it too much.

So the only other option is to just stay off the fucking scale until the virus is finally gone from our cultural landscape. So that’s what I’m going to do.

Gone are the days of this past winter, when I had that crazy digital scale that repeatedly enabled me to reach my goal weight in about 3 hours’ time. I miss that!! I don’t fucking care if it’s lying to me at this point, just tell me I lost 12 pounds!! Restore to me the beautiful life I had 12 pounds ago!!

Anyway. I’m not really that insane, but it does bother me.

Okay.  I am just going to say one other thing that is bothering the fuck out of me:  certain family members. Who refuse to ever just tell me that I’m a good writer. And even when something I’ve written has brought tears to their eyes, they can’t say that what I wrote was good. And if I tell them that other people responded really positively to it, too, then those readers “are closeted gays.”

Okay, thank you. Thanks for that. Thanks for that vote of encouragement, you know? I’m fucking 60 now — you’d think it would stop mattering that my family doesn’t support my writing. Or that they can insult all of my readers, all over the world, in one fell fucking swoop. But it does indeed bug the shit out of me.


But I don’t want to be part of the “cancel culture.” Don’t want to disallow that everyone is entitled to their opinions.  So, I just bite my tongue, as they say, and I move on.

Well, all righty! I’m going to get going here, gang. I hope your Friday is really good to you, wherever you are in the world (but not so “Good,” that they send out some Romans to nail you to a cross). Thanks for visiting. Oddly enough, last night, I was back to listening to IZ because his voice makes me so fucking happy. Makes me forget about COVID, and family, and seemingly unrequited love, and LLCs and budgets and investors, dirty politics, and all the fucking damage people can do. So I leave you with it again, even though I only posted it here 2 days ago… Enjoy. I love you guys. See ya.

Smooth Sailin’ So Far…

In case you hadn’t heard, though, there was another earthquake in Los Angeles a couple of hours ago, so I’m waiting to hear from Peitor that all is well, and if we’ll still be doing Abstract Absurdity Productions work on the phone today, or not.

Either way, I have a ton of Ab Ab Pro work to do on my own here, today. Including a phone chat with the accountant in NYC this morning, to find out just how much money it’s going to cost us to set up 723 million separate LLC’s… (Each film needs its own LLC so that a bank account can be opened and an investor’s money can be deposited in the right place.)

Through some miracle, however, whenever Peitor and I have needed to cough up a bunch money to get something done, there has always been money available to cough up, and it hasn’t been some horrible dry hacking painful empty heave.

I’m hopeful that the trend will continue.

All righty. Well. I have now watched all of Season 3 of Agatha Raisin, and in about 11 days, the new season of Endeavor starts streaming on PBS Passport!! I can’t wait!! My absolute favorite show — one of my few reasons left for living. And meanwhile, I’m re-watching Season 2 of Miss Fisher’s Mysteries on Acorn TV. It’s actually been a few years since I watched it, so the shows are kind of new — meaning, I don’t have any recollection of “whodunnit.”  So that makes it still fun.

And speaking of Australia… (we were, because the Miss Fisher Mysteries take place in Melbourne in the 1920s), one of the many Instagram accounts that I follow is about an alpaca named Alfie that lives in Adelaide. And, if you don’t know who he is, he is actually a house pet. He lives indoors with his humans. Like a pet dog.

In case you aren’t aware, alpacas are huge! Really large animals. But so cute. And a number of people keep them as pets. (I seriously want one. They are so personable.) And it kind of amazes me just how many different types of animals people on Instagram have as pets.

Tons of people have pet owls, pet ducks, pet goats. And by this, I mean, they are indoor pets.

Of course, once all of the rest of my many cats transition over to the fields of the Lord, I don’t intend to have any more pets. The responsibility of having them makes traveling really complicated.

However, I really wish I could have a pet alpaca. They are just amazingly cute. (But then I also wish I could have a Henry A.I. sexbot from RealBotix, and I don’t see that happening, either.) (It’s amazing that I bother to get up in the morning, isn’t it? Knowing that my fondest dreams just aren’t ever gonna pan out…)


Today (right now, in fact) is the day my dad moves to that new place — it’s really nice. I saw it when I was down in Cincinnati last week. It’s not a nursing home, exactly. But it is assisted living. His apartment is inside a 3-story building, instead of a stand-alone condo type place, cut off from everybody, that he’s been living in the last 2 years. His new apartment is really, really nice.  And now that he’ll be indoors, among tons of other people and staff, I won’t have to call twice a day anymore.  I won’t have to worry that he fell and nobody knows, or something like that. So that’ll be good — for me, at least.

I cannot even imagine being 90 years old and moving to a new home. Actually, I don’t even like to imagine ever moving from this house I have now at any age, but you just never know how life will come at you, right? So I guess we’ll just see.  I bought the house (2 and 1/2 years ago) to have a quiet home base that I could then travel from, instead of moving back to New York (so fucking glad I did not move back to NY!!!!).  So far, that’s what I do — travel when I have to, then come back home — but traveling from here gets complicated because I am so far from an international airport. But we’ll see. I’ll stay here at least until the cats all transition, because I don’t want to ever have to move them again. Since they’re feral, I have to trap each one of them in order to move them, and trapping them is a nightmare. (I own my own traps, so I do it when I have to, but I hate it and so do they. It fills them with absolute terror and so then, of course, they attack — meaning bite, scratch, attempt to kill you.)

Hard to believe, though, right?

Clockwise from top left: Lucie, Huckleberry (laying flat), Weenie, Daddycakes (now deceased), Tommy, and Doris! (At the old rental house, a couple years ago. Frannie and Scottie are not  pictured here. They were hiding behind the piano.)

They will each go from “sweet” to “attacking you” in a nanosecond if they have to.

So, anyway, here’s hoping I don’t have to relocate them ever again. For now, my birth mom is happy to take care of them when I need to travel, but that won’t go on forever. She’s already 73 years old.

Okay, gang. Sorry this is so brief. I guess I’d better get my notes ready for my phone call with the accountant.  Have a great Thursday, wherever you are in the world, okay? Thanks for visiting. I leave you with my listening-music from last night. I posted it to the blog a few times last year, when it first came out — Bruce Springsteen’s “Hello Sunshine” from his 2019 album Western Stars. (Lyrics are in the video.) Get mellow and enjoy. I love you guys. See ya!!

An Excerpt, of Sorts!

Okay well! Hello, again.

A few things have come to light today as I’ve been trying to do the revised edits for The Muse Revisited Volume 1 —

I wanted to visit because in Issue 2, from back in 2012, they had the most incredibly concise list of everything I had ever published or done in my (at that time) 25-year career!!

And in the updated version of The Muse Revisited, I wanted to include a detailed list of where all these stories had been previously published.

However, I discovered that, in its entirety, is gone. Wiped off the face of the Internet. Darn it!!!!!

So then I went through tons of Word files on flash drives — going all the way back to the late 1990s, and I found all kinds of stuff that I’ve written that aren’t included in The Muse Revisited collection. (And probably will remain un-included, but we’ll see.)

(For instance, an erotic short story I wrote called “The Fever,” appeared in Japanese translation, and was not sold in the US. (I don’t think.)  And I read it in English just now for the first time in well over 20 years and the story is just fucking weird.)

Well, then I happened upon the short story I wrote expressly for Issue 2, and decided to post it here to the blog.

It is not erotic, although it is about sex:  A doomed relationship, from a psychotic woman’s POV. (It’s written in First Person, but it’s not me, okay?!)

What was really weird about this story is that most of the women who read it, found it sort of darkly amusing — and I did write it to be darkly, even tragically, amusing. But none of the men who read it found it amusing…. Ah well. Pushed too many buttons, I guess.

So, anyway! It is posted below!! I would say “enjoy” but that might not be in the best of taste.


“To My Beloved I Am A Stranger” originally appeared in SomethingDark.ue, Issue 2, and was written expressly for them.

It is not necessarily erotic (I guess it depends on your taste), and does include one not very descriptive scene of non-eroticized, non-consensual sex (Fem/Dom anal rape), which might be offensive to some readers, so please be forewarned.



To My Beloved I Am A Stranger
© 2012 Marilyn Jaye Lewis

By then, I had no more words to express my loss. In that regard, I’d finally become empty. A world had leaked out of me and there I was, unloved and discarded. And as it turned out, I’d begun rotting at my core. I could still expound upon how it was when we’d first met, though – or should I say, when we’d first collided? I had plenty of words left for that; words that described destiny manifested; passion and combustion. Or I could talk about magic – the shooting sparks of it. It was through our eyes that we’d become those magical beings: Our eyes – of the same immeasurable depth – were so similar that it was uncanny. One fiery glance exchanged between us and one of us ceased to exist, melding into the other, as if the twin souls that dwelt behind our eyes had in fact been the same soul all along and for there to have been two of us from that moment on became redundant.

I had celebrated this discovery, realizing with joy that we were truly connected. I was eager to subjugate my soul to his, or to even forget mine altogether. He tried to embrace it – this redundancy of our souls – but ultimately could not. It was something about his having “stuff to do.” He’d explained vaguely: “I’m overwhelmed right now; I’m sorry. Give me some time.” People other than me were also counting on him: to show up, to work hard; to do the honorable thing.

So I chose to wait until our bliss would be more convenient. Oh, I waited and waited – patience being one of my more exasperating virtues. I made a vow of chastity to the bedroom mirror. I would wait in purity, I decided, until his schedule freed up.

His schedule, however, would not free up. The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months. I didn’t really notice the time passing at first, because I was that enthralled with the eroticism of my chastity. It was luxurious and deep. To me, chastity meant forsaking all others who weren’t him; it had nothing to do with leaving myself alone. In expensive black underthings, purchased specially – mostly tight-fitting and crotch-less; boned at the waist, to enhance my usually meager curves – I reveled in my bond to him, to our future orgy of togetherness and to how singularly soulful it promised to be. I bought a smooth phallus of silicone; it arrived by mail. My orgasms gushed from me all over the bed then, or sometimes down my trembling legs, all over my spiked heels and straight to the hardwood floor. Passion, unsatisfied, stirred ceaselessly in me, like some ravaged shark, harpooned but unwilling to surrender. My lust to know him carnally kept me up nights. I lost sleep over it; my need to be penetrated by him both haunted and entranced me. When at last I did notice that it had been some time since we’d exchanged that riveting glance of desire, I called him on his cell phone. My call went straight to voice mail.

“It’s me,” I said cheerily. “Hey, how about dinner this week – my treat. Surely, you can make time to meet for a meal? You still have to eat, right? Call me, okay?”

*    *     *

Very early one morning, I sat in my room on the edge of the bed and looked down thoughtfully at my long, pale legs, at my bare feet, and then something hard kicked inside me aiming straight at my heart. It was so early that the sun had not yet risen. In that blue-grey light that always fills my room at that early hour of the morning I contemplated how many days it had actually been since I’d left that voice mail. Perhaps it had floated off into some mysterious wireless void and he’d in fact never received it. Why else would he not return my call?

Well, it was either that or he was still too busy, I decided. Without turning on a light, I pulled off my nightgown and dressed. I dressed more simply during the day, in a pair of black cotton pull-on slacks and a blue tee shirt that fluttered demurely at its flounced hem and its loose cap sleeves.

*     *     *

Most men found me attractive; many even agreed that I was beautiful, so it wasn’t for lack of other potential partners. But what does beauty have to do with the soul, I wondered, as tightness set in to my jaw. What is attraction, really, but a submission to a thing perceived as beautiful simply because it mirrors the other’s hopes for a time? Beauty is really quite transitory and subjective, I thought then; perhaps even meaningless in the scope of more serious things like the soul. So what could other men know about me based on how they thought I looked? I knitted my brow. And what use had I for the opinions of men other than him anyway? I weighed my so-called dating options carefully and decided it was wisest to stand by my soulmate, to stick to the plan of chastity. And wait.

*     *     *

When I was a very young girl, I frequently laced the ice skates on to my small feet in winter, then I sailed out onto the ice and skated in figure eights.  Sharp metal blades, cutting into the cold, hard white of endless ice; mindless patterns tracing the shape of infinity: It was what I now knew of love.

*     *     *

Purge, purge, purge. I looked in the mirror most days and did my best to disclaim myself.

Beautiful yet unlovable – how could that be? At the very least, it was unfair.

He refused to take my calls. Once, though, he answered his cell phone, apparently by mistake. He spoke to me. He was, by nature, prone to being considerate. But there was a wife I hadn’t known about. And some kids. There were past indiscretions he was trying to distance himself from. A new leaf he’d turned over and was now trying hard to keep in that fresh and prostrate position – downward-facing, away from temptation.

“But what about me – your soulmate?” I asked, something in my voice sounding tiny and quivering. Apparently, the plan was to leave all thoughts of me behind.

This was not in the cards – and I had cast the cards many times, so I knew whence I spoke.  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I apologized for everything abhorrent I might have said or done to cause this reversal in my fortune. I tried making the apology sound full and soft as a comforting eiderdown that could cover even things I could never imagine he might have inferred. But it was useless. Hopeless. Utterly over in his mind.

“But that orgy of togetherness,” I tried weakly. “That melding of our souls – don’t tell me all this waiting was in vain.”

“I never agreed to anything like that.” It struck me then that I might as well have been speaking in a foreign tongue. My pleas did battle with his rebelling ears – he steadfastly refused to listen.

*     *     *

Obviously, I had hoped our union would be less invasive for him – more of a treasured embrace, without all the struggling. As it was, I had sunk to the least attractive place inside me, and here I had spent so much money on all the black undergarments. I could no longer wear them; they made me feel foolish – like a woman who has aged beyond her prime and is the last one to realize it.

The idea of buying the wig came to me suddenly – like a flash of brilliance across the doomed landscape of an emptying mind. In the wig I felt pornographic, unchaste; my soul degraded to two slick lips, a hole spread open and willingly probed by the greedy glare of even my own judgmental eyes. I could be anyone, any girl; there was no one I would need to protect. In the wig and a pair of dark glasses, I could approach him easily as he’d finally exited the towering building downtown where he worked and was getting into his car. He turned to face me without suspicion; why would he suspect a redhead of anything sinister? He probably didn’t even know any redheads.

I pushed the knife into him simply because I could; because it was very sharp and it was in my right hand and because when he had turned from his car to face the redhead, he wasn’t in any way expecting to be stabbed. But I didn’t want him to die; I only wanted to shock him into submission. It was the only plan I could come up with that was likely to be taken seriously, to force him to stumble backward into the front seat of his car, scoot over and slump there slightly, letting me drive.

A simple phone call, an acquiescence to meet for dinner would have alleviated all this pressure; a few hours alone with him, each of us engorged in carnal bliss was all I’d been asking for. I wanted my moment with him and since it was not being offered, I would have to take it. That wound he sustained now was not life-threatening; it was just messy. He was not going to die. But I didn’t want him to lose so much blood that any hope of an erection later would be out of the question.

“Come into the bathroom and let me dress that,” I said, dragging him through my front door.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” he bellowed. By now, of course, he’d realized that it was just me under a red wig. His hands were full of his own blood. There was an undeniable need to stop it from streaming out of him. Even he was forced to listen to me now.

“Just dinner,” I spat. “Just dinner – that was too much to ask?”

“Fuck you.”

“I know, I know – you will.”

He glared at me in disbelief, the blood still streaming unabated because he would not go into the bathroom. I had to push him in.

“You’ve turned a leaf before, you’ll turn it again,” I explained. “I just want a few hours with you – is it going to kill you?”

*     *     *

He was so disagreeable that it almost made me wonder why I loved him.

I had to tie his hands behind him because he would not stop fighting me in the bathroom and his hands were covered in blood, blood that was smearing all over me, and now the smell of it was turning my stomach.

“Stop it,” I said. “Just stop.”

He was weak; deprived of the use of his hands, he became more manageable for me. I opened his shirt and cleaned and dressed the wound, but it was deep; clearly it would need stitches to heal properly. A stint in the women’s jail was likely looming large in my future but it was too late to regret it now.

I pulled off the wig and shook out my hair. My head was sweaty. “If I untie you,” I asked, “can we put these clothes in the washing machine, or are they ‘dry clean only’?”

“I want to go home.”

“You’re in no condition to drive.”

“I want to go home. Let me out of here. I want to go home.”

I studied his face, those eyes that were so much like mine, and I still saw my soul reflected there. Allowing him to leave now would be such a waste, I decided.

*     *     *

In my black underthings – the boned corset, the garters that held up the black stockings, the crotch-less panties – he looked even more like me. Of course, we were bathed in the flattering glow of candlelight, where it was easier to blur the lines of distinction between us. Plus, I’d made up his face and combed back his hair…

I propped him in front of the mirror in my bedroom, leaning him over slightly against the dresser. I stood behind him, wearing nothing, and I studied us both reflected there. Our faces were lovely. We were beautiful together: he, in my expensive underwear looking like a more beautiful me, and me, naked. It was worth that vow of chastity, I thought. It engendered something sacred to our union. I could have done without the knowledge of his wife, though, and of those kids; of all that life he’d been living while I had naively waited for him to return my phone calls. But I wasn’t going to get choosy. He was here with me now, alone. We were in our world. And beneath the boned corset I’d cinched around his waist, the bandages were holding. He’d stopped bleeding. But he was still weak. An erection was nowhere in sight.

His hands were still tied, too, unfortunately – I couldn’t trust him otherwise. He’d come this far without once joining me in my desires; there was no reason to expect him to change his tune now. The silicone phallus that had his specter all over it – it was how I had filled myself during those empty nights without him – I turned it on him. I impaled him. He leaned against my dresser and I screamed. I hadn’t wanted it to be this way. It felt useless to do the impaling. The point had been for me to feel full of him, not to fill him with the empty poison of my own longings. Even when he was bearing the burden of being me, I was unlovable. I could see it in the mirror. It devastated me.

© 2012 Marilyn Jaye Lewis

Hitting It On All Cylinders!!

Wow, yesterday was just a really, really great day.

It was the best day I’ve had in a really long time.

It was one of those revelatory days. I won’t go into too much detail about it, but several writers were unexpectedly emailing me with feedback about my newest works and it actually kind of blew me away.

One man wrote in response to that new flash-memoir piece I wrote last Friday — he’s not the potential publisher; he’s a much younger Iranian writer, although I think he’s living somewhere in Europe now. He asked if he could read the piece, so I sent it to him a couple days ago, never dreaming it would affect him as much as it seems to have.

Since he is the sole person to have seen that piece so far, it took me by surprise that he liked it as much as he did. And, of course, it made me feel great. Because almost no one responds directly to me about my writing anymore. They just don’t.

And then, my friend in Brussels (a photo- journalist) sent me an email with feedback about my upcoming novel, The Guitar Hero Goes Home.

He is the first person to give me any meaningful feedback whatsoever on the entire novel (other people have given me feedback on specific chapters) — and the manuscript has been circulating for over a year already.

Plus, I only sent it to him a few days ago, and I honestly never dreamed he’d read it so quickly. or have such meaningful feedback for me. There’s one small part about the main guy’s heart attack that I see now I need to clarify.  Plus, this friend is also the guy who told me he hated my original title, which I did end up changing, so he doesn’t mince words.

Anyway, he said really kind things about the novel. It’s experimental fiction, which can be dicey, but he ultimately seems to have really liked it. Words such as: compelling, intense, challenging, elusive.

I love those words!

Also, yesterday, one of the webinars I took re: Abstract Absurdity Productions, was about developing a film festival strategy (which festivals to submit films to — if any — and why).

I have had really good experiences with the 4 different film festivals I’ve submitted to in the past, two of them were Tier 2 festivals, one was a Tier 1. I won’t go into all the details, I just want to say that from what I learned yesterday, I became sort of aware that my writing is really good.

The guy giving the webinar is the programmer for a Tier 2 festival that I’ve entered twice over the years, and both times scored just 2 points shy of being a finalist, but that is still a really good score, and they make a big deal about it. It’s still an honor. But what I didn’t know is that that particular festival gets thousands of submissions, 80% of which are no good, right off the bat. So only 20% even get into the judges’ hands

I was quite astounded by that number. And I sort of saw my own projects from a different angle.

The Tier 1 festival I entered was one sponsored by the Academy Awards (the Oscars) and I scored in the top 8% out of 7000 entries that year.  I knew that was good, even back then. I wasn’t aiming to win — I was aiming to make connections and see what the feedback was. So I knew the score was good, but from this new distance of time, I see that my work consistently shows up. And in smaller places, it actually even wins the awards.

So, it was just a good day. I was getting a new perspective on my work. Coming to a new understanding about it, since I get so little outside feedback anymore.

And then, of course, Peitor and I did actual “Ab Ab Pro” work on the phone for a few hours and got a lot accomplished.  We have narrowed it down to the 3 micro-micro shorts we want to write the scripts for next — with an eye toward shooting them as soon as feasibly possible in these days of COVID. (We have literally 20 micro-micro-shorts in development. And 3 other projects that are from 4-10 minutes in length that we kind of consider our “gems,” including Lita måste gå!)

We do have just so much work to do but it really is moving forward and I feel really happy about that, too.

I’m at that place in my life now where, as long as I can get to the close of a day and feel really good about the day and want to come back and experience my life again tomorrow — that’s what matters now. So I am always so grateful when I do have just a really affirming day.

Okay. Today is all about beginning the re-edits of The Muse Revisited Collection, in anticipation of publishing POD trade paper editions of all three volumes in the collection.

And then Valerie in Brooklyn is supposed to call later to discuss where we are on all this cover art I still need! (Primarily for The Guitar Hero Goes Home so that I can actually finally publish it.)

Nick Cave sent out yet another Red Hand File early this morning — still relating to his really amusing one from the other day, where he tried to score a free piano from Fazioli in Italy. Now it seems that some fans have started up crowdfunding campaigns to buy Nick that really expensive piano.  (Not so far from what I thought was a ridiculous comment to make — that we were taking up a collection to buy him one for Christmas. Apparently not so ridiculous a comment after all.)

Anyway, he has asked his fans to not do that. That he can buy his own piano.

Sort of weird, right? That fans took this really delightful post of his and turned it into this thing.

All righty. Well, I’m going to get started on the editing here. I hope you have a really nice Wednesday, wherever you are in the world, gang!! Thanks for visiting. I’m going to leave you with my listening-music from last night. I’ve posted it here before, but it is really just  lovely — probably the most popular contemporary ukulele recording out there, even though Israel Kamakawiwo’ole has been dead for a number of years already.

I had this on repeat for I don’t know how long last night — in bed, lights out, sun setting — and it took me to some amazingly rapturous places.  His voice was so beautiful. This is his medley of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What A Wonderful World.” Listen. Enjoy. Find peace, baby!! I love you guys. See ya.

An “Ab Ab Pro” Kind of Day!!

Yes, that’s how I usually refer to Abstract Absurdity Productions because to say Abstract Absurdity Productions all the time,  can take forever and get kind of annoying…


So, yes. The entire day is now dedicated to Ab Ab Pro stuff. Webinars. Watch some short films that one of our producers produced on the proverbial shoe-string budget. (Same producer who gave us a budget proposal for Lita måste gå! (Lita’s Got to Go!) that was well into the 7 figures…)

Anyway.  We also received our script breakdown from the Assistant Director the other day. So that’s exciting. Technically, it’s an 8-day shoot. But we still have to decide if we want to shoot some of the scenes on location in Sweden and Paris — and now Portugal has become an option. There is some property there that matches what we need, and Peitor has a producer in Portugal who can arrange it. But we’re still just trying to get all our little ducks in a row.

We need to make 2 or 3 of our micro-micro shorts first. Actually shoot them. Which will probably be in the cinematographer’s studio down in Alabama. (The micro-micro shorts are between 45 seconds to 2 minutes long. Again — complete stories, but totally absurd. And still filmed in a style that is an homage to the European New Wave in cinema from the mid 1950s- early 1960s, which, way back then, was an inexpensive way to shoot a film but now it makes your budget go through the roof, even for micro-micro shorts.)

So, you can probably see how this new schedule I’m on, where I concentrate on only one specific thing for the whole day, really helps me make progress on each project. It is definitely bringing me some sanity.

And yesterday, I was finally able to get some notes off to a writer in the UK re: his manuscript. And then I was even able to spend a couple hours reading my friend’s travel book about the Netherlands, which I have been trying to finish for a few months already.  (Whatever Comes My Way: Travels in the Netherlands by Roger Gaess) I really enjoy reading the book so I didn’t want to just plow through it. I’ve never been to the Netherlands so I actually really want to take in what he has to say. (We are colleagues from NYC but he lives in Brussels now.) Plus, I like to get out the pocket atlas and look at these places he’s talking about — see where they actually are. It’s funny how you can think you know a foreign country geographically, but then look at an atlas and realize you are a little bit off (or even wrong, as the case may be!!)

So, anyway.  I was able to really enjoy that for a couple of hours yesterday.

And today is just going to be busy from start to finish. But — I did do the treadmill already, so that’s out of the way!! I’m not going to get to 7pm tonight, all happy & ready to settle down and stream another new episode of “Agatha Raisin” only to discover that I hadn’t worked out yet!!

So, forcing myself to work out at 7am, instead, is really helping me mentally, too.

Okay! Well, there was another — very brief– Red Hand File from Nick Cave very early this morning. Apparently, some of his more zealous fans sent a “tsunami of mail” to the piano company in Italy yesterday, telling them to give Nick a free piano. (See yesterday’s post.) And so he asked people to kindly stop doing that…

Wow. People can get so intense, can’t they? A little militant, I think, but I guess their hearts were in the right place.

On that note, I gotta scoot and get this day underway. I want to take a webinar before I speak to Peitor. Have a terrific Tuesday, wherever you are in the world!! Thanks for visiting, gang. I’m leaving you with a song I am never ever going to get tired of — it was in an Instagram feed early this morning, so it’s been on my mind for a couple of hours. I’ve posted it here many times before, but here it is again!! “Shivers” by The Boys Next Door (1979). Enjoy!! I love you guys. See ya.

Another Glorious Day in Crazeysburg!!

I know it’s only been 4 days since I started using the calendar method to get my work done every day (meaning, the weekly calendar I drew up where each day, I tackle only one specific thing for the entire day), however, I can’t tell you how much more manageable my life already feels.

On Friday and Saturday, I finally wrote that new flash-memoir piece and sent it off to a potential new publisher. And then I got great work done yesterday on Thug Luckless: Welcome to P-Town.

And even though it made me feel a little anxious that I won’t be working on Thug again until Friday (Fridays, Saturdays & Sundays, I have set aside for my own writing), it still felt just great to be able to sit at my desk and write, without having that voice in the back of my mind telling me I ought to stop and work on some of the other tons of stuff on my desk. (Or, actually, in piles on the floor.)

The schedule actually helps my mind feel free.

I also switched my workout schedule to early mornings, right after I meditate. That way, in my mind at least, the whole day ahead is just sort of free.

I’m not sure what it is about self-imposed structure that relieves my anxiety, but it does. But it has to be self-imposed, because when anyone, or anything, tries to impose a random structure onto my day, I really rebel against it. With every fiber of my being!!

Hence, I had real problems with school. Thankfully, I was really smart so I could always keep up with my homework, etc., but I was always skipping out on classes. And I have no recollection of how it happened, but I somehow managed to arrange it so that the signature that the Attendance Officer had on file for my mother was actually forged by me, so my excuse notes from “my mother” always matched the signature they had on file because it was actually mine.

Anyway, I always skipped so much fucking school! And still graduated up near the top of my class and was the Valedictorian on Graduation Day. (There were 2 Valedictorians — one boy, one girl.) So even that was sort of a cool thing to pull off, I guess. There I was, giving the entire Graduating Class (over 800 kids) advice on how to have a really bright future, and I’d skipped more school than all of them combined. Plus, I’d been institutionalized in a nuthouse for awhile. And had been notoriously raped. And was openly bisexual. (And had the leads in the school plays!) I mean, the entire school knew all this stuff about me. It’s just so weird to think that I was the one giving them advice.

I also recall a Home Room teacher that I had (Home Room was where you went first thing, for the attendance check in). She was about 70 years old and taught English, but I never actually had her as a teacher for any of my English classes.  I was working on a poem during Home Room one morning, and I was having trouble with a specific word. I went up to her and asked her about the word or how to spell it, or something like that.  And she saw that I was working on a poem.

SHE: “Do you write a lot of poems?”

ME: “Yes, I do.”

SHE: “I’d love to read them, would you bring some in and show them to me?”

ME (a bit startled): “Okay.”

And so I did. I brought her a stack of poems I’d written and she took them home with her for a few days and then gave them back.

What I actually didn’t know was that she was the teacher in charge of the school newspaper. And a few days later, random classmates were coming up to me in the halls, telling me they loved my poems.

Finally, one of my closest friends (my friend who now works for NASA in Houston and is still battling cancer), came up to me and said the very same thing. I stopped him there in the hall and said, “Why is everybody saying that?”

And it turned out that the teacher had published a bunch of my poems in the school newspaper!! Without asking me…

So weird. The entire school seemed to know every last intimate detail about me. Always. But that same teacher nominated me for inclusion in the Quill & Scroll Honor Society. (Again without telling me.) And I got in.  I still have my little pin. It actually meant a lot to me.  I was already taking my writing really seriously, even back then.

Although I considered myself primarily a songwriter, I did write a lot of poems.

Once, after having read Kafka’s Letters to Milena, I was so moved by it (I was a huge fan of Kafka), that I wrote a love poem about Kafka and Milena — and a train that Kafka never gets on — for my grandma up in Cleveland, and I mailed it to her. When she got it, she called me on the phone and was crying. She really loved it. (She was a Polish-Jewish immigrant who had had family members in concentration camps during WWII, etc.) (Kafka, who was Jewish, died long before the war. But Milena, who was not Jewish, died in a concentration camp in Germany for helping Jews.)

I will never forget that, obviously. Just another one of the reasons why my grandma was my most favorite human being in the entire world — she  seemed to understand me and she always just loved me, just how I was. She never asked me to try to be some other way.

When she died, my family didn’t even tell me. (I lived in NYC at the time and she still lived back in Cleveland.) They didn’t tell me she had died until after she was already buried. Not only did they not want me at the funeral, I think they just wanted to spite me somehow. To hurt me, you know. (And they did. It is truly astonishing that I am able to keep any sort of relationships with even a few of my family members. )

I didn’t get to see my grandma’s grave until 15 years later. I made a special trip to Cleveland (from NYC) to see it. And there it was, her tiny grave — right next to my grandpa’s grave!

My grandpa had died one month before I was born, and I was named after him, in the Jewish tradition. My grandpa’s spirit was a big part of my childhood because I loved my grandma so much and she had loved him. And a framed photo of him that always sat on her coffee table throughout my childhood, now sits here on a bookshelf right next to my desk. I still look at my grandpa every day.

Well, what was so weird about finally seeing my grandpa’s grave, after he’d been dead close to 50 years, was that the entire time I was in elementary school in Cleveland, the schoolbus drove past that cemetery twice a day, every day, from 1966 to 1971, and NO ONE in my family had ever told me that my grandpa’s grave was in that cemetery. No one ever once took me to see his grave.

I find that just astounding. That constant feeling that I was never important enough to matter. I still deal with those feelings.

But onward. I try not to dwell on it.

Okay. Nick Cave sent out an amusing Red Hand Files letter today. You can read it here. It’s about his attempts to score a £200,000 Fazioli piano for free. (We’re now taking up an international collection to get him that piano for Christmas.) (Totally just kidding about that!!) (I sure hope I am, anyway.)

Anyway, the piece was really cute. And it sort of reminds me of myself, in a way.  Because, in the near future, I am going to begin reviewing adult sex toys online. (And I’m not doing it just to score free toys — it’s more about staying au courant in the always expanding world of sextoys.) But I keep sort of fantasizing (no pun intended, actually), about how great it would be if RealBotix gave me a free, top-of-the-line Henry A.I. sexbot to sample and review!!

It would make me so fucking happy!!! But I honestly don’t see it really happening. Even a no-frills Henry is something like $8,000.

Okay. Enough!!!!

Today is the day for me to go into town and get the groceries. And then I am going to be spending the workday, getting caught up on reading other writers’ works that have been sent to me and have begun to pile up. So I feel really good about making some headway with that.

And, in the evenings, I have been thoroughly enjoying Season 3 of “Agatha Raisin”!!! So life is good, gang.

Okay, I am off to town now, in my happy little surgical-grade COVID 19-approved surgical mask!!! Enjoy your Monday, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting, gang! I leave you with Tyler Jarry’s “dad packing the car for a family trip.” This is totally American. I don’t know if it will translate to dads in your country, or not. Perhaps it does!! But enjoy!! It lasts one minute. I love you guys. See ya!

Excerpt #1: Thug Luckless: Welcome to P-Town

Okay, gang. Today my post is really short because it’s my day to work on Thug Luckless and I don’t want to get too distracted.

Guess what?? During the night, the hydrangea next to my kitchen porch finally bloomed!!  I took this photo just as the sun was coming up, around 6am.

It’s a gorgeous day here in Crazeysburg, but it is supposed to get really hot again, so I’ve already done the treadmill for today. And I’m planning to just sit here at my desk and work on the new novel and hope that the heat doesn’t get unbearable by midday.

As the title of this post implies, I’m going to post my first excerpt from Thug Luckless: Welcome to P-Town.

Even though it’s a philosophical novel, it is also going to be hardcore erotic. This excerpt is not sexually explicit, though. I just like the way it flows.

For readers new to the blog: the title character, Thug Luckless, is an abandoned sexbot, alone in the post-apocalyptic city of P-Town. (And it’s not Provincetown, Rhode Island — it’s called P-Town for a different reason.) The novel is told from Thug’s POV. His owner, Mavis, dies unexpectedly from an aneurysm while in the middle of having sex with Thug, and no one in the town knows how to turn him off. So he wanders the town; is always  “willing & able” to have sex with anyone who approaches him,  but he becomes increasingly less willing as time goes on and he gradually develops self-awareness.  However, he is still not able to stop having sex, even though he wants to, because nobody can turn him off. (The premise is Pinocchio-esque in certain ways.)

All righty. The excerpt is followed by some of my treadmill music from today!! I was listening to Nocturama (2003), by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds, and the song is “Bring It On.”

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


Excerpt from Thug Luckless: Welcome to P-Town.  (Approx. 1  & 1/2 pages)

Taken from Part One: Mavis Says Goodbye
© 2020 Marilyn Jaye Lewis

In the truck, it was unnerving – packed in that crate. I couldn’t move. And it was dark. Darker than anything I could remember since getting the eyes. Plus, there was stuff all over me. Tiny little flecks of it. Even though I had the clothes on, I could still feel it.

When the lid was pried open – finally – there she was. Mavis. My angel with a crowbar. She’d come to my rescue, like I’d hoped somebody would. She was kind. She smiled a lot – starting from the very moment that she said “hello, you” and took me out of the crate.

And she was really smart. Right away, she got rid of that remote. There was none of that zapping me from across the room. Those times in the factory, during the tests – I always felt invaded.

Whenever Mavis needed me to do something specific, she came up close to me and put her hands right on me, gently feeling for the buttons. Her fingers – that was something really comforting. It felt nice when Mavis touched me.

I miss Mavis.

*     *     *

“There used to be stars up there,” Mavis said, sitting up. “Do you know what stars are?”

It was my first time having a conversation. The images came slowly. I waited for the picture to come into the front of my head – to the screen – and then I focused on it: Stars. Shining gaseous lights in the heavens. Seen as distant diamonds in a black night sky.

Although not in P-Town. You could no longer see stars in the skies of P-Town.

“Yes,” I told her, sitting up, too. “I know what stars are.”

She handed me my cigarette. Out of politeness to her, it was never lit. She had trouble with her lungs. Because of the accident.

I stuck the cigarette in the corner of my mouth. It stayed there unlit while we had our conversation.

“Before the accident at the plant,” she continued, “the sky was full of stars. I was married then. Well, I should say that my husband was still alive then. We used to come up here some nights and make love. Under the stars.”

“Make love,” I said. I waited for the image to come, and then I focused: Fucking. What she and I had just been doing. That’s all that came. “There’s some confusion,” I told her. “Make love is not coming up.”

“What we were just doing,” she explained. “Making love is what you and I were just doing.”

“Fucking,” I said. “Fucking is to make love?”

She shrugged her naked shoulders. “Yes,” she said. “With us, it is. Remember that, okay?”

“Okay.” I felt the word fucking being erased, and in its place: Make love.

“Are you cold?” she asked. “Do you want to get dressed and go back inside?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Are we cold?”

She stood up and I watched her pull her dress back on. “I think so,” she said. “Let me help you.”

Up there on the roof, Mavis dressed me. I watched her, learning her movements. Committing them to my inner screen. I watched her fingers button the front of my shirt. Then I looked into her face. She was the very same height as I was. I could see directly into her eyes. On the screen inside of my head there were flowers; fields and fields of flowers. “Pretty,” I said.

Mavis smiled. She took the cigarette out of my mouth for a moment and then kissed me.

“You’re pretty, too,” she said. “Now, let’s go back downstairs.”

“We’re cold?” I asked.

“Yes, honey.” She linked my arm with hers. “We’re cold.”

© 2020 Marilyn Jaye Lewis
Excerpt from Thug Luckless: Welcome to P-Town


“Bring It On”

This garden that I built for you
That you sit in now and yearn
I will never leave it, dear
I could not bear to return
And find it all untended
With the trees all bended low
This garden is our home, dear
And I got nowhere else to go

So bring it on
Bring it on
Every little tear
Bring it on
Every useless fear
Bring it on
All your shattered dreams
And I’ll scatter them into the sea
Into the sea

The geraniums on your window sill
The carnations, dear, and the daffodil
Well, they’re ordinary flowers
But they long for the light of your touch
And of your trembling will
Ah, you’re trembling still
And I am trembling too
To be perfectly honest I don’t know
Quite what else to do

So bring it on
Bring it on
Every neglected dream
Bring it on
Every little scheme
Bring it on
Every little fear
And I’ll make them disappear

So bring it on, bring it on
Bring it on
Every little thing
Bring it on
Every tiny fear
Bring it on
Every shattered dream
And I’ll scatter them into the sea

© 2003 Nick Cave

And What A Fine Saturday It Is!

So far, I’m sticking to my new schedule and it has been really effective. I got the new flash-memoir piece written and sent off for possible inclusion in a new anthology.  We’ll see. It’s a new market for me — well, it’s a new LGBTQ+ small press.

And now I am at last getting ready to get back to work on Thug Luckless: Welcome to P-Town!! And I am really excited about that.

Sometime in the near future (?) I am going to be a guest on two different podcasts. I think primarily to promote my new novel The Guitar Hero Goes Home. But it could end up being that I just promote my delightful self, in general, and chatter away about many sex-positive things. I will keep you posted.

It is such a beautiful day here today.  And overall I just feel so much calmer. Having that new weekly schedule has organized my life, overnight. I wake up, I look at the calendar on my wall, it tells me what I’m scheduled to work on today, and my life instantly falls into line. I don’t have to look at my desk, from one pile to another, and feel guilty before the day even starts because I’m not getting enough done.

Well, onto other topics.

I finally gave up on Quibi. I didn’t want to. I loved the whole idea of it and I loved the series, “Agua Donkeys” but that series is long over and I don’t like anything else they’re offering. And, after chatting with Valerie in Brooklyn the other day, and she reminded me that there is a new season of “Agatha Raisin” on Acorn TV — and I love “Agatha Raisin” and I love Acorn TV — I decided it would be a better way to spend my money, so I cancelled Quibi and I re-signed-up for Acorn TV and then watched the first episode of Season 3 of “Agatha Raisin” last evening and was just delighted from start to finish.

I used to subscribe to Acorn TV, and to Hulu, and to Netflix, and also to CBS Special Access, but then I cancelled everything except PBS Passport and Amazon Prime. It was just way too much TV. I also cancelled regular cable TV because of that — just too much. And its just me all by myself here. So it was just ridiculous.

I hate spending too much time in front of the TV (or streaming stuff on my iPad). It makes me feel like my whole life is drifting away from me. And even though there are TONS of shows on Acorn TV that I just love, I am going to try to not get all-out addicted to it. Of course, now that I have my trusty treadmill, I can sort of buffer the guilt-effect by doing the treadmill while streaming too much TV…

However, I did just pre-order the new Amazon firestick 4k.  I did this because I really, really wanted to watch that Nick Cave solo concert on my  smart TV the other night — the TV I inherited when my stepmom died that has sat on the floor in the dining room, gathering dust for 6 months.

However, when I went to hook it up, I remembered that I didn’t have the AC cable to plug the darn thing into the wall! And that’s why it’s sitting there gathering dust! That pesky electricity current that TV sets seem to really thrive on.

Anyway, I was chatting on the phone with Valerie when I suddenly remembered I needed to order the AC cable and at that point she urged me to get the 4k firestick because it was on sale… And since, if my friends told me to jump off a bridge, I would of course do it, I went ahead and ordered the firestick 4k along with the new AC cable.

[In America, when you tell your parents you want to do something because your friends are doing it, they say, “If your friends wanted you to jump off a bridge with them, would you do that, too?”] [It is best to reply “no,” but it is almost impossible to not reply instead, “What does that have to do with anything?!”]

Little by little, TV is inching its way back into my life. I can only assuage my conscience by reminding myself of that trusty treadmill…

And it’s not that I am that much of a workaholic that I can’t have something wonderful like Acorn TV again. I don’t mind not working, especially at night. But what I do mind is how easy it is for something like “Agatha Raisin” to lead to a nice bottle of St. Emilion and some Camembert, and then the next thing I will know is that I will have gained 20 pounds or something. Putting on weight is indeed something I have a real aversion to.

Okay. Well. Not that it’s even possible to find any bottle of St. Emilion, let alone a nice one, out here in the Hinterlands. Still, it’s the whole idea.

Anyway. Enough of my insanity. All craziness aside, I do love Acorn TV and I was sad to give up on Quibi because I loved the premise so much, but I simply wasn’t watching it anymore. None of the shows appealed to me. And almost every show on Acorn TV appeals to me.

Okay, gang. Let me get back to Thug Luckless here. I hope you are having a great Saturday, wherever you are in the world!! Thanks for visiting, gang. I leave you with the official trailer for Season 3 of “Agatha Raisin”. Enjoy. I love you guys. See ya!

Okay, Now We REALLY Gotta Get Organized!!

It has come to my attention that I now need to set up a weekly calendar, setting aside one specific day each week for concentrating on one specific thing. So that each week can become a little more productive.

For instance, those of you who are (extremely patiently) awaiting feedback, suggestions, opinions from me on something you’re in the process of writing, have already written, or have even already published — I am now going to set aside one day a week to focus strictly on reading other writers’ works and finally replying to them.

So if you are one of those people patiently waiting on me to get back to you, I am going to make sure I focus on it and get back to you in a meaningful way as soon as I can.

But please just make a note — if you’re a new writer, I’m happy to give suggestions or feedback , however, if you’re asking me for actual editing, I charge for that.  I am negotiable and flexible with my fees, though (i.e., a single parent who is still in college and working part-time — I will try hard to find a fee you can afford). I also am open to the idea of trading — if you’re an established writer needing an editor, and if you’re also good at editing,  I’m always happy to trade projects for “free” editing. But, you know, if I give you a 45-page chapbook to edit, it wouldn’t seem fair to give me a War & Peace-length novel to edit in return!!!

Anyway. I’m flexible!!!

So now I’m going to have set days when I’m writing, set days when I’m reading, set days when I’m brainstorming on new ideas, and set days to work on my once-again-growing Abstract Absurdity Productions “to-do” list.

I guess you can see that my work load has gotten a little out of control yet again.

All righty!!

So, this arrived yesterday!! It was waiting on my porch when I got home from my dad’s house.


Ethan Russell probably took every single iconic photo of the Beatles and the Rolling Stones from my wee bonny girlhood!  And I mean every single one.

The Rolling Stones | Rolling stones keith richards, Keith richards ...
Book jacket for Ethan Russell Photographs

He also took equally iconic photos of the Who, Janis Joplin, The Doors, etc. — all photos that I also remember well from my girlhood. But those ones of the Beatles and the Stones were just a huge part of my life. And having them all collected under one cover is just kind of astounding to me, you know? He took so many of the photos that are truly ingrained forever in my brain, from a time when I loved all those musicians so much.

This was a Kickstarter campaign, and this was the second issue of the book. I don’t know if you can actually just buy the book somewhere.  But if you can, it is worth every penny.

Okay, also yesterday — I believe that I was the very last person on planet Earth to finally get the stream last night for Idiot Prayer:  Nick Cave Alone at Alexandra Palace. At least that’s how it felt!! From those hours even before dawn yesterday, people in Australia and Asia were already posting to Instagram all their many comments and photos of the concert they were already watching. And then as the day unfolded, everyone all over Europe started doing the same thing. And then — finally – at 10pm Eastern time, the concert started streaming in my kitchen, and when I posted my own post to Instagram, absolutely everyone all over the world, except me, was already sound asleep…  or so it felt!

But, wow, gang — the concert was just beautiful. 90 minutes of him alone at the piano, just singing one song after another and the time flew. He sang one brand new song (I think it’s brand new),  “Euthanasia,” that was so captivating. And I thought to myself, Wow I am going to remember every word of this! But of course, when I woke up this morning, I discovered I couldn’t even recall one word of it. But it was beautiful. I do remember that.

Nick Cave Announces Solo Piano Concert Livestream, Shares Trailer ...

Oh, here’s something amusing. If you recall, a couple months back, I posted the Einstürzende Neubauten song, “Wedding,” to the blog. It’s one of the songs off their new album, Alles in Allem.  And I commented that I thought the song was about a wedding but that, knowing Einstürzende Neubauten, it might not be about a wedding at all. And, if you watched that Q&A I posted the other day with Blixa Bargeld, you, like me, discovered that “Wedding” is actually a neighborhood in Berlin.

So there we have it!!  Indeed: not about a wedding at all.

Okay. I have a “to-do” list here that is longer than anything you can possibly imagine, gang — including a phone conference with Peitor in a couple hours for Abstract Absurdity Productions work. (We will be discussing which micro-script(s) we need to begin writing next Tuesday.)

And first, I need to write up that weekly calendar and post it to the wall!!! (Wait – no!! First, I have to go down to the kitchen and get another cup of coffee, then call my dad, then write up that calendar — then actually start working.)

So I’m gonna scoot. Have a great Friday, wherever you are in the world. On my trip down to see my dad (about a 3-hour drive each way), I listened to The Good Son, a Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds album from 1990. I usually listen to the song “Foi Na Cruz” over and over and over when I put on The Good Son CD in the kitchen, or stream it from my phone in the car. I just love the groove of that song, and once I start playing it, I can’t seem to ever move on to the rest of the CD anymore.

However, in the car, I just let the whole album play (several times) and was really astounded to rediscover what an incredible album it is. Every single song on it is a gem. (And two songs from it were huge hits: “The Ship Song,” and “The Weeping Song.”)

But when I got almost to the end, and “The Witness Song” came on, it was like turning a corner and seeing your long-lost best friend suddenly standing there!! I had totally forgotten what a killer song it is. Just fucking awesome. So on my 3-hour drive back home yesterday, I played “The Witness Song” on repeat  for the entire 3 hours. And it made the trip just fly, gang. It felt like a 20-minute drive. It really did.

So that is what I leave you with today!! Enjoy!!! (Play it loud.) Thanks for visiting. I love you guys. See ya!

“The Witness Song”

Yeah, yeah
Well, well
I took a walk down to the port
Where strangers meet and do consort
All blinkered with desire
And a winter fog moved thickly on
A winter fog moved thickly on
A winter fog moved thickly on

Now, who will be the witness
When the fog’s too thick to see

And I saw a friend beside a wall
Her hands were raised in supplication
And her face I could not see at all
And I raised my hands in rage
And brought them down again
And we entered through the eastern door
And I entered through the eastern door
And she entered through the eastern door

Now, who will be the witness
When you’re all to blind to see
O yes, yes, yes

And time gets somewhat muddled here
But no matter, no matter
Here come the events all tumbling down
Now, beyond the wall was a great garden
Into which we passed
Me and my friend
And the place was all overgrown with weeds
And behold from its centre there rose a great fountain
The fountain with the healing waters
And we knelt down by the rim
And I dipped my hand in
And she dipped her hand in too
And I said “Are you healed?”
And she said “Well are you healed?”
And I said “Yes, I’m healed”
And she said “Well, yes I’m healed then too”
And I said “Babe, you are a liar”
“Babe, you are a liar”
“Babe, you are a liar, too”
Now, who will be the witness
When you’re all to healed to see

And I kissed her once, I kissed her twice
And made my way to leave her
And she raised her hand up to her face
And brought it down again
I said “That gesture, it will haunt me”
“That gesture it will haunt me”
And I left there by the eastern door
She left there by the western door

Now, who will be the witness there
When you’re blind and you can’t see
Who will be the witness there
When you’re all so clean and you cannot see
Who will be the witness there
When your friends are everywhere
Who will be the witness there
And your enemies have ceased to care

© 1990 Nick Cave