Welcome to Bizarro Land!

Okay, so. Yesterday produced about 4000 more words on the new erotic short story, “Half-Moon Bride.” And I’m still nowhere near done.

So that means that once again, today, I will be spending unending hours writing intensely erotic stuff about 2 hermaphrodites on their wedding night. Not a topic that I ever dreamed I would spend even a moment’s time thinking about, let alone carefully crafting.

I’m still having a blast doing it, but it is so fucking strange. Mostly because I have no clue where this story is coming from.

Anyway.

Loyal readers of this lofty blog no doubt recall that the summer that I was 14, my boyfriend — with whom I was incredibly obsessed — was killed in an accident. And today marks the 46th anniversary of his death.

Even though it’s really sunny out right this minute, it is supposed to thunderstorm most of the day, and the drive to the cemetery is an hour each way. So I have decided not to go to the grave today, and just stay home and work on the short story.

I do honestly believe he visited me this morning, when I was down at my kitchen table, writing in my Inner Being journals. He came through with a few sentences, even though I wasn’t asking him to, or anything. But I do think he really did that. When I was a lot younger, he would sometimes visit me in spirit, but I was too young to have any frame of reference for that kind of thing back then and so it would terrify me. Nowadays, I’m used to that kind of thing, but he doesn’t visit me, ever. He’s been gone such a long time. So I certainly wasn’t expecting anything today, and yet I do think it happened.

He basically said that Life is not what it seems to be, and to remember what was beautiful, and to focus on what’s coming, don’t look back.

So I think he might have also been saying to leave sad things like graves alone for today, and work on a story that’s making me feel happy, instead.

Well, when I went back upstairs with my coffee, I went to the storage closet and got out my yearbooks from Junior High School (they call it Middle School nowadays, but back then, it was Junior High). And even though High School yearbooks are what most people keep & treasure & all that, for some reason (well, partly because I hated High School), I have no yearbooks left from High School but all 3 of the ones from Junior High.

Two of them have photos of Greg in them and those are now the only photos I have of him. I have moved so many times in the 46 years that he’s been gone.

So here he is — in the full length one, he is 14. He was really tall, but you can’t tell from the photo. You can’t really tell much at all from the photo because he seems to have been in the middle of laughing.

And then there’s a yearbook photo of me from the same year, at age 12. I’m in the 7th grade. (Where my hair is longer)

And then in the other photo of him, he is 15 (graduating Junior High that year, so that’s why his photo is more “formal”.) And he will be dead a few months later.

Then me, that same year, at age 13. When it became extremely fashionable to have really thin eyebrows!

I did have a real fondness for plaid palazzo pants back then, too…

Anyway, there it is — all that’s left, really, from those brief years.

They were awful, by the way — worst years of my life. If you have read Letter #2, “A Beach to His Waves,” from my in-progress memoir, Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse, Greg is the boy I was writing about there.

It is best to try to remember what was beautiful from back then and let the rest go and just face forward. So that’s what I’m going to do.

Okay, that’s it for today. Have a good Thursday. Thanks for visiting, gang. I’ll leave you with sacred music. John Rutter conducting the Cambridge Singers, “All Things Bright & Beautiful,” one of my favorite hymns, and my very favorite version of it. Enjoy. I love you guys, see ya!