Sun, Fog, Cold, Warm: You Name It, We Got It Here In Crazeysburg!

Just weird weather, I guess. But we’re getting it, like, all at once here this morning.

I woke up extremely sad today.  Just extremely.  And that’s also weird because I had such a great day yesterday and went to sleep in the happiest little mood.

Part of it was getting on Instagram first thing, and being reminded by many of the little Tom Petty-related accounts I follow, that in ten days, it will be the 3rd anniversary of Tom Petty’s death.

First of all — that isn’t possible. And in some ways, it feels like thirty years, not three.

Second of all — it’s like this sort of nation-wide Tom Petty thing now, to do all kinds of commemorative stuff on the anniversary of his death. Including, bringing out “new” albums around that time, too, so that we can’t possibly miss the facts that: a.) he’s dead; and b.) yay — more new songs. So — is he actually dead?

It’s fucking weird. Plus, he had the foresight to die only a handful of days before his birthday, so October just becomes this sort of washout, if you’re a Tom Petty fan.

Anyway. I no longer sit around, morbidly thinking about Tom Petty being dead, I’m okay with it now. But the Instagram stuff just sort of hit me first thing — my eyes barely open, still dark in my world, and suddenly I’m thinking about all this sadness and loss and my girlhood gone, and time flying away from me.

However. Here’s one of my favorite photos of him. He’s around 52 here, I think. It’s from the tour supporting the release of the album, The Last DJ. An album that is absolutely brilliant, but the industry mercilessly panned it because they didn’t like the picture he painted of them — and yet, alas, I think we all know, especially in hindsight since the Internet killed the music industry, that he was right. (And Bob Dylan allegedly told Tom Petty, regarding The Last DJ, that just because the industry was panning it, it didn’t mean the album wasn’t good.)

He’s off of heroin here, and officially with Dana, finally, but I don’t know if they were actually married yet. They were together a long time before they actually got married.

 

On a happier note, though, today is Nick Cave’s birthday!! And he’s actually still alive. So that’s good. (I’m actually hoping I don’t outlive him. Here is a list of people I don’t want to outlive: Nick Cave, Keith Richards, Bob Dylan, and my friend Valerie.)

Because of his birthday, I had posted a handful of photos of Nick Cave on my Instagram page, but then I took them all down this morning. It just suddenly seemed odd and too personal.

I’m funny about photos (even the one of Tom Petty there above).  I save them because I love them. And so pieces of my actual love are attached to the images. And I don’t think that things that matter to me, like, for real matter to me, belong on social media.

So even the fact that I’m posting that photo up above there — it feels a little weird.

But on another topic entirely…

This is something that left me sort of thunderstruck yesterday. I saw this photo on Instagram, and it struck me as one of the most erotic photos I have ever seen.

And I thought it would be interesting to share it on the blog — as an example of how my mind works. Since, for the most part, I write such intensely graphic, explicit stuff.  But where the images come from, is this whole other realm of my mind, and doesn’t actually stem from the libido, per se.

I’m not even a Brezhnev “fan,” or anything like that. It has nothing to do with Brezhnev, really.   It’s the energy in the photo. It shot me to the moon and back.

And the photo stuck with me for the entire day, and long into the evening, and was one of the first things on my mind (that didn’t make me sad) when I woke up this morning.

Yes, I am in just a really, really sad mood here today. But I think of emotions as weather — you know? Only they move across the inner landscape, not outside your window. So I’m just going to ride it out. And focus on the new novella and hope for the best.

I got some great (albeit, a little disturbing) work done on 1954 Powder Blue Pickup yesterday. But I have decided to just allow the book to write itself, and to say what it needs to say. (And I’m still not talking about that darn gangbang segment, which I think I will finally be tackling today. And it’s an organized gangbang, not a rape — so I’m not planning to get all “Last Exit to Brooklyn” here or anything. But I probably will be inching into that territory. However, it’s the segment that comes before that, where the girl did that unexpected thing, that I still find sort of disturbing. She painted me into a sort of corner that I wasn’t sure how to get the story out of. But anyway. I did it.)

And so today should be a good day, all sad things considered along the way.

So, I’ll close this and probably do yoga. And then get back to work on the novella. Have a terrific Tuesday, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting, gang.  It feels like a sort of toss-up here — to leave you either with the “live” version of “Dreamville”, a song off of The Last DJ album, but that might be too sad for me right now. So I think I’ll leave you with something else, from those years when he was still full of all that angry, wonderful, pent-up, fighting energy — a “live” version of “Louisiana Rain,” that I just love. (Recorded at Wembley Arena, in London England, in December of 1982.) Enjoy. I love you guys. See ya.

“Louisiana Rain”

Well it was out in California by the San Diego sea
That was when I was taken in and it left its mark on me
Yeah she nearly drove me crazy with all those china toys
And I know she really didn’t mean a thing to those sailor boys

Louisiana rain is falling at my feet
Baby I’m noticing the change as I move down the street
Louisiana rain is soaking through my shoes
I may never be the same when I reach Baton Rouge

South Carolina put out its arms for me
Right up until everything went black somewhere on Lonely Street
And it was just some mean old poison that I took up my nose
Thank God for love that followed the angel’s antidote

Louisiana rain is falling just like tears
Running down my face, washing out the years
Louisiana rain is soaking through my shoes
I may never be the same when I reach Baton Rouge

Well I never will get over this English refugee
Singing to the jukebox in some all-night beanery
Yeah he was eating pills like candy and chasing them with tea
You should have seen him lick his lips, that old black muddied beak

Louisiana rain is falling at my feet
Baby I’m noticing the change as I move down the street
Louisiana rain is soaking through my shoes
I may never be the same when I reach Baton Rouge

Louisiana rain is falling just like tears
Running down my face, washing out the years
Louisiana rain is soaking through my shoes
I may never be the same when I reach Baton Rouge

© 1979 Tom Petty

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