All posts by marilyn jaye lewis

writer, editor, publisher, thinker -- all-around joyful gal!

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

All Righty!! Already Been to Town & Back!!

For some reason, after I did yoga first thing this morning, I was full of energy and decided to just head into town and get the groceries ASAP.

I think I got there the moment the market opened — or close to it.  They were still trying to stock the shelves.

But it feels nice to already have it behind me for the week and I still have the whole day ahead of me to write!!

Plus, it is just a beautiful morning, even though it was chilly out there.  But what a nice drive. So sunny and it was kind of amazing to note that all the corn is long gone, and the fields are turning brown and some of the trees are even changing colors already.

When the heck did all that happen?

What an incredibly weird summer 2020 was. Although, in most ways, I really, really enjoyed it. Everything was just so low key out here in the Hinterlands, and we hardly had any signs of the virus, and god knows we had zero riots & no looting & no shootings, and we still got to have fireworks on the 4th of July.  And I hardly ever left Crazeysburg the entire summer. So it was actually kind of nice — like living in Yesteryear…

But as always, I am sad to see summer officially go. And on this day last year, I was seeing Nick Cave in Conversation at Lincoln Center in NYC and there was a god-awful heat wave going on the whole week I was there. Nothing at all like this year — where it was down to 38 degrees Fahrenheit during the night.

Anyway. Here was September 21st, last year:

Waiting for Nick Cave at Lincoln Center

I had the time of my life…

Okay. My progress yesterday on the new erotic novella, 1954 Powder Blue Pick Up, was sort of very strange.  I am still getting really stuck on the timing of the various events that bring the novella to a close. I mean, I still have a good 10 pages to go, but it is heading to a close. Which is very weird, since the first 30 pages came out in a sort of nonstop flood. And now, for two days running, I have not been able to get a clear reading on how it all unfolds toward the end, even though I know exactly what’s supposed to happen.

So I’m hoping today will be more productive. It’s one of the reasons I headed out to the store early — to just be able to sit here and focus for as long as it takes today.

Well, yesterday, I broke down and changed the bedding in the guest room over to the fall stuff.  Put the flannel sheets on and the extra blankets. And since I didn’t have a single guest the whole spring/summer, it was kind of sad to take off all the summer bedding and wash it and put it away for next year… (I keep the entire bed under mounds of fleece and cotton throws all year, in order to keep  the sheets and blankets safe from all the cat hair, but I still like to wash everything before I put it away each season.  I don’t know, there’s something about switching things out for the seasons — makes me really happy when everything is already clean and ready to go, even though almost no one sleeps in that bed now except for my birth mom, maybe once or twice a year.)

Anyway, I’m reluctantly admitting that fall is indeed coming.

Okay, well I guess I will get started here! Thanks for visiting, gang. I hope you have a great Monday planned, wherever you are in the world. I leave you with my “traveling to town & back” music from this morning — from Bob Dylan’s Planet Waves (1974), “On A Night Like This.” (You have to actually watch it on Vimeo. They won’t let me embed it.) However! Enjoy!!!! (And come visit!! The sheets are clean!!) All righty. I love you guys. See ya.

https://vimeo.com/381447648

“On A Night Like This”

On a night like this
I am so glad you came around
Hold on to me so tight
And heat up some coffee grounds
We got much to talk about
And much to reminisce
It sure is right
On a night like this.

On a night like this
So glad you’ve come to stay
Hold on to me, pretty miss
Say you’ll never go away to stray
Run your fingers down my spine
Bring me a touch of bliss
It sure feels right
On a night like this.

On a night like this
I can’t get any sleep
The air is so cold outside
And the snow’s so deep
Build a fire, throw on logs
And listen to it hiss
And let it burn, burn, burn, burn
On a night like this.

Put your body next to mine
And keep me company
There is plenty a room for all
So please don’t elbow me.

Let the four winds blow
Around this old cabin door
If I’m not too far off
I think we did this once before
There’s more frost on the window glass
With each new tender kiss
But it sure feels right
On a night like this.

© 1973 Bob Dylan

Two Super Frosty Mornings In A Row!

Yes, by midday yesterday, I actually broke down and turned on the furnace. It was really unbelievably frosty in this house yesterday!

By tomorrow, the temperatures will be getting back to the normal September weather, but last night (and tonight again) it actually got down into the 30s Fahrenheit… my poor cats, right? So I had to turn on the heat.

The main reason I hate having that furnace on, and always put it off until the final moment, is that it messes with my sinuses like you wouldn’t believe. (By January, I usually start getting nose-bleeds that last until I can finally turn that furnace off.) ( I really really just love fresh air.)  (Even this morning, I woke up at 5am, wondering why I couldn’t breathe and then remembered that the furnace was on…)

And now I am facing the awesome task of once again cutting back the hydrangea bush for the season. The blossoms have all turned to that greenish-pink color now, and are all bent over. I am going to try to get to it during the week. It is such a massive plant now that I can’t even imagine where I will start! I guess that I’ll just “start.”

(How it looked when it was finally in full bloom in August; it got to be 8 ft tall this year)

That first summer when I bought the house, it didn’t bloom anywhere near this astoundingly.  I don’t think anyone had really taken care of it in years.  But I began cutting it back that first fall, and these past two summers it has just exploded with growth and blossoms. I really just love this plant.

So, I got great work done on the novella yesterday (1954 Powder Blue Pickup). I sat and stared at it for several hours yesterday morning, before it came to me to move that part where  his girl does that unexpected thing to after the gangbang section. Because, honestly, I could not figure out for the life of me how to move anything forward. So it finally occurred to me to just rearrange stuff.

And then 9 hours later… I was done writing for the day. So I was happy.

All right, well, I don’t want to become a stalker or anything, but that blond teenage boy down the street is just too awesome. Now that I know what house he lives in, I can’t help but be looking right at it every time I get up from my desk and look out that window. And yesterday, in that unbelievably gorgeous (although cool) weather, he was out there washing and waxing that electric blue Honda Civic that his mom drive’s from the Honda dealership.  (See how, without even trying, I’m starting to learn all this weird stuff about their lives?? And I don’t even have a clue who they are! I wonder how much I would learn if I actually was stalking him…)

Well, he did an amazing job with that car. And it made me wish so much that I had a kid who would wash & wax my Honda civic!! Because mine is Molten-Lava, which is a color and intensely sparkly finish that makes “a bold sparkly statement” and draws attention and I never wash it. I have had it a year now and it has only been washed twice in that year.

Mostly this is because there has been a pandemic going on for 6 months of that year, but also because that first summer I was here in the house, the garden spigot was making me insane and always turning itself on by accident, without me knowing it had done that until after it had run up a fortune on my water bill. So I had the spigot removed, and had a turn-off valve installed just inside the basement where the spigot connects to the main water line, but then never had a new spigot put back in so, for now, I have no garden hose, which makes it a colossal pain to try to wash your own car at home.

I just love being a single homeowner.  I absolutely never get around to half the stuff that needs doing around here. Mostly because it would involve me actually getting up from my desk.

And speaking of getting up from my desk…

I guess I will get started here today, do yoga and then get back to work on the novella.

It is just so beautiful outside right now, and it’s supposed to get up to 70 today, so here’s hoping I will breathe just fine for most of the day!! I hope you are enjoying your Sunday, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting. I leave you with my breakfast-listening music from this morning — from an album I was listening to nonstop for most of my 9-hour drive out to Rhinebeck, NY, this time last year to see Nick Cave in Conversation (oh, and also to have that incredibly great meeting with my director in NYC regarding my play Tell My Bones that is indeed moving forward in a way that makes me so unbelievably happy.) (What a difference a year makes, right? Good and not so good, but mostly good.)

Anyway, a very, very favorite song of mine, as well as a total classic from Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers, the “live” version of “Southern Accents”. (In the incredibly hard-to-put-down book, Conversations with Tom Petty (2005),  he talked about getting up in the middle of the night, going out to the piano in the other room and suddenly writing this song from start to finish, just like that. It all came out at once — music & lyrics. And then he went right back to bed. And it was the song that finally helped him process his mom’s death. They were from Northern Florida, which, especially back then, was like coming from Southern Georgia — very southern. Well,  I knew none of that stuff until I read that book; until then, I’d just sort of loved the song. Now, I really, really love the song. And of course, it practically became his anthem. Or one of them.)

Anyway!! Enjoy. Have a great day and thanks for visiting. I love you guys. See ya!

“Southern Accents”

There’s a southern accent, where I come from
The young ‘uns call it country, the Yankees call it dumb
I got my own way of talking, but everything gets done
With a southern accent, where I come from

Now that drunk tank in Atlanta is just a motel room to me
Think I might go work Orlando, if them orange groves don’t freeze
Got my own way of working, but everything is run
With a southern accent, where I come from

For just a minute there I was dreaming
For just a minute it was all so real
For just a minute she was standing there, with me

There’s a dream I keep having, where my mama comes to me
And kneels down over by the window, and says a prayer for me
Got my own way of praying, but every one’s begun
With a southern accent, where I come from

Got my own way of living, but everything gets done
With a southern accent, where I come from

© 1985 Tom Petty

L’Shana Tovah!

For any of my readers who perhaps celebrate Rosh Hashanah! I hope you’re having a “shouting and blasting” sort of weekend, wherever you are in the world.

The Trumpets are Blowing! | CBN.com

Oddly enough, I could not find any vintage illustrations of cats blowing the shofar (or even the chauffeur for that matter!!), so I had to settle for something tasteful as well as G-rated…

(Yes, I’m in a much friskier mood today than I was yesterday…)

(It might have something to do with it being 40 degrees Fahrenheit out here in the Hinterlands this morning and my steadfastly refusing to turn on that furnace until October…)

(And me scampering around in my little birthday suit upstairs in the freezing cold house, with all the frisky cats scampering around, too, except that their birthday suits came with handy fur coats!!)

(And, yes, I was having a “blast” scampering around naked in the freezing cold and singing “Good Morning, Good Morning!” from the musical Singin’ in the Rain, at the top of my voice and making my cats go berserk –)

(– and I realized that it is now official: I am no longer twelve years old, but more like seven!!)

(Especially when you factor in that I’m still watching those reruns of The Monkees every night…)

(However, rest assured that by the time I was downstairs where all those many enormous windows are, I was wearing my rather matronly-looking lavender-colored chenille bathrobe…)

(And by the way, if you don’t know that video clip up above there from Singin’ in the Rain, you gotta watch it!! It’s a bona fide classic!!)

All righty.

I have so much writing to tackle today, gang.  I didn’t make any true headway in 1954 Powder Blue Pickup yesterday because I’m still trying to figure out two key scenes in my mind.  Trying to make sure they make emotional sense for all the various characters involved.

And it includes that gangbang scene I mentioned the other morning, but now his girl does something so unexpected (by me, even — the writer!) that it now skews how he’s going to handle that gangbang…

AAAArrrggggh!!!

I know! Leave it to girls to do something unexpected and screw up everything!!!

Okay.

So that’s where I’m at this morning.

It’s a gorgeous day here, now that the sun is up, too, although it’s still a bit frosty. For some reason, I’ve got more laundry to do here today, so I’m gonna get started on that and then get down to writing.

I hope you are planning to have a great Saturday, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting, gang. Apparently, yesterday was something like the 31st anniversary of the release of Bob Dylan’s album, Oh Mercy.  And first thing this morning, I saw the results of a poll taken by one of the Bob Dyan-fan accounts I follow on Instagram, and apparently most people voted that “Most of the Time” was their favorite song on that album. And while I agree that it’s a really good song, my favorite from Oh Mercy is “Man in the Long Black Coat.” And I immediately played it. And so I leave you with it here today!! Enjoy, gang!! Okay. I love you guys. See ya.

“Man In The Long Black Coat”

Crickets are chirpin’ the water is high
There’s a soft cotton dress on the line hangin’ dry
Window wide open African trees
Bent over backwards from a hurricane breeze
Not a word of goodbye not even a note
She’s gone with the man in the long black coat.

Somebody seen him hangin’ around
At the old dance hall on the outskirts of town
He looked into her eyes when she stopped him to ask
If he wanted to dance he had a face like a mask
Somebody said from the bible he’d quote
There was dust on the man in the long black coat.

Preacher was talking there’s a sermon he gave
He said every man’s conscience is vile and depraved
You cannot depend on it to be your guide
When it’s you who must keep it satisfied
It ain’t easy to swallow it sticks in the throat
She gave her heart to the man in the long black coat.

There are no mistakes in life some people say
It is true sometimes you can see it that way
But people don’t live or die people just float
She went with the man in the long black coat.

There’s smoke on the water it’s been there since June
Tree trunks uprooted beneath the high crescent moon
Feel the pulse and vibration and the rumbling force
Somebody is out there beating on a dead horse
She never said nothing there was nothing she wrote
She’s gone with the man in the long black coat.

© 1989 Bob Dylan

Yes, I’m Happy

Even though, for some indecipherable reason, I woke up feeling really sad this morning — even to the point of suddenly crying at the kitchen table during breakfast. I don’t think the tears had anything to do with listening to old hillbilly music, but I guess you never really know for sure. (I turned off the music, just in case.)

I slept a lot — straight through from something strange, like, 9pm last night to 5am this morning (I usually only need 5 or 6 hours of sleep). And, at some point, I even had a dream that I had already gotten up and gotten breakfast and gone back to bed so there was no reason to get up. (Weird.)

Anyway. Apparently, I was not in a big hurry for today to get here.

However, that said. Things really are okay here. So I don’t know why I was so sad. I’ve basically signed the contract for “Half-Moon Bride” with the new publisher! Yay!

And I made really unexpected progress with the new erotic novella, 1954 Powder Blue Pickup, yesterday — and by “strange” I mean that it went off into this whole unexpected storyline. To the point where, as I was writing it, I was also thinking: Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me, seriously?

But I’m still really happy with it, however, the work I need to tackle on it today will require really intense focusing (a good old 1950s-style gangbang, which was not the unexpected part).  But it will be intense, nonetheless. (So, you know, you probably shouldn’t drop by unannounced today, wanting to just hang out with me…) (As if you ever do!) (I have had TWO visitors since March… two, in six months.) (Yes, I’m aware that there’s been a pandemic that whole time, but, honestly, how long are you going to keep using that as your fall-back line?? None of us here in Crazeysburg have the virus, okay??)

Anyway!!

Early this morning on Instagram, there was a post sent out by Cave Things.  It was a very short video of Nick Cave working at his insanely cluttered desk — but you could only see his hands. And I thought it was amusing that he clearly had on a very nice suit, and he had all his gold rings on, but was working at this ridiculously cluttered desk.

Whereas, I have actually a very tidy desk while I’m working (because everything gets dumped on the floor first thing in the morning, then placed back on the desk in heaps when I’m done working at night.)

Still, I need a very tidy desk, or I can’t think straight. Yet I wear the sloppiest clothes you can imagine. Because I simply cannot feel encumbered by anything while I’m writing — and no jewelry, either. I can’t stand to have rings or even a bracelet on when I’m typing. I am always wearing some sort of really baggy tee shirt, and either baggy cargo shorts in summer, or a pair of baggy men’s lounge pants the rest of the year, and nothing on underneath any of that because I absolutely cannot stand to feel constricted in any way, and I am always barefoot at my desk because I can’t even stand to feel like my feet are constrained while I’m writing. (My flip-flops stay neatly at the side of my desk because I put them back on the absolute minute I stand up from my chair…)

I know! It’s almost like I’m neurotic, or something — right??

And add to that vision of loveliness the unlit, unfiltered cigarette that is always dangling from my mouth now whenever I’m at my desk… and the very real fact that I almost never remember to even comb my hair. Although I do brush my teeth twice a day!! But I usually also forget to wash my hair because I’m always in such a big hurry to get out of the shower and be neurotic about something…

Anyway. I did think that little video of Nick Cave’s hands was really cool!

Okay.

A mini-update regarding the print edition of The Guitar Hero Goes Home. Valerie is still trying to get the cover art to behave. And until that gets fixed, I have not fixed the formatting issue I’m having with the printed text, because I want to upload it all at once. You can still read it just fine, I’m just not 100% happy with the layout (it makes me insane, actually). But the eBook version is completely fine.  So there are no problems with that. (There was one typo that I fixed last week.)

Anyway. It’s frustrating. But ever-onward we go.

And then yesterday, I got an email from the director of my play (Tell My Bones), wherein  he was giving me the link to share in the dropbox that all the various technical director/ producer type people were already sharing in as they do all the necessary work to get the staged reading of my play ready to go.

Well. I was stunned. Literally. Because I had absolutely no clue that all this WORK was already well underway, involving all these professional theater people. I honestly was totally overwhelmed. WTF, right? How long has this been going on? While I’m here at my desk, thoroughly unconstrained by everything imaginable and spending hours and hours and hours and days and days and days writing incredibly intense erotica…

It was a very weird feeling.

Okay, it looks like a pretty day here today, but it’s heading down into the low 40s Fahrenheit tonight and for the next few nights, so the houseplants are coming indoors for the season and I have to once again create that literary barrier between the palm tree and the cats.

Literary barrier awaiting the houseplants!

Meaning, that I have to stack books as precariously as possible all around the palm tree so that the cats get scared away from trying to eat the palm leaves and thus absolutely ruining the poor tree.

It just feels like it’s too early to be doing all this, but I guess it is what it is this year. And on we go.

Okay. I’m going to get started here today. Have a nice Friday wherever you are in the world!! And enjoy whatever you’re wearing and enjoy whatever you’re doing!! I will endeavor to get my mood on a more even keel and try to have a good day here, as well. Meanwhile, I leave you with this morning’s breakfast-listening sad hillbilly music! Stonewall Jackson’s huge Country hit from 1962, “Leona.” (I  just fucking LOVE the piano on this song — if it doesn’t make you want to drink and smoke, I don’t know what will.) So, then. All righty, thanks for visiting, gang!! I love you guys. See ya.

Leona

Leona, Leona,
You tell him you’re through
You tell him, Leona, about me and you
You tell him we’re married with a baby of two
You tell him, Leona,
You tell him you’re through.

You laughed as I pleaded, and walked out the door
To meet him, to kiss him, to shame me once more
I knew where to find you
Just follow the sign:
Dancing and dining, cocktails and wine

The sidewalk was crowded in front of the bar
I heard the sirens of the black police car
Two bodies lay crumpled, a woman, a man
His wife stood there by you,
A gun in her hand

Leona, Leona,
It’s over and through
The baby is crying and calling for you
For me there’s no difference
I knew for so long
That some day you’d leave me
And now you are gone

© 1962 Cindy Walker

A Foggy Little Morning In Crazeysburg!

Yep, that’s a 1954 powder blue pickup! I guess you can tell what I’ve been doing nonstop around here — writing that novella! (1954 Powder Blue Pickup)

It is now at 20,000 words, and I won’t say that “there is no end in sight” but there is still a lot to get down on paper, so I’m thinking it could be 30,000 words by the time it’s finished.

I just find this all so fascinating. I was well into writing the new novel, Thug Luckless: Welcome to P-Town, when I suddenly began writing 3 new erotic stories in a row: “Score,” “Half-Moon Bride,” and now  1954 Powder Blue Pickup — totaling 37,000 words (so far).

That is quite a sudden deluge — to break away from a novel and have all that stuff start pouring out. I’m not complaining, though. It has been so much fun.

And just as an update — Abstract Absurdity Productions is still on hiatus. Not just because I’m suddenly writing all this other unexpected stuff, plus still trying to get the final print edition for The Guitar Hero Goes Home to look right, but also because Peitor’s been dealing with horrendous weather conditions in Los Angeles (horrible wild fires, which also cause smoke and smog, and a heat wave hovering around 115 degrees Fahrenheit), plus he has a whole crop of new records and new singers that are getting released, and he’s gone down to Laguna Beach to try to get a break from all of it.

But as soon as life gets sort of back to something that feels like normal, we will resume production.

Meanwhile, I’m just enjoying the uninterrupted hours and hours and hours of working on the new story while I can.

And that’s pretty much all that’s going on right now. So I’m gonna get some yoga done here and then get back to the new story.

I hope that you have a thoroughly terrific Thursday underway, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting. I leave you with my breakfast-listening music from this morning — in my opinion, it’s the best song Dwight Yoakam has ever written, even though he has written a lot of great songs. But this one is my favorite: “Buenas Noches From A Lonely Room” from his massively popular album of the same name from 1988. And featuring the amazing Flaco Jiménez on accordion.

Flaco Jiménez is one of the true  mainstays of Tejano music and was also a member of that incredible super-group of Texan musicians, The Texas Tornadoes!! I loved those guys.

(In fact, I will add the incredible version of “Across the Borderline” that  Flaco Jiménez recorded with John Hiatt back in the early 90s, on his album Partners, just for your listening pleasure!) (The song was written by Ry Cooder, John Hiatt, and Jim Dickinson, sometime in the 1980s, and you probably know it because everyone imaginable has recorded it but Flaco’s is, hands down, my favorite version.)

Okay, and I will also add a delightfully dirty little Tejano song by The Texas Tornadoes, “Who Were You Thinking Of When We Were Making Love Last Night?” from the late 1980s, as well.

Okay, gang. Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy!!  I love you guys. See ya!!

 

“Buenas Noches From A Lonely Room”

She wore red dresses
with her black shining hair
She had my baby
and caused me to care
Then coldly she left me
to suffer and cry
Oh, she wore red dresses
and told such sweet lies

I never knew him
but he took her away
On my knees like a madman
for vengeance I prayed
While the pain and the anger
destroyed my weak mind
She wore red dresses
and left the wounded behind

I searched til I found them,
then I cursed at the sight
Of their sleeping shadows
in the cold neon light
In the dark morning silence
I placed the gun to her head
Oh, she wore red dresses,
but now she lay dead…

© 1988 Dwight Yoakam

As Much As I’d Love To Tarry Here…

And talk about the fall weather arriving, and all the strange dreams I had last night, and how happy I am with how the erotic novella (!!) 1954 Powder Blue Pickup is going, etc…

The reality is that, for some reason, I was wide awake between 2am to 3am today, and I was determined not to get out of bed and start my day at that ridiculous hour because the ridiculous hour that I normally start my day at is ridiculous enough, thank you, so I forced myself to go back to sleep, and then….

Four hours later!! Fuck! You know, I never wake-up when the sun is already up.  It was almost 7am when I got out of bed today and, for me, that feels like my day is half-over.

So, I am trying to cut corners here and get emails dashed off, get bills paid, forego yoga, blitz through the blog post and get down to work on the writing for today!

I will go on a quick tangent here and mention that it was a sort of shock to me to realize that all those photos posted here from my trip to Rhinebeck are now almost one year old. I cannot fucking believe that. I don’t want to believe that — not only that the year has flown, but that it wound up being such an insane year, plus it means it’s been a year since I saw Nick Cave — twice in one weekend.

It just doesn’t seem possible.

I’ve written a lot in the past year. A lot. So I can’t say it wasn’t a fruitful year. Still. I just find this unbelievably rapid disappearance of time really unnerving.

And that said, before it becomes next September already, I’m gonna close this and get to work here.

I hope you enjoy your wonderful Wednesday, wherever you are in the world.  I leave you with Hank Locklin, singing his Country & Western hit from 1958, “Send Me the Pillow that You Dream On.” If you don’t know his work, he was just an amazing Country & Western songwriter (and singer — but his songs were just fantastic. Singers in other styles of music covered his hits, too)  Okay. Enjoy and thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys. See ya.

“Send Me The Pillow You Dream On”

Send me the pillow that you dream on
Don’t you know that I still care for you
Send me the pillow that you dream on
So darling I can dream on it too

Each night while I’m sleeping oh so lonely
I’ll share your love in dreams that once were true
Send me the pillow that you dream on
So darling I can dream on it too

Send me the pillow that you dream on
Maybe time will let our dreams come true
Send me the pillow that you dream on
So darling I can dream on it too

I’ve waited so long for you to write me
But just a memory’s all that’s left of you
So send me the pillow that you dream on
So darling I can dream on it too

© 1958 Hank Locklin

Happy Campers in Crazeysburg!!

Yes!! So the very good news is that I did sell “Half-Moon Bride” to the new publishers! I am so excited, gang. As soon as the contract is signed/sealed/delivered, I will give you the details. But I could not be happier.

And then, after really struggling for several hours yesterday over it, it became clear that the new erotic short story, “1954 Powder Blue Pickup,” is indeed going to be a novella.

What I struggled over was the intensity level — having to do with (very) “questionable consent” — and once I realized that it had to happen, that the story was going in that direction almost in spite of me, then it became clear that it would be a novella. (The “short” story is already at 17,000 words. Novellas, technically, run from 17,000 to about 40,000 words.)

Even though most of my stories contain questionable consent scenarios in one way or another because I am almost always writing from a POV of D/s, and even though I have a short story up there in the vault that relies heavily on extremely questionable consent, it’s presented as something that is unfolding in a woman’s mind (which is a paper-thin device, but still…).

And in “1954 Powder Blue Pickup,” it’s not happening in anyone’s mind. Not that it is that terribly intense, I just was not completely sure I was committed to going there. It was the main reason I got bogged down in Pasolini’s Salò and Sade’s book 120 Days of Sodom on Sunday. And even, to a lesser extent, Gaspar Noé’s film Irreversible (meaning just the rape scene and not all the other violence).  For me, it is mostly about the minds that created these expressions and what they needed from the creation of them and how people then become part of what was created by joining their minds to it in one way or another.

I’ve always struggled with knowing or not knowing what the responsibilities are when you create something either non-consensual or of questionable consent, and put it into the world.

Anyway, the struggle is over regarding “1954 Powder Blue Pickup,” because I finally wrote the section that was asking to be written, and it took me about 10 hours yesterday to write 3 pages.  Literally. But it’s done. And then I collapsed in bed around 11pm and was absolutely out like a light until morning.

And so, the weather has really gotten cool — especially at night. And I am now contemplating bringing the house plants back inside now. Fall seems to be coming really quickly this year. So we’ll see. September usually does that thing where it tricks you into thinking it’s Fall, and then it soars back up to the 90s for 10 straight days in a row. Yet, sometimes, it’s just Fall and it stays Fall.

So here is another really, really interesting thing!

Yesterday, from my upstairs window, I saw the cute blond guy getting into the passenger’s side of a car in his driveway, and a blonde woman was getting into the driver’s side and it sort of looked, from 5 houses away, that maybe she was his mom. She had long straight blonde hair — like his– and she seemed to be a little too old to be a sister.

So I watched as the car came right past my open window and stopped at the stop sign and I noticed several things. Yes, that woman was old enough to be his mom. And the car was a brand-new Honda Civic, like mine, except that mine is molten lava-colored, and this one was electric blue.  AND it had dealer plates. And it wasn’t from the Honda dealership here in Muskingum County but from the dealership where I lease my own Honda, in the next county over.

And then I remembered how, every time I go into the show room side of the dealership, there are always tons of sales men but only one sales woman and she has long straight blonde hair!

OMG, right?? Jesus. I have probably sort of “known” that boy’s mom for about 4 years already. So fucking weird. And not just that she is likely his mom, but also that anyone I would ever see anywhere else at all in the world could possibly live on my street in the tiniest village known to man!! How fucking odd.

So that was cool!!

All righty!! I’m finishing up the laundry here. Then I’m gonna get back to “1954 Powder Blue Pickup.” Thanks for visiting, gang. I hope you have a terrific Tuesday, wherever you are in the world. I leave you with my breakfast-listening music from this morning!! Tennessee Ernie Ford’s huge hit from 1955, “Sixteen Tons” — written by Merle Travis in 1947, who was just really an amazing songwriter.  (16 tons refers to coal miners and the  amount of coal they had to mine, and then, back in the old days, the coal-mining towns had stores run by the coal companies that extended the miners tons & tons of credit, so the miners were usually very in debt to the Company store and saw no way out of their bleak lives.)  So, well, I guess enjoy!All righty.  I love you guys. See ya!

“Sixteen Tons”

Some people say a man is made out of mud
A poor man’s made out of muscle and blood
Muscle and blood and skin and bones
A mind that’s weak and a back that’s strong

You load sixteen tons, whattaya get?
Another day older and deeper in debt
St. Peter don’cha call me, ’cause I can’t go
I owe my soul to the company store

I was born one morning when the sun didn’t shine
I picked up my shovel and I walked to the mine
I loaded sixteen tons of number-nine coal
And the straw boss said, “Well bless my soul!”

You load sixteen tons, whattaya get?
Another day older and deeper in debt
St. Peter don’cha call me, ’cause I can’t go
I owe my soul to the company store

I was born one morning, it was drizzlin’ rain
Fightin’ and trouble are my middle name
I was raised in the canebreak by an old mama lion
Can’t no high-toned woman make me walk the line

You load sixteen tons, whattaya get?
Another day older and deeper in debt
St. Peter don’cha call me, ’cause I can’t go
I owe my soul to the company store

If you see me comin’ better step aside
A lotta men didn’t, a lotta men died
One fist of iron, the other of steel
If the right one don’t getcha then the left one will

You load sixteen tons, whattaya get?
Another day older and deeper in debt
St. Peter don’cha call me, ’cause I can’t go
I owe my soul to the company store

© 1947 Merle Travis

That’s Right!! Heading to the Store Today!!

Oui, c’est moi! The “demon on wheels” — Speed Racer. At least I am on Monday mornings, when I head into to town to get the groceries. (Play this 1 minute intro. It’s so fun!!)

Sadly, though, when I needed to renew my car lease, Honda was not offering a “powerful Mach 5” so I had to settle for a boring Honda Civic, instead.

(Although loyal readers of this lofty blog no doubt recall that what I really wanted was a Dodge Hellcat, and that the moment I signed the lease for the Civic and was leaving the Honda show room with it,  across the street, in the Used Car lot, was a used Hellcat….)

Ah well. At least with my brand new Honda there’s, like, zero maintenance ever. Not so with a used Hellcat.

And honestly, me in a Hellcat would just be such bad news out here in Muskingum County, where there is almost always no Sheriff. And even though my Honda doesn’t go from zero to 60 mph in (literally) 3 seconds, as the Hellcat does, it at least goes from zero to 60 in less than 10 seconds… (every single time a red light turns to green.)

Okay!!! So yes, I am going to get groceries the minute I post this to the blog. And it is another stunning day here today, although the days are just generally cooler now. But it is still just beautiful.

Yesterday was a really big adventure for me.

Loyal readers of this lofty blog no doubt recall that back when last fall began to change into winter (or something like that), the ceiling in my downstairs bathroom leaked really ferociously during a lengthy torrential downpour of rain, thunder, wind, etc., sending plaster to the floor.  And while yesterday, we did not have a lengthy torrential downpour of rain, thunder, wind, etc. , big chunks of that same part of the bathroom ceiling actually came down and was incredibly gross and yucky and awful — it had something to do with me putting off getting the roof re-sealed this past spring because I was so enamored with the idea of getting a new roof on my barn after that heavy wind came and blew the old barn roof right off and set it not too gently down in my backyard.

Oh my god, right?  Where are the handymen when you need them to be living with you free of charge at all times and handling all your many, many, many DIY housing issues?? I sure don’t know. All I know is that I have an exceedingly unattractive ceiling in my downstairs bathroom now, and I can’t really do a darn thing about it until I get the roof re-sealed, otherwise it’ll just happen all over again. And whoever it is who finally does come to re-seal that roof is gonna see that I have really seriously let my gutter go on that side of the house, too (because it’s on that side of the house and no one sees it — many, many teeny tiny maple trees are growing in that gutter), and he is gonna wonder what my fucking problem is. Why bother to own a home if you’re just going to  be insane? (But writing porn is extremely time-consuming… I simply can’t focus on everything around here.)

Anyway. It is indeed upsetting.  I hate to put in an insurance claim on that roof because then they just go and up your annual premium as punishment for actually using your insurance. (And while there are indeed certain types of punishment that I enjoy and perhaps even encourage, rising insurance premiums are not among them.) And oddly enough, just yesterday morning, when I was outside taking care of all the many flowers that are still in bloom, I was looking at that barn and feeling so happy about that new roof on that barn…

Aaaaarrrrrgh

Oh well.  You know what I’ve decided to do about it for now, right? That’s right: Ignore it.

Okay. So I am still very happy with how the work is going on the new erotic story, “1954 Powder Blue Pickup.” Although, yesterday afternoon, after I had to take a HUGE chunk of time out to clean up that darn bathroom, I found that I was at a place in the story where I was unsure of just how intense I wanted it to get.  I am still thinking that it could be a novella, and if that’s the case, then it really does have to get kind of intense or the plot won’t sustain the length of it.

And I won’t explain exactly why, because I don’t want you to know how my brain actually works, but then I was off on this weird and rather unending tangent, involving Pasolini’s film, Salò: or the 120 Days of Sodom — which, if you haven’t already seen it, I would not suggest running out to see it (or stream it), because if you in fact need to see a film like that then you’ve probably already seen it and know it well.

I’ve seen it and I know it well.

It is, of course, disturbing. But I believe I understand what Pasolini was trying to process (about Nazis and Fascists) by creating that film. And then I was thinking about the Marquis de Sade’s original book, 120 Days of Sodom, which is quite different but which he wrote while incarcerated in the Bastille prison in Paris for 37 days… And I also believe I understand what Sade was always trying to process when he wrote all the books he wrote. (I think I also know what the Bible was trying to process when it wrote about Sodom & Gomorrah… but that, indeed, is a whole other story, and one that interests me way less than Salò or Sade’s 120 Days of Sodom. )

Anyway, it is sufficient to say, that after the bathroom ceiling came down, and after I spent time cleaning it up and spluttering the f-word nonstop, and after I went down the intensely intense rabbit hole of Pasolini and Sade, I was kind of spent and could not really get back to work on the new short story.

However, that said! I feel completely confident that the work I’m gonna get done on it today will be very, very, very good! So I’m excited.

But I’m still not sure if I will post any more excerpts from it to the blog. I probably worry too much. But I guess we’ll just see. (Mostly I worry about how much it skirts the “questionable consent” thing.) But we’ll see.

Okay! I guess I’m gonna scoot into town now and get those groceries. I hope you’re having a great Monday, wherever you are in the world. I’m leaving you with something I saw on Instagram this morning — a Neil Young song, but done by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds! “Helpless.” It’s on their B Sides & Rarities CD from 2005, but I think they recorded it in 1990? Anyway. Enjoy. Thanks for visiting. I love you guys. See ya!