All posts by marilyn jaye lewis

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

Yeah, Baby! “Lazy” is Addictive!!

If you saw my early morning post yesterday, then you saw the view from my bed, as I was watching the sun just barely coming up outside my window, my coffee cup on my night table next to me (you couldn’t see that part, though, because my room was still cozy & dark.)

Here’s the very same view this morning but I stayed in bed even later today!!  (I’m guessing you can see, between the 2 photos, how cool this room is when it’s dark and the sun is just barely up.)

Same view from the bed as yesterday but today the sun is up











And I have switched coffee mugs. This is sort of my “November” coffee mug. I’m not sure why I think of it as that. But for some reason, I jumped ahead this morning to the November coffee mug. This morning, it just totally appealed to me…

Coffee next to me on my night table! For some reason, getting out of bed held no appeal today! (That’s my Inner Being Dialogues journal there next to the mug. I’m well into the 3rd journal now. My Inner Being is very chatty.)












I have now managed to force myself out of the bed and am sitting at my desk, blogging. (Yesterday, I blogged from my phone, so reluctant was I to leave the bed.) But I have yet to get dressed here this morning.  Which is almost unheard of. I am almost always dressed by the time I sit down at my desk. But this morning, I’m still in my jammies (a photo of which I regaled you with a few days ago — me, wearing my summer PJs in Peitor’s bathroom in West Hollywood last December.) And I’m wearing my blue flannel robe, because it’s chilly.

Loyal readers of this lofty blog no doubt recall that last fall, I decided to finally wear the blue flannel robe and claim it as my own. Back then, I said that I had bought it for an older man I had been involved with who left before he had a chance to wear it. But now I am okay with saying that he is dead. Last fall, I said that he “went away”. But what really happened is that he died before he had a chance to wear it. This is the  photo I posted one year ago, of me finally wearing his blue flannel robe. (I now consider it my robe. I’m doing totally okay with it.)

Reprint from last fall. This is the robe I’m wearing right now although, unlike last year, I am currently wearing some other stuff under it.













And for no reason whatsoever, I’m posting this photo of me from last February, wearing my favorite blue sweater!! (I originally sent this photo to Valerie in Brooklyn, but I saw it this morning while scrolling for the blue flannel robe!!)

I’ve had this blue sweater for about 12 years now. It is my very favorite sweater. My expression is one of delirium, so I guess I really, really DO love the blue sweater!!!













Well, my gosh!! The photos out of Nick Cave’s Conversation in San Francisco last night were just great! He looked like he was having a really good time. And the theater was beautiful. And that amazing full moon last night — I’m guessing it all came together for a really great show.

Only one more show here in the States, on Tuesday night…. me getting very sad… oh well.

All right, well, lest you think I’m just ridiculously bitchy and hard-assed about spelling (see yesterday afternoon’s post), I just want to stress that her email to me came on the heels of a long, long stream of emails from men who seemed not to care at all that I was actually looking for a woman. And so when an actual woman wrote to me, finally, I could not have been more crestfallen when I discovered that she could not be bothered  to use spellcheck and so came across as sort of offensively stupid. I don’t mind if you aren’t super smart, or anything, but come on — at least be smart enough to use fucking spellcheck. Of course, she had no clue that I was a writer. It’s not in my profile. My photo is not even in my profile. But honestly — don’t you try to bring your “A” Game when you’re responding to a person’s ad and you hope they will reply to you? I was figuring, that was her “A” Game and, frankly, it was kinda scary.

But, anyway, I quit the site! Enough. I have to focus on the PLAY. Not on my endlessly erupting libido.

Oh for heaven’s sake, I am just too much sometimes, right?

Okay. Well, I think it’s a national holiday here (Columbus Day). The streets are certainly void of school buses and cars going off to work.  A very quiet, lovely sunny morning in October.

And speaking of Peitor in West Hollywood (which I was, quite briefly, a moment ago), and, therefore, of our fledgling micro-short video production company: He has had just heartbreaking issues with both of his elderly parents. His dad in Iowa and his mom in Italy. It has been nonstop now for a few months. Not only does he have to constantly travel to both of these far-flung places — meaning, drop everything and jump on a plane because something dire is happening — but it is also just draining his whole heart, mind, body; everything.

He and I text sporadically but have not had a chance to even talk on the phone since before I went to NY. We were all set to get back on schedule with the micro-scriptwriting and then he was suddenly called off to Iowa again because of something dire with his dad.

So that has been just very intense.  I really miss him and our weekly phone chats. He really knows how to make me laugh. We had such a great time last December, when it was just him and me together, alone, for nearly a week because his husband was off producing some TV show in Toronto… God, did we laugh!! Well, we also had time to talk about serious stuff, too.

Peitor last December, on the lobby grounds of the Sunset Marquis hotel in West Hollywood. This is two doors down from Peitor’s apartment building.











All righty! Gonna put on some real clothes now and get to work around here. I hope you have a really good Monday, wherever you are in the world, gang!! Thanks for visiting! I love you guys. See ya.

Please! At the Very Least, Know How to Spell!

Okay, well. I have officially un-joined yet another extreme dating site. I had truly an endless number of men writing to me, even  though my profile clearly stated that I was looking for a female and the only female who did write to me lived about 800 miles to the south of here and could not spell!!!

You know, if you don’t know how to spell, there is this thing called spellcheck. If you use it, I will never know if you can spell or not; I will just assume that you know how. I don’t ever give any sort of surprise spelling tests or anything. Once I assume that you can spell, then we’re usually good to go and your ability or inability to spell will likely never cross my mind.

But, man. This female simply could not spell and that was just the final straw. And the specific words that she couldn’t spell were just ludicrously simple. So I got fed up and I quit the site.

Oddly enough, I got invited to a sort of party last night. Just a sort of “come over and drink with me because my daughter has a sleepover at a friend’s house ” type thing.

I thought it was so cool that I was invited. Most people— pretty much everyone except my friend Kara — do not ever invite me anywhere, least of all into their homes. But the woman is way too pretty and her boyfriend was out of town. And mere moments before she asked me if I wanted to come over and drink with her because she had the house to herself, I was thinking that she was very sexy in an over-the-top kind of way and that it would probably be really fun to have sex with her. I was even going to ask her if there was any chance she might be bi. She does not seem like someone who can spell very well, but I’m thinking there’s probably never going to be a reason why she would ever need to write to me. And obviously she drinks and I don’t anymore. Plus she smokes and she eats meat. But I was still thinking, man, she is fucking sexy. And, honestly, I don’t usually find myself thinking that these days. Plus she was really nice. She just really appealed to me. However, as soon as she said that her boyfriend was out of town… oh well. Best to leave it alone.

But Jesus Christ, right? The entire universe seems to be wanting me to just mind my own business right now. So I will. I guess, put it all into my work instead.


It is a gorgeous day here today. I am in this really good headspace. Sort of daydreamy. Not too intensely focused on any of my usual stuff, for a change.  Nick Cave has a Conversation in San Francisco tonight, then one last one in LA and the US tour will be over. So fucking weird how fast that went. I can’t get over it.

Oh that reminds me, I came across this photo from forever ago that I just love!! Long time ago now, right? Jeez. (And let me just say here that boys like these never lived next door to me! If they had, I would never have moved all those many, many times!!!)

Ah, well.

This idea that life goes on is something I have yet to fully grasp. The older I get, the harder it gets to understand— where time goes. And how it manages to go there so quickly. Wherever it goes.

Okay, I’m gonna scoot now. Thanks for visiting. You know what? I know I did this just the other day, but I’m gonna leave you again with “Shivers” by the Boys Next Door. Okay!! I love you guys. Have a great Sunday. See ya!


It Couldn’t Be More Like Fall Today If It Tried!

That’s a photo of my front door from last fall, but it looks exactly the same this year, so I’ll be lazy and not photograph it again!

(This is the same front door that hasn’t been opened in about 40 years or more. I’m not exaggerating, either. I’m thinking that maybe next time my sister comes to visit, I’ll ask her to pry it open. It might be fun to have a front door that works. Right now, it’s just a haven for spiders.)

It is so like fall today here in Crazeysburg, gang. Rain. Wet, dead leaves all over the sidewalks and in the street.  Temperatures in the low 40s Fahrenheit. In short, it’s kind of a beautiful morning.

Wow, well it looks like Nick Cave’s Conversation in Seattle was a really good one! Not only were there a number of photos uploaded to Instagram last night, but they uploaded the photos, like, moments after the show ended and all the comments were intense and sort of sublime. Only 2 more shows and the US part of the Conversations will be over. I just can’t believe how fast that went. It makes me more than a little sad.

All right, well. Yesterday was interesting. I did manage to join that other extreme dating site but had problems again with my profile loading correctly. I do think this is because the Universe, in general, wants me to stop going on these dating sites that yield, you know, basically nothing. So I’m not sure why I keep doing it, and I’m not sure why I never seem able to get my profile stuff to upload correctly.

But anyway, I clearly stated that I was looking to meet sub women and got an unending amount of emails from men, long into the night. Which, I guess, is actually kind of nice but I’m not looking for that. So I’m guessing I’ve wasted my time yet again, but whatever. We’ll just see.

It’s too bad so many people got murdered by meeting on Craigslist because I had the best luck with Craigslist, for years. Back then, I was primarily dating couples, and there were just tons of couples on Craigslist who always actually lived nearby. But then couples became complicated. And I don’t want to sound too disparaging about my own fair sex, but it was always the women-half of the couples that got complicated. It really was. They got needy, emotional, manipulative;  no longer trusting what my motives were. My god, it was like walking on eggs all the time. You know, if I was looking to fall in love with a man and ride off into the sunset with him, I don’t think that dating married couples would be my chosen strategy. Unless, of course, I was seeking an indescribably complicated life.

Anyway. I digress.

So. Yesterday. I began writing about Thug Luckless!! (See yesterday’s post about the Wu Tang Clan name generator.) Oh my god, it was so much fun!! I’m writing under a pen name, because I’m just going to sell it as porn, but he is just a really, really fun character. He’s an AI sex robot in a post-Apocalyptic town, whose owner died so he’s now just this lone sex robot, walking the streets, programmed to fuck women sort of eternally because now he has no owner and so there is no one left who knows how to turn him off.

The town is called P-Town because all the indoor plumbing has failed and so anyone left in the town just pisses in the gutters out in the street. And the sun never shines there because an eternal thick smog hangs over everything. Your basic post-Apocalypse kind of thing.

But Thug is sort of a sad, thoughtful kind of loner sex bot — who smokes, but his cigarette is never lit because he doesn’t know how to do that part.  Most of the men in the town died in the factory meltdown thingie that caused the Apocalypse, and so the forgotten women who are left in P-Town are just these grey, jaded, attention-starved women. They prefer actual men when they can get one, but they still go with Thug because he’s always out there, wandering the streets, programmed for sex and to always be agreeable to everything.

It’s really fun. Oh my gosh.  And it’s just a vehicle for porn — it won’t hold up to the scrutiny of any sort of time-honored storytelling principles, or anything. So I can just sort of sail through it without having to think too much or craft the story arc or anything.

Even though my story is really trashy, my inspiration for it was Marjorie Prime. I really found that movie so captivating — the ideas underlying it, and then how, at the end, the AI robotic characters outlast their humans and so stay eternally young, just reminiscing amongst themselves in the empty house, with their programmed thoughts & programmed memories because there is no one left alive to turn them off. Their owners all died of old age.

Anyway, that was my impetus for Thug Luckless. And that’s what I spent most of yesterday writing about. (And, of course, that only magnifies the problem with me and dating sites — or dating, in general. The places my mind goes to, whether or not it’s pornographic — most of the rest of the nearby world sort of pales in comparison to that. It can get hard for me to maintain even simple conversations.)

Okay. I gotta get going here today.  I have to work on the PLAY!!!! Gotta give Thug some time to cool down… Have a super Saturday wherever you are in the world!! I leave you with a sort of theme song for Thug Luckless, as he endlessly walks the streets of P-Town. Thanks for visiting, gang!! I love you guys. See ya.

Here Comes Thug Luckless!!

I don’t know about you, but whenever I need a new pen name, I go to the Wu Tang Clan name generator. I love that fucking thing. Usually I find it sort of cosmically brilliant — the names it comes up with for me. They’re usually oddly spiritual and intense (just like me!!).

Today, though, it christened me Thug Luckless. It’s a funny name but I don’t think I can really write under the umbrella of that. I mean, I could, but what sort of stories does Thug Luckless tell? Probably stories that would sell millions of copies, especially if he’s an X-rated ghetto cat and it’s a graphic novel…  Perhaps I’ll give Thug Luckless some deeper consideration.

Meanwhile, I’ll try my luck, spin the proverbial wheel again, and hopefully land on a pen name that’s a little easier for a gal like me to wear.

Okay, thank you to the new visitors here to Marilyn’s Room by way of the Edge of Humanity Magazine. My new segment of In the Shadow of Narcissa was published there yesterday as: Intimate Passages of My Mother’s Turmoil. I do really appreciate it.

It’s another beautiful morning here in Crazeysburg! I once again slept great. Today, though, I forced myself to get out of bed at 5:30 a.m., and not revel in all that soft cozy snuggly-ness of the flannel sheets, letting another whole morning drift away… Okay, well, perhaps it wasn’t the whole morning that drifted away yesterday; it was an hour and a half. Perhaps I need to re-examine the extreme writing regimen I keep.  I don’t know. I’ve been like this since 1994, so I’m guessing I’m probably just going to be like this. (Or maybe get even worse!)

This morning,in those 2 seconds before I forced myself to get out of bed, I was thinking about a new series of stories that I wanted to write. But I wanted to write them from the POV of one of those expensive sex robots — sort of like a “Marjorie Prime” thing, but with a sex robot that’s perhaps somehow AI, as well. (Hence, wanting a specific sort of pen name.) (Thug Luckless just doesn’t seem like a sex robot/AI kind of persona. Although, if I were to somehow acquire — through some indescribable blessing from Heaven — an expensive sex robot and his name was Thug Luckless — I don’t know. I might actually like him a whole big bunch. You know what? I think I really need to ponder Thug Luckless some more! Not be so hasty to cast him aside.) (You know, I was getting ready to join yet another extreme dating site, under the grand delusion that somehow I would find a non-drinking, non-smoking, non-weed-smoking, super kinky vegetarian, male or female, within 10 miles from me who only wanted to get together once every 3 weeks… I mean, if you focus only on the super kinky part, they are all over Muskingum County. There is kink everywhere. It’s the other stuff that’s so difficult to find. Anyway. Rather than go through all the trouble of once again setting up my complicated profile, I should just spend time writing about Thug Luckless instead.)

(You know, nothing makes me happier than sitting at my desk, writing weird shit. And I’m now feeling like I’m gonna have a really good time with Thug Luckless. But I also like to have actual dates that involve really weird shit sometimes, too. With, you know, people who aren’t young enough to be my children — that part of “weird shit” is not what I’m aiming for. I just sometimes feel like I’m destined to write my whole fucking life away at this point. Pun intended, I guess.)

But onward….

Almost nothing out of Nick Cave’s Conversation last night. At least, not yet. I think maybe 2 photos, in neither of which was he actually on the stage.  Apparently, in British Columbia, they also follow rules.  It’s kind of interesting to see in which areas of the world people tend to follow rules, and in which areas of the world people are generally mavericks with little to no regard for anyone else besides themselves. It’s just interesting. And you know, I don’t actually need Instagram to tell me that he showed up, everyone loved it, and he wore a suit…

I was thinking this morning how it would be so cool if he released a video of one of these Conversations. Although, I don’t know how he could do that without violating the privacy of the question-askers, unless they agreed to it beforehand (not agreed to be violated, just to be videotaped). I just love listening to Nick Cave talk. I love to listen to him sing, too, but I love to listen to him talk. There are about a bazillion interviews with him on YouTube that I watch over and over just because I love listening to him talk, even though I already know now what he’s going to say because I’ve watched them so many times. And the interviews range from the 1980s up until about 2016.  So, you know — quite the Nick Cave panoply there on YouTube.

All righty. I actually have to get started here today. I have a scheduled phone chat with the director on Monday, so I want to have some considerable stuff mapped out before then. Have a really nice Friday, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting. I sat at the kitchen table in utter silence this morning, so I’m gonna leave you with nothing!! But I love you guys. See ya!

Oh No! Delicious Cozy Yum-Yum Strikes Again!!

Yes, that’s right!

Last night was the first night of the season that I slept with the flannel sheets on the bed.

I always have this dim remembrance somewhere in the back of my overworked brain that the flannel sheets are always indescribably cozier than I remember them being, after spending about 6 or 7 months with really crisp cotton sheets on the bed.

Well, last night was no different. I simply could not believe how indescribably cozy my fucking bed was and I did not want to get out of it this morning. Seriously, I laid awake for an hour and half, just so cozy that I just kept snuggling deeper into it. I literally had to force myself to get my behind out of bed and go downstairs and feed the cats, myself, etc.

Plus, all through the spring and summer, when the windows are open, I also have all the Venetian blinds open in my bedroom. So even when I’m awake at 5 a.m. in the warmer months, I can immediately see the world outside my window, including the streetlight and any headlights of cars going off to work. (Well, the drivers of the cars are going off to work.)

But last night, I had the windows closed, the heat on, and so all the Venetian blinds were down and closed. So I was seriously in a dark little snuggly place this morning. Man. I simply did not want to get out of bed.

So, of course, now, half my morning feels like it’s gone. And I hate that. It deprives me of precious, valuable minutes within which I can sit at my desk and work!! Grumble, grumble

Anyway. It is sufficient to say, I slept great.

I didn’t get any more writing done yesterday once I finished that new segment for In the Shadow of Narcissa. It actually took a lot out of me to write that one. Partly because, aside from just the difficult subject itself, there were specific things between my adoptive mom and my brother that I chose to leave out. It was just too disturbing to commit it to print.

You know, if it was about something that happened to me, it’s easier for me to write about it. But it’s not as if my brother gave me any sort of permission to write about him. I haven’t actually seen him in decades. I know he’s still alive but, understandably, he doesn’t want any connections to his adoptive family. I’m trying to select occurrences that best illustrate how I was learning to respond to my mother and not just specifically “what she did.”

In my opinion, she was inexcusably cruel to my brother when he was a defenseless little boy and it tore my fucking heart out to watch all that shit happen to him. (And to be honest, there’s a whole chunk of stuff I don’t actually know about because I didn’t see it; I only heard it and all I heard was heart-wrenching screaming. And what the heck do you do when the only person on Earth who can make everything all right — Mommy — is the one causing the Hell? How do you process it?) Shit.

And then there was a time when I was in my 30s, when my adoptive mother was in a really lucid and loving phase (she was on meds at that point), and she sat me down one afternoon, when I was visiting from NYC, and in a bewildered, heartfelt way, she  wanted to know why my brother hadn’t spoken to her in (at that point) something like 15 years. She said, “What did I ever do to him that was so bad?” She had no true conscious awareness of herself or anything she’d done.  I didn’t have the heart to shatter her, and it wouldn’t have helped, anyway. My brother wasn’t coming back and I knew it. All I could say to her was, “Mom, I just don’t know.”

Still, none of it means that it’s okay for me to write about my brother’s private life. It’s not as if I can undo it by telling a bunch of total strangers about what happened, anyway.

So, yesterday afternoon,  once I’d signed off on the new segment and sent it off to the editor at Edge of Humanity Magazine, I tried to focus on the play, but I just couldn’t.  I went outside and trimmed the hydrangea, finally. That took nearly an hour! It really had gotten so big this summer. What a glorious thriving thing that hydrangea is. Even while I was trimming all the dead blossoms off of it, I could still feel so much life just pulsing from that thing. (I call it a thing, because it’s hardly a bush, but it’s not a tree. Not sure what to call it, but it’s massive now and just full of palpable life.)

It was such a beautiful fall evening. Just perfect. I came back inside and, as I am wont to do pretty much 24/7, I sat back down at my desk. But I had not a thing to do at my desk so I got on pornhub!! Yay. I never have time to get on pornhub!! So! And then 3 hours later…

Jesus. You know? Where does the time go?

Oddly enough, me and porn don’t have the best relationship. Only because I find so much of it really predictable, unimaginative, overflowing with narcissism and tedium — and those are only the videos that last about maybe 6 minutes. To me, they feel unendurably endless after about 63 seconds. I love porn, and you’d think that in this modern world that is so saturated with porn now, that I would just be this happy camper in pornland. But, sadly, such is not the case. And that’s because, in my opinion, there is just such a plethora of bad porn out there.

Yet, once in a blue moon… even picky girls like moi hit pay dirt. It’s all about the key words, you know. I’m an extreme fetishist, to boot. Not necessarily in my private life anymore, but it’s still where my mind goes. I’m not sure why. It has a lot to do with human behavior and human thought processes — I find extreme fetishes so fucking interesting. Especially the people who dedicate their whole adult lives to one specific extreme fetish and turn an entire room in their homes over to doing this one specific thing. And it almost always involves owning expensive stuff that you can only find on Stockroom, or you have to make it yourself.

I just find that fascinating. But it doesn’t mean that just any extreme fetish will appeal to me. I have to hunt pretty diligently to find something that goes into that mind-bending realm that is not, you know, sort of just horrifically awful.

And then I have to find that perfect balance of energy between the male and the female. The guy has to be the perfect Dominant — balanced, not over the top and not cruel. And the female has to actually seem really super in to whatever’s going on and not just being tortured or something. And I also discovered that I like it a lot when I don’t understand the language they’re speaking. I like it when I have no clue what they’re saying. (Oh, and it has to be “amateur” — not amateur quality, but just not a professional porn company.)

And I usually don’t get into the same extreme fetish twice.  It has to be something new and, preferably, something I’ve never heard of before. (And at my age, with about 35 years of extreme fetishist friends and colleagues and co-workers behind me, it’s not 100% easy to find something I’ve never heard of before.)

Well, so you can see that me and porn are usually better left un-coupled. But once in a blue moon — say, last night, for instance– holy moly! And it really comes down to key words. Find a topic that might hold a certain appeal; click on it, then scroll down and look at the key words other people entered. Then click on one, then scroll down again and look at more refining key words that other people entered, and then look for the one that has the keyword “extreme” in front of it; click on it and then either shriek in horror at what pops up in front of you, or go, Whoa….. and be a happy camper in pornland for 3 hours.

I’m not going to tell you what I got into. Just that it involved somewhat expensive stainless steel instruments that you can buy on Stockroom. And it was something that I never, in a million years, would have guessed would not make me want to squirm or even to perhaps puke.

It all comes down to the people, you know? When people are really in to something, just totally getting off on it — that alone can get very compelling.

There were men I knew, who were my colleagues — really wonderful, intelligent men, back in NYC in the ’90s and early 2000s — who were Doms, into very intense extreme fetishes, and the young submissive girls would literally line up for the chance of getting a playdate with them on a Saturday night. You know: Please, please torture me for a few hours because I know you’re so fucking good at it. It really does come down to the specific person, to the personality, the specific human mind involved.

And now that I no longer live in NYC, then they have to also want to make high quality digital videos of what they’re doing and upload them to pornhub…

Okay. New topic. It’s going to sound related to the above topic, but it’s not. It has to do with the spirits that I am certain are in this house. And I don’t mean the house is haunted. I think it’s some sort of portal for amazing spirits. This whole town is. I don’t know how to explain it. But they don’t frighten me at all.

On Tuesday, I took off a pair of stockings. The kind that need garters to keep them up. Just a pair of regular Hanes stockings. Not expensive at all. I was feeling lazy and decided that rather than hand-washing them, like you’re supposed to do, I would put them through the gentle cycle in the washing machine and then just hang them up to dry. I had three other things I also wanted to wash at the same time. So I bundled it all in a towel and took it straight down to the washing machine. Then, 20 minutes later, the wash cycle was done and when I went to get everything out of there, one of my stockings was gone.

100% completely, thoroughly gone. I looked everywhere for it. Even thinking it could have somehow fallen out of the bundled towel and a cat had absconded with it, but it was absolutely nowhere. Just gone. I found this really endearing, you know? Like, Okay, dude, whoever you are — you can have it. It’s not like it was Wolford or something stupidly expensive. It was just regular old Hanes.

Too awesome, right? It will be so cool if; a.) it never shows up again, ever; or b.) it shows up someplace where it could not have ever gotten to all on its own.

All righty! I’m gonna scoot and get more coffee and get the day going. Lots of work to do on the play, still.

Have a terrific Thursday, wherever you are in the world! I believe Nick Cave goes back to Canada tonight. The Conversations are indeed winding down. Where the heck does the time go? I simply cannot believe it. That frightens me more than some unseen spirit making off with one of my stockings, that’s for sure.

Thanks for visiting.  I leave you with what was essentially the soundtrack for extreme fetish playdates everywhere in the early 90s!! Enjoy! love you guys. See ya!

Life On Earth, As We Once Knew It

Okay, gang. Just a quick hello today.

If you’re keeping up with my memoir-in-progress about my childhood — In the Shadow of Narcissa has updated. You can read it here, or at the permanent link at the bottom of the side bar.

In the memoir, we’re in the second house in Cleveland, where my mom started to do her weird punishment stuff. But she was also still able to be this really beautiful mom most of the time. She didn’t start to get seriously awful until the third house.

The second house was actually an interesting time in my personal life, although that stuff isn’t in the memoir — or at least, not yet. Not in the online version, anyway. Maybe when I’m actually writing it as a complete book, more of my internal stuff will come into it.  I’m not really sure.

Even though, within about 10 years of the time period I’m currently writing about, my adoptive dad would do a complete about-face and become this truly nasty individual who only cared about money, in these early years, he was incredibly kind to me. Just so nice. And he was the sole thing keeping our little house sane. In those years, my adoptive mom really tried very hard to please him. And I think that’s what kept her struggling so hard to keep her mind on an even keel back then.

All righty. So.

It got pretty chilly around here — true October weather now. I’ve turned on the furnace and put the flannel sheets on the bed. Next, I’m gonna have to break down and trim back my hydrangea. Even though it’s been officially dead for a number of weeks, I haven’t had the heart to officially tell it goodbye. It looked so amazingly pretty this summer. And probably by the weekend, I’ll have to bring the potted plants indoors, too — which is never fun, because then I have to do constant battle with the cats to keep them from eating the plants. Especially the palm tree, which I raised from a wee bonny twig (it’s now about 4 feet tall).

As soon as that tree comes indoors, I think the cats literally wait for me to be asleep, and then they go after that poor palm tree, which always looks so glorious when it comes inside from having been on the porch all summer. And then, in the space of one single night, the cats do their best to get at as many of the palm fronds as possible, chew them, and then throw them back up all over the carpeting.

It’s the one time of year when I really just scream my head off at those darn cats. The things they put that poor tree through every fall, even when I try to barricade the tree beyond belief. They still manage to get at it and usually turn the whole tree over in the process. Soil everywhere. The tree flopped on its side, most of its leaves, gone.

It is so darn frustrating. The joys of living with feral cats.

All right, I gotta scoot here. Sorry this is so brief. I’m gonna tackle the rewrites on the play now. Hope your Wednesday’s been good! Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys. See ya.

Excerpt 4: Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse

Excerpt 4 is sort of like an intermission, in the style of a Litany. It is still in progress, so excuse typos if there are any!!

Excerpt 4:  Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. Contains sexually graphic material which will be inappropriate for some readers.  Please be forewarned. (Approx. 2 pages.)

Litany (One): The Girl Goes Down
For His Mercy Endures Forever

O give thanks    in those days, the land he came from was called Yugoslavia and he worked for the Soviets. In secret. In New York. Gathering, gathering. Information, all the time. From everywhere. From everyone. In my room at night, on my bed, he was the first man I knew who liked to be on top during 69. It was what I liked best about him. Flat on my back, my throat open – his cock went right down. And he never lost track of my clit. Even when he was coming. He made it easy for me to swallow it. I could come like crazy then. His cock down my throat. His mouth on my clit. I was 25, 26 – something like that. It was heaven, to come like that – with my legs wrapped tight around his back.

For his mercy endures forever.

O give thanks    two of them, now. Was I 46? We were all in our 40s. Single. We did it a lot. We liked one another. Well enough. In my house, my room. My bed. Flat on my back. My knees to my tits. The one between my legs is bitching about the condom. It doesn’t fit right. It’s annoying – to me, I mean. He won’t quit fussing with it and I’m so ready to fuck. The other one is backed up onto my face and I’m giving him a rim job. He loves rim jobs and so I love giving them to him. He’s holding my thighs apart to help the other one put his cock in my ass. I could be happy, if the other would quit bitching about the condom. The one with his ass in my face says, “just put it in.” “I can’t, this thing isn’t on right.” “Just put it in her ass. She wants it in her ass, come on.” “Just shut up.” “No, you shut up.” They’re arguing again. The mood is blown. “Will you both shut up? You’re arguing like little kids.” They were always arguing like children, like brothers.

For his mercy endures forever.

O give thanks     David Bowie’s Pinups is on the record player. I’m 13. The boy with me is the love of my life. A child, really. Like me. It’s a new skill I’ve learned – just two days prior. And I can’t wait to show him. It’s his first blowjob. We’re both very excited. We’re trying it. It’s working. But then, suddenly, he comes in my mouth. I wasn’t expecting that. He wasn’t expecting that. I’m stuck there – I don’t know what to do. Nobody had warned me about this part. I didn’t want to be rude. So I swallowed it. He looked at me. And I said, “Um. Excuse me.” And I left the room abruptly. Went into the bathroom and shut the door. Stood there. Looked down at the sink. Wondered if there was something I was supposed to do. But it didn’t come back up or anything.

For his mercy endures forever.

O give thanks     I’m 14. The man is fresh from prison. I like him. I’m giving him a blowjob on a Friday night. It’s summertime. He runs his fingers through my hair while his dick is in my mouth. He’s so gentle. He says, “Where on earth did you learn how to do this? You’re good at it, you know?” My heart was in it – kind of. For the moment.

For his mercy endures forever.

O give thanks      I’m 27. He’s 35. Working on a Dissertation at Columbia University. He’s a Physicist, from Cameroon.  He’s nice. Very gentle. We’ve had two dates. He wants to make love. I go to his room and we kiss. He has the biggest cock I’ve ever seen. I’m scared of it. I want to leave. “Don’t go,” he whispers. “Don’t leave. You’re so beautiful. Don’t go.” I stay. I undress again. I cannot even get my mouth around it. Eventually, we just lie down to go to sleep. He has a very narrow bed. We cuddle. He says, “It’s all right. You’ll get used to it. All the girls are like this, at first.” (He was right. I did get used to it. I loved his cock. I would somehow get it into my mouth; at least suck on the head of it. And he would lie back and whisper: Oh baby.)

For his mercy endures forever.

O give thanks      I’m 24. He’s 21. He’s my boyfriend. But we fight about everything – except sex. He has the perfect cock. He really does. And he worships my pussy, which is just so nice. I’m straddling him, for 69. I’m sucking his perfect cock, which I love to do. I never get tired of having his dick in my mouth. But right now, my soaking pussy is planted on his face and he’s got a firm grip on my hips – keeping me planted there on his mouth. His tongue is going for my clit and I can’t move. His grip on my hips is tight. I’m trying to be fair; trying to keep sucking his cock. I don’t want to be a glutton for all the delirium. But he’s holding my clit captive – it’s at the mercy of his tongue. His tongue is right up in the stiff little hood, wiggling it like crazy. He won’t stop, won’t let me go. I’m stuck there; my whole world becomes my clit and his tongue. I am finally forced to give up on his cock. I’m gasping out all sorts of inanities: oh god oh god fuck jesus god oh shit. And I come right in his face.

For his mercy endures forever.

O give thanks     I’m 20. He’s 40. Italian. He makes love to me. Like a grown man, who’s been around and knows what he doesn’t want. His wife is dead. She jumped from their window, timing it so that he would be coming around the corner shortly after she hit the pavement. His heart shattered when he saw her body on the sidewalk on E. 66th Street. It took him four years to kiss a woman again. That woman was me. He kissed my whole body, made love to it in every position. It was easy to suck his cock, to really suck it; his body was full of passion for me. I wanted him to come in my mouth but he wouldn’t. He wanted to lie down on me and come up inside me, instead. Fucking him was heaven. We made a baby.

For his mercy endures forever. He alone does great wonders.  He led his people through the wilderness. He parted the Red Sea.  O give thanks   Time is a mystery. Your cock in my mouth – it could define the future. He laid out the Earth above the waters. He made great lights. The sun to rule by day; the moon and stars to rule by night. Your cock could define the future – it could. Stars, sun, moon – all of it. For his mercy endures forever.    O give thanks.

© – 2019 Marilyn Jaye Lewis
Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse

Hmmm. What Fucking Planet is She On…

Yeah, well, I guess it would have been nice to have been alerted that a little PR blast about “me, the playwright” was going out yesterday. I probably wouldn’t have chosen yesterday to blog about being suicidal and going off to a convent…

Crap. You know?

This is why blogging is always so dicey for me. I actually blog about not only my real life, but also the constant insanity that is really in my head. And as pretty as I am on the outside, well you know, the Portrait of Dorian Gray is often in full bloom on the inside.

So there we have it. My experience of yesterday. All kinds of new traffic coming in through my (outdated, inaccurate) Wikipedia page because of a new crop of strangers googling me; and then finding out about all the joys of being moi.

Okay. We’re just going to move on. But I’m also going to bring this up again, as I so often do around here: When you’re a woman and you’re a writer, nothing will likely speak more to the heart of you than Virginia Woolfe’s A Room of One’s Own. If for some inexcusable reason, you don’t know the book; her overall premise:

“In referencing the tale of a woman who rejected motherhood and lived outside marriage, a woman about to be hanged, the narrator identifies women writers such as herself as outsiders who exist in a potentially dangerous space.”

And once having read it, nothing will feel so horrific as knowing that, even while Virginia Woolfe understood all of it,  she ultimately walked off to the river with rocks in her pocket. She should not have ended that way. I am not going to end that way, I just refuse; even if sometimes the only thing that will help me is taking cover amid a bunch of Carmelite nuns — women who also reject motherhood and live outside marriage but inside the auspices of the Patriarchy. (Wouldn’t that be cool? To just go off and let some guy take care of you? Jesus Christ, right? And no pun intended there… But the minute you let some guy take care of you, he gets to tell you what to do. And loyal readers of this lofty blog no doubt recall that I will always, without fail, say “NO!” even before I hear what the guy is even trying to say!!! AAAAAaaaarrrrgh!!!!)

But, Jesus. Come on. Even in a First World country, in the 21st Century, it is fucking hard to be a woman, be a writer, and live on a single, wildly fluctuating income — and afford a room of your own that’s quiet so that you can focus and write.

The pressure in my life sometimes feels insurmountable. I am someone who pulls miracle after miracle after miracle out of her hat. But it gets not only exhausting but also daunting: looking into that hat and wondering if another miracle is gonna manage to come out of there one more time.

And in this instance, unfortunately, I am talking about a situation involving other, private people that I cannot blog about. But it’s making me feel undermined and sniped at. And it hurts.

So — on to more beautiful things.

Nick Cave sent out a Red Hand Files newsletter yesterday that was just beautiful.  You can read it here. You know, is it wrong & selfish  to say that it’s too bad men like him (meaning, “rock stars”) weren’t around when I was growing up in the 1970s, or do you just feel appreciative that he’s alive right now?

Oh, and also, during one of Nick Cave’s Conversations in Austin the other night, a woman was sitting next to him on his piano bench while he sang “Shivers.” I ask you, just what kind of hat do you have to have in order to pull that kind of miracle out of it???!!! I thought my Miracle Hat was pretty cool but au contraire! It pales in comparison.

(The people in Austin eventually put a whole bunch of cool stuff on Instagram.) (I believe he’s going to be in Portland tonight. We’ll see what kinds of magical hats the people possess in Portland…)

Well, this week, when I’m not gently tearing my hair out over rewrites of Tell My Bones, I intend to write another short segment of In the Shadow of Narcissa. It’s a difficult one because it goes deeper into the abuse my brother suffered at the hands of our adoptive mother when he was just a little boy.  And to write it from the perspective of a 4-year-old girl. And not through the lens of my own fear of our mother, but from that desperate feeling of wanting to help my brother but being given the constant mandate from her that I was not allowed to care about what happened to him.

Not being permitted to feel things was probably the hardest part of living with her.

The fucked-up-ness was simply manifold.

But I’m also going to take a look at the 4th segment of Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. It’s going to be that “Litany” segment. It should just be very interesting. I’m very eager to write that because I can’t imagine how it’s going to hit the page.

Meanwhile, I’m going to get laundry started here. And at some point, I have to go back into town and buy groceries. I’m gonna wait until the fog lifts, though.  We’ve had an amazingly dense fog here since late last evening.

The fog as seen from my kitchen window just now. The same Carl Sandburg fog that “crept in on little cat feet.” Oh no!! Not more cats!!

Okay, gang. I’m gonna scoot.

Have a terrific Tuesday wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting. I leave you with two options, both equally from my own perception of life. The first is one I really enjoy believing in. I really, honestly do. Someday, I’ll meet my soulmate and we’ll go off to the Chapel of Love.

The second is more like how I experience love, for real. You know, intensely deeply, but no chapel anywhere on the horizon. (This song was actually playing on the record player when I lost — or got rid of — my virginity. Go figure. The gods are funny, for sure.)

All righty. I love you guys. See ya.

“Piece of My Heart”
Oh, come on, come on, come on, come on!
Didn’t I make you feel like you were the only man -yeah!
Didn’t I give you nearly everything that a woman possibly can?
Honey, you know I did!
And each time I tell myself that I, well I think I’ve had enough,
But I’m gonna show you, baby, that a woman can be tough.
I want you to come on, come on, come on, come on and take it,
Take it!
Take another little piece of my heart now, baby!
Oh, oh, break it!
Break another little bit of my heart now, darling, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Oh, oh, have a!
Have another little piece of my heart now, baby,
You know you got it if it makes you feel good,
Oh, yes indeed.
You’re out on the streets looking good,
And baby deep down in your heart I guess you know that it ain’t right,
Never, never, never, never, never, never hear me when I cry at night,
Babe, I cry all the time!
And each time I tell myself that I, well I can’t stand the pain,
But when you hold me in your arms, I’ll sing it once again.
I’ll say come on, come on, come on, come on and take it!
Take it!
Take another little piece of my heart now, baby.
Oh, oh, break it!
Break another little bit of my heart now, darling, yeah,
Oh, oh, have a!
Have another little piece of my heart now, baby,
You know you got it, child, if it makes you feel good.
I need you to come on, come on, come on, come on and take it,
Take it!
Take another little piece of my heart now, baby!
oh, oh, break it!
Break another little bit of my heart, now darling, yeah, c’mon now.
oh, oh, have a
Have another little piece of my heart now, baby.
You know you got it -whoahhhhh!!
Take it!
Take it! Take another little piece of my heart now, baby,
Oh, oh, break it!
Break another little bit of my heart, now darling, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah,
Oh, oh, have a
Have another little piece of my heart now, baby, hey,
You know you got it, child, if it makes you feel good.

Onward & Onward, Full of Grace

First, the scale: Back down to my goal weight. I lost those pesky 7 pounds during the night.

Actually, it’s really sort of fun — having this new insane scale to step on first thing in the morning: what is it going to tell me? I don’t interfere with its read-out in any way; I can’t, actually. It’s a really cheap scale. It does what it does and that’s it, and all I can do is either step on it or not. So that element of complete  surprise is just an interesting new way to start my morning.

Plus, it’s super uplifting to lose 7 pounds during the night!! (And on those nights when I’ve gained 5 or 8 pounds, well. You know, it’s just a cheap scale and it doesn’t work! So disregard it!) (It only works when I reach my goal weight, which, thank goodness, is quite frequently. I’ve already reached it several times in the past couple of days.)

Okay. I am doing reasonably okay today.  I’ve been having mental issues again over the last several days.  I’m thinking it’s just stress. But it’s maybe other stuff, too. I’m not sure. Who the fuck knows. It got so bad yesterday that I was seriously thinking it was time to go back to the convent. (Loyal readers of this lofty blog probably recall that St. Therese’s convent is where I go when I get extremely suicidal. But since I’ve moved, it’s now 50 miles from here. But when you get there, you turn in your phone and then there’s a vow of silence. And they feed you if you want to eat, which I usually don’t.  They give you a little cell, and you can be alone with St. John of the Cross and Kempis’ The Imitation of Christ. But usually, I most prefer the  Beatitudes because sometimes I think that that’s all there is to it, really. Then there is that tiny but amazing old stone chapel, where it’s just you on your knees with Jesus for however long it takes. Get your shit back together; get back in your car and drive home.)

But 50 miles is 50 miles now. And I have these cats. And I have this house. And responsibilities. I wait until it’s really, really dire, you know, before I go there. But then there’s that grey area — if I wait too long, I can become immobilized. And then it’s just dicey, all the way around. I just hate that grey area. You have no idea.

But even when I get immobilized — when my brain sort of  puts me on lock-down and I can’t easily do things that will save me, I can still text. So texting is a true blessing. It really, really is. Even when I can no longer communicate verbally, I can always, always write. Usually all I need is just help getting out of the house — getting into the air, under the sky, remembering that there’s an actual world outside of my brain.

Anyway. Yesterday was heading in a bad place all day, and so I was thinking about the convent. But I decided to just sleep in the guest room last night and see if that would break the chain of negative crap. I don’t think of my own bedroom as negative at all. I love my room, and the energy in it. But I remembered how incredible it felt, the night before I left for NY, sleeping in my guest room for the first time and what a great room it turned out to be.

It was okay last night, but I think that other time, having my birth mom sleeping in the next room probably had a lot to do with the peace I was feeling. I was thinking I should call my mom and tell her she has to come back. But I don’t like to hold people for ransom  emotionally. Because of course she would come, but she does have her own life to live. I always somehow manage to get myself back on track.

It’s so weird how you can just turn a corner and wake up and be okay. I really do think it’s stress. Primarily, both Sandra and Peitor needing my attention to various projects, when right now, I need to give 110% to the Tell My Bones rewrites. Well, anyway. The noise just starts in my head.

I know what it is I need to turn off the noise and I also know I’m not going to get it anytime soon, if ever. So maybe adopting a little puppy would be the next best thing — unconditional love & devotion! But I can’t take on a puppy, or even a full grown dog. Aside from a house full of untamed cats that would freak the fuck out, I don’t have the time for the added responsibility.

So I’m just trying to focus on the writing and have that particular type of joy be all I need for the time being.

When I was meditating this morning, I got myself into a place of pure potentiality. That true realization that there is no such thing as the future and there is no past. The past is a memory — and if your memory is gone, your past is gone. And if your memory shifts, then your past completely changes. So what is the past, really? And the future is only an idea. It can be absolutely anything or nothing at all. The only thing that’s filled with wide-open potential is the infinite expanse of right now.

It was a beautiful feeling. The beauty and the openness of right now is where all that feeling of fulfillment is for me — you can do anything, experience the joy or the thrill or the satisfaction of anything right now, because all of reality is experienced in your mind anyway.

I’m not saying that reality doesn’t eventually play out in some way; I know it does. But for me, the true fulfillment comes from the creation of the idea. The “playing out” of the idea is where the baggage is. Not that baggage is essentially unmanageable. I’m just saying that, for me, the moment the idea is created — that’s where I find the most emotional fulfillment. I can do anything I want to in my mind, especially experience pure beauty and pure love.

Which, of course, reminds me of Ghosteen again. I was listening to it in the guest room last night, in the dark. God, it is such a gorgeous album (even though it is so fucking sad). Every time I think I’ve chosen a favorite “song” (I hesitate to call them “songs” because they simply don’t feel like “songs’), I realize that I can’t actually say that I love one over or more than another. They are each just so haunting and beautiful.

I really love “Spinning Song” and “Night Raid.” But then the other songs come on and I love those, too. So who knows. All I know for sure is that the whole album is sort of uncategorical.  It defies my mind’s ability to define it.  Meaning, I can’t simply say, “Oh, that’s a great record.” Or section it out into a group of songs, or something.

I did notice that there’s a bunch of cute little Ghosteen things that we can purchase now! I say “cute” because most of them have got the little lamb picture on it — but of course, little lambs (in cemeteries) are symbolic of dead children so my brain hesitates to identify with the little lamb as “cute,” even though it is. It’s incredibly cute. But, you know, it’s also unbearably sad. So I’m not sure what to do about that.  I really want one of those tote bags — but do I tote it around until the little lamb becomes common place or meaningless? I’m not sure I can do that.

Anyway. You can see that it’s best for me to pursue wide open expanses of blankness where I’m not encouraged to think about anything.

And on that note!! I will remind you to please go on Instagram and follow @tellmybones. And to go on Facebook and follow:

The web site will be launching soon. Mostly, they have to figure out my bio, which is stupidly extensive and goes off in many directions. And I think once that’s solved, the site will launch. I noticed they picked that author’s photo of me from my novel Freak Parade — where I’m wearing my Mark Jacobs aviator shades that I just love! And I’m sitting on the stoop, looking totally dyke-y. Yay. Nothing like just going out into the world.  (You’d never know that I am a girl who loves elegance. I honestly do. I used to own the most gorgeous dresses. Anyway.)

So, thanks for visiting. I apologize for being all over the map today, but it’s better than not existing. So I guess I don’t really apologize for it. I would leave you with something from Ghosteen today, but I think you’re supposed to go purchase it. So, in the meantime, I leave you with this thought-worthy piece of questions. Have a good day out there, okay? I love you guys. See ya!


Oh, life is bigger
It’s bigger
Than you and you are not me
The lengths that I will go to
The distance in your eyes
Oh no, I’ve said too much
I set it up

That’s me in the corner
That’s me in the spotlight
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don’t know if I can do it
Oh no, I’ve said too much
I haven’t said enough

I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try

Every whisper
Of every waking hour
I’m choosing my confessions
Trying to keep an eye on you
Like a hurt lost and blinded fool, fool
Oh no, I’ve said too much
I set it up

Consider this
Consider this
The hint of the century
Consider this
The slip that brought me
To my knees failed
What if all these fantasies
Come flailing around
Now I’ve said too much

I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try

But that was just a dream
That was just a dream

That’s me in the corner
That’s me in the spotlight
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don’t know if I can do it
Oh no, I’ve said too much
I haven’t said enough

I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try

But that was just a dream
Try, cry
Why try?
That was just a dream, just a dream, just a dream

c – 1991 : Bill Berry / Michael Stipe / Mike Mills / Peter Buck