Happy Birthday, “E”!

Today is my dear friend Valerie’s 60th birthday.

I actually can’t really even comprehend this – that she could be 60 and that we could still be such close friends after all the things we’ve gone through.

We met in NYC, when I was 22 and she was 23. We became secret lovers soon after that, and remained secret lovers for the next 20 years, as she and I both also undertook committed relationships and marriages during that long stretch of time.

About 15 years ago, I wrote the short erotic memoir, “A Picture in a Frame,” that was published in the erotic memoir anthology, Entangled Lives. At the time, Valerie was just entering into another long-term, committed relationship and so I felt I couldn’t identify her by name. I called her “E” in the memoir. But now it’s okay with her to identify her by name. So “E” was Valerie.

I was tempted to post the memoir here on the blog today, in honor of her 60th birthday, but it is a wildly explicit and personal memoir and probably inappropriate for a huge portion of my blog readers, since it documents my life-long BDSM intensity and insanity and bliss and ecstasy – and Valerie’s role in that in my adulthood.

Lucky for you, though, it is included in Volume 2 of The Muse Revisited collection, which is free to download over at Smashwords until the end of this month.  So, if you don’t already have that eBook, and you want to read “A Picture in a Frame”, you can go get it now for free. (Go to the dropdown menu above and you can find a link for Volume 2 of The Muse Revisited up there.)

For me, “A Picture in a Frame,” has some disturbing elements to it, and it’s not the elements you would think. I have no problem at all with my past BDSM stuff, or mindset, or lifestyle, or anything like that. What’s in there that disturbed me is the strange depiction I wrote of my adoptive mother.

At that time in my life – meaning when I wrote that memoir, and literally a ton of other explicit stories, novels, etc. — my adoptive mother and I were on reasonably solid ground. I was trying very, very hard to maintain a long-distance relationship with her, and she read pretty much everything I ever wrote.

The last time I re-read “A Picture in a Frame,” (when I was finally showing it to Valerie last year!), I was really saddened by the stuff about my mother. Not that she was abusive every single day, but I was clearly writing from the frame of mind that I’d had throughout most of my life: protect the abuser because I was terrified of her. And I knew she would read the darn thing.

That fear persisted long into my adulthood. It didn’t leave me, really, until about 5 or 6 years ago, when I was forced to make my final break with her. And the fear left piece-meal; it didn’t just suddenly evaporate all at once.

Now that I’m suddenly writing the memoir, In the Shadow of Narcissa (link to it is on the left side there somewhere), about my childhood years, growing up in the shadow of such a formidable adoptive mother, when I re-read anything I’ve written in the past that tried to present a sort of idealized situation revolving around her, I just get sort of sad.

Since “A Picture in a Frame” documents my first, and only, long-lasting affair with a woman who was a relentlessly dominant sexual Top, who had a super keen focus on Bondage & Discipline, but who, when all the torture was over for the day, was intensely loving and maternal towards me, unlike anything that happened to me in real life – well, clearly, there are some “mommy” issues there for me, folks. Always denying myself love because it seemed like that was what I “deserved,” yet when I did get that love, as an adult from Valerie, it was unspeakably beautiful.

And that juncture in my childhood, where my sexuality began to make itself known to me, and my utter fascination with sexual abuse & discipline came to the fore, and how that might have related to my adoptive mother (I was 5 when my sexuality started to come out of me) – I pretty much glossed over all of that in “A Picture in a Frame” and presented it so differently from how it was.

Still, it was a memoir about Valerie, anyway, so it’s not the end of the world. It just makes me sad to read the part in there about my childhood sexuality and to realize that, without my even knowing it 15 years ago, I was still living in fear and protecting my adoptive mother.

But I guess my need to write In the Shadow of Narcissa will attempt to finally deal with all of that. And I hope in a balanced way. Because there are vivid moments in my childhood where my mother was so beautiful to me; just breathtaking. I so much wanted to love her.  But she was a narcissist, and I could only love her openly when she felt it suited her audience.

If you have read “A Picture in a Frame”, the memoir ends with a description of the picture that was indeed in a frame. “Blind Venus.” It is posted below. It’s a photo of a very old Polaroid.

Valerie is a painter. And this is the painting mentioned in the memoir, back when the painting was still in progress, in an easel. It long ago sold in some gallery in Brooklyn, NY. I’d say about 25 years ago, or so. (And the painting is not just of me; it’s a combination of me and another lover she had who lived in Germany – and who is now a grandmother. Where the fuck does the time go??)

All right. Enjoy her 60th birthday by doing something fun. Eat cake!! Why not?

Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys. See ya.

“Blind Venus” in progress; painted by Valerie in the mid-1990s.

Gimme A Pill — Please!

Or as Huey Lewis & the News so succinctly put it a million light years ago:  “I need a new drug!”

Something/Anything.  [Todd Rundgren said that in 1972.]

Mostly, I’m just exhausted, gang. Spiritually. Psychologically. The constant dialogue that goes on in my brain.

ME (to my brain, while I’m washing the breakfast dishes): “You know, I could adapt that Cleveland project for the stage. I’d have to re-think the story arc, but I can already see the sets.”

MY BRAIN:”Knock it off already. We’ve got too many ideas in here.”

ME (to my brain this morning, while I’m going over the new memoir): “You know, I could re-write this as a micro -memoir. Or even a  long prose poem.”

MY BRAIN:”Knock it off already. We’ve got too many ideas in here. You should not have even started this one in the first place.”

ME (to my brain, while I’m listening to White Lunar during lunch): “This music is giving me some great ideas for Tell My Bones. I could see re-writing it as a screenplay.”

MY BRAIN: “You idiot!! It started out as a screenplay! Knock it off already!”

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I’m just exhausted.  Happy, but exhausted.

And then yet another Australian musician started following me on Instagram today. And he texts me something about a photo I posted of Patti Smith’s Horses album cover (the album that I’ve had since 1975). And he says that Horses inspired him to become a songwriter.

So then I’m scrolling through his photos and I see a lot of old Bowie stuff, and I’m thinking we have very similar musical tastes and inspirations.

Then I click on one of his old Bowie photos — Bowie being a man who hugely & continuously inspired me since 1973 — and I discover that the guy in Australia is about 17 years old or something insane like that – still in school – and only found out about Bowie long after Bowie died.

And then that exhausts me, too. WTF?  Just how old am I? And how long has Bowie been dead – wasn’t that just last week?! And how come I have similar tastes and inspirations to teenage boys on the other side of the globe?

That shit just makes me collapse.

I was 14 years old when I saw Bowie’s Diamond Dogs tour back in Cleveland. That was over 40 years ago.

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Honestly, I don’t give a hoot how old I am, but I just don’t comprehend how old I am. I can’t get an accurate grip on it.

I recently met this 17 year-old boy here in the Hinterlands and he just makes me laugh. I adore him. He’s really delightful. And so unusual and I love his energy. And I love when he comes around. And he knows so many old rock & roll songs that I wouldn’t expect him to know — knows all the words.  And he’ll blurt out the most wildly inappropriate and hysterical things.

And I am like – what? Old enough to be his grandmother maybe?! Why the heck do I get along so well with him?

And yet most people my own age… I’m going to be 59 a week from tomorrow. Unless they’re old rockers or old hippies — and that’s the men; the women I have, like, nothing in common with because they are grandmothers.

It’s just weird. I feel like I’m floating off in some strange orbit, all by myself most of the time. (And while I’m off in that strange orbit, more & more & more ideas keep coming to me for projects that require months of getting written down…) (I’m exhausted.)

Anyway. All sorts of amazing good news came in this morning’s email but I can’t discuss that on the blog yet, either. It’s sufficient to say that I am just so blessed, gang. And I was planning to take it a little easy today, but when the email came, I was springing out of my skin. All excited and happy and ready to get back to work on something/anything.

One of these days, though, I’m gonna stay in bed late. And just lie there and stare out the window at my beautiful maple tree and the sky beyond. Just hug my soft fluffy pillows and snuggle there and relax. Really relax. Do nothing. Type nothing, Think nothing new.

Just lie there and smile and imagine what it might feel like if I could train the cats to bring me a cup of coffee…

Yes. Well.

In the meantime, I hope your Sunday is going swimmingly, wherever you are in the world! I leave you with this. It was an amazing album, gang. Some of it was depressing, but all of it was thrilling, regardless, when I was 14.

All right. Thanks for visiting. I love you guys! See ya!

“Rock ‘N Roll With Me”

You always were the one that knew
They sold us for the likes of you
I always wanted new surroundings
A room to rent while the lizards lay crying in the heat
Trying to remember who to meet

I would take a foxy kind of stand
While tens of thousands found me in demand

When you rock ‘n’ roll with me
No one else I’d rather be
Nobody here can do it for me
I’m in tears again
When you rock ‘n’ roll with me

Gentle hearts are counted down
The queue is out of sight and out of sounds
Me, I’m out of breath, but not quite doubting
I’ve found a door which lets me out!

[CHORUS (x3)]

c – 1974 David Bowie

Good Thing Summer Days Last Longer!

Happy Saturday, gang!

Peitor has familial obligations in – yes!! – Iowa this weekend. So we are not working on any scripts this morning.  (It seems weird, doesn’t it – that he spent his childhood in both Florence, Italy and Iowa??!!) (It’s because both of his parents were tenured University Professors. In Literature. Both of them. Talk about intense. Both of his parents were always extremely friendly and all. But they’re both ridiculously intelligent. You always wanted to be wearing your best vocabulary whenever they came to visit in NYC.)

Anyway. So I have a little bit of a reprieve from “projects” today, which is good because now I have way too many that I’m trying to focus on every day. I know it’s because I started that memoir website thing from out of nowhere, and then setting up the page became stupidly time-consuming. I wasn’t expecting that.

But Sandra is in fact flying in here in a couple weeks to begin the initial rehearsals of the play (staying with the director because she’s allergic to cats!!), so I have to redirect my focus away from In the Shadow of Narcissa for a moment and get back to Tell My Bones.

I’m in a good place about that, though. And I’ve been kind of waiting for that feeling: that the play was getting queued up inside me.

If I’m not feeling aligned energetically with a project, it’s useless to kill time sitting and waiting on it. I go in the emotional direction of whatever calls me on any given day. It works out better for me that way. But sometimes, deadlines sort of force you to focus on something, regardless. So I’m gad that I can feel the play bubbling up inside me again because that’s what needs my attention most right now.

Plus, the Internet has been super wonky around here the past few days.  It will suddenly go out, for hours, in the whole area. It’s frustrating but it is also a forced “vacation.” I can’t do anything online. I can’t work on the new memoir. I can’t stream any new music. I can’t watch anything on Youtube or Amazon Prime. I can’t work on my Italian lessons, either. Or even tune my guitar!

So I’ve been using it as a signal to just STOP, you know? Because I never just stop until it’s time to collapse in bed at night. And even then, I usually spend an hour or two doing other weird stuff that I won’t go into right now.

Anyway. It does feel good to sort of just stop.  To be peaceful. To just listen to the earth. To take in, sort of from a distance, all the things that are going on right now.

Okay. This will be brief because the Internet has gone in & out about 5 times since I started writing this!! Hopefully, Spectrum will have it all figured out by tomorrow.

Have a wonderful Saturday, gang, wherever you are in the world!! Thanks for visiting! I love you guys. See ya!

The internet NEVER used to go out on my typewriter!!

Let’s Make it Through this Morning Alive, Shall We??!!

It’s one of those mornings around here. I seem to be resisting myself at every turn.

When I awoke, I erroneously thought it was 3 in the morning.  So I was just lying there, wondering why I felt so curiously awake.

Then I noticed the sky was getting light and I looked at my phone and saw that it was actually 5:25.  Which is usually when I’m already downstairs in the kitchen, feeding the cats, and getting breakfast. WTF? Why did I think it was 3 am?

I always know I’m in some sort of weird emotional alignment when stuff like that happens first thing.

I went downstairs just as a train was passing through. An indescribably loud thing; the train whistle shrieks, the rumbling on the tracks shakes the whole house. In the summertime, it gets extremely personal because all the windows are open and the train literally seems to be right in my house. The cats go crazy.  Scurrying around, trying to hide from it.

I love the train, but it can be a lot to deal with when you’re only halfway down the stairs, none of the lights are on yet, the world outside is mostly dark. And all the cats are upset and darting everywhere.

I had awoken with the song “Jefferson Jericho Blues” in my head, and Mojo was already in the CD player in the kitchen, so I turned it on, not feeling completely confident that it was in fact a “Jefferson Jericho Blues” kind of morning. But the train had already thrown me into weirdness, so why not have music to be weird by, too?

I did okay until the coffee was ready and I was pouring it into my loving, F. Scott Fitzgerald coffee cup, and I started thinking about him (F. Scott Fitzgerald, the man) and some of the mistakes he had made and how, after he died, the whole world decided he was a 20th Century literary master regardless, so what did it matter – those mistakes?

His own mistake, really, was just alcoholism. The larger mistake was of course the Great Depression and the world’s insistence on blaming the immorality of the Jazz Age for its newfound financial woes, and since F. Scott Fitzgerald’s books were considered the ushers of that immorality of the Jazz Age into the world – well, you know, the world didn’t want any reminders of their personal infidelities, or greed, or immoral behaviors of all stripes.  So he was the brunt of their wrath and his book sales plummeted.

If you’re interested in 1920s Western literature and haven’t read his masterpiece short story, “Babylon Revisited,” it is a real sobering heartbreaker. It is not presented as a “memoir” but it might as well have been.  His return to Paris, where everything has become bitter, disillusioned, old colleagues are now broke, and he is treated as a social pariah by his own family — his in-laws refusing to allow him to be alone with his own daughter for fear that just his (now notorious) presence in the room will corrupt her at age 6 or whatever she is. And he loves his daughter more than anything else in the world.

Anyway, it’s just heartbreaking – what it illustrates about the hypocritical puritanism of humanity. But so good. (I named my Muse collection  – The Muse Revisited – after that short story.)

As I was thinking about all that, and pouring my coffee into that loving coffee cup, “The Trip to Pirate’s Cove” came onto the CD player.

If you don’t know the song (linked above), it’s terrifically moody and atmospheric and suggestive of unsavory impulses and a sort of irresponsible acquiescence to living along the underbelly of life.

Normally, I love this song. When Cherie, my birth mother, was here visiting in November, I played the song for her for a specific personal reason that I won’t go into here, but she loved the song, too. She and I are two peas in a pod in so many ways, and especially in this need we both have to rebel against the understood Order of things, and to sort of acquiesce to that immoral undertow as a rebellion against everything imaginable.

People used to think there was something scandalous about me being so insistent about getting rid of my virginity when I was only 13 — you know, making that decision for myself, with my eyes wide open, and finding someone who would take care of that for me.

But considering that my mother was 13 when she gave birth to me. I don’t know. Seems like some sort of significant evolutionary leap occurred there.  So I’m not ashamed of anything. And it’s interesting to note that she isn’t, either.  She’s just still sort of angry that her dad took me away from her, and gave me away to some other people who didn’t suspect, or fully appreciate, the immoral underbelly of life that I was bringing along with me!

Ah well.

Anyway, the song now has even more loving and significant attachments for me because of my birth mother, but this morning, Tom Petty’s voice was doing that thing it sometimes does now that he’s dead: It sounded more alive than if he had still been alive.  There’s a quality that creeps into it, that’s beyond life and beyond death, and it sounds like it’s right there with me, beating inside my heart.

Usually this pierces me and that whole crying thing springs out of me. But you know. It was still so early in the morning and I was determined not to train-wreck this whole day. So I turned the CD player off.

And I sat at the kitchen table in silence — except for the wonderful birds outside –and ate my boringly organic, non-gmo, vegetarian breakfast, drank my coffee and watched my many feral cats happily devour little-ceramic-bowlfuls of fish-smelly gunk that I wouldn’t eat if you paid me. And I mean, any amount of money in the world. Uck.

But they’re happy. And I’m determined to be happy, too, and to stay happy.

So then I meditated and tried to sort of mentally feel my way into a better emotional alignment.  But I am, indeed, in some sort of mood today.  That’s for certain.

I have been making a little progress on the new memoir site, In the Shadow of Narcissa. Although, I lost the featured photo and cannot figure out how to get it back! The only way it “comes back” now is as an enormous background banner kind of thing. Which so incredibly irritates me.  So I just got rid of the photo entirely. So, one less bell, one less whistle… It’s just maddening how a simple, single blog page can become so fucking complicated.

But it is up, and I am working on it. I am trying to make it an extremely streamlined thing; using details sparingly without rendering it totally meaningless. I think it will always be in a state of being “in progress.” And I’m not sure how it will translate to the Edge of Humanity magazine, but we’ll see.

Okay, for no reason at all, I give you this. I found it yesterday while I was looking for that photo of my younger brother that I posted yesterday on yesterday’s post. It’s a picture of my first husband, a few months before we met. He’s in London here, where he lived & studied for awhile before moving to NYC. (He’s a native of Singapore, originally.) I have always loved this photo of him. I kept it taped to the bedroom wall for years & years, pretty much right up until I got married to someone else.

Foun Kee, London, 1979

Right after he and I split up (in 1983), he was so angry at me for leaving him that he didn’t really want to have much to do with me for a few months. When it was time for him to move to Honolulu, though, he called me on the phone and wanted to take me to dinner. “Let’s just be nice,” he said.

And so we met in Chinatown (in NYC). I was excited, you know, and I was trying very hard not to have all those constant “things” in my personality that made him insane. And I was totally, totally, totally sober and had been for a couple months. No booze. No drugs.

He’s a Buddhist, so he took me to a Buddhist temple with him to pray as husband & wife (for the last time, it turned out) and to get our fortunes. (These tiny scrolls of paper that had sayings on them that were supposed to give you something to contemplate and make you a better person or something. I still have mine somewhere, but I’m not sure where.)

Then we went into a shop and he bought me a pair of these really lovely, deep red silk pajamas that resembled a cheongsam and had golden dragons embroidered on them. They were really beautiful. I still have them stored away, but they haven’t fit me in a long time.

After dinner, when we were getting ready to part (forever, it turned out), he said, “I want you to have this.” And he slid one of those cassette-singles that used to be popular, across the table to me. It was wrapped up, like a gift.  And he said, “I’m sorry, okay? Please take care of yourself.”

And then he was gone. And the cassette was Willie Nelson’s version of the song, “Always on My Mind.”

It broke my heart.  Just broke it to pieces. He was not one to ever apologize for anything, and neither was I, which was why we were tearing asunder our own marriage. But we needed to be different people. Life just moved us on.

And that said! I need to get started here today, gang! I’m gonna work a little more on In the Shadow of Narcissa, and then try to make heads or tails of all my notes on revisions for Tell My Bones.  Thanks for visiting! I leave you with this! You know. Stay married if you want to, my friend; if it matters that much in the long run. Get a divorce if that seems to make more sense to you. Don’t look to me for any answers or guidance on that, because there is a broken heart in each decision. But I have found that moving onward regardless is easier to sleep with at night than constant unhappiness. And the broken heart passes. It does.

I love you guys. See ya.

“Always On My Mind”

Maybe I didn’t love you
Quite as often as I could have
And maybe I didn’t treat you
Quite as good as I should have
If I made you feel second best
Girl I’m sorry I was blind

You were always on my mind
You were always on my mind

And maybe I didn’t hold you
All those lonely, lonely times
I guess I never told you
I’m so happy that you’re mine
Little things I should have said and done
I just never took the time

But you were always on my mind
You were always on my mind

Tell me
Tell me that your sweet love hasn’t died
And give me
Give me one more chance
To keep you satisfied
I’ll keep you satisfied

Little things I should have said and done
I just never took the time

But you were always on my mind
You were always on my mind
You were always on my mind
You were always on my mind


Best Morning Ever!

And by that of course I mean that the raccoons have returned to my maple tree! A mom and 2 cubs. They’re chattering away as I type.  (If you scroll down to my Instagram feed, you can see a photo of them. Click on it and it gets larger but it takes you to my Instagram page. For some reason, the photo has disappeared from my phone.)

Anyway. I love them. The hole in the center of the tree is parallel to the window I can see out of from my bed. I don’t even have to lift my wee bonny head from my pillow to see them. I can just lie there and watch them and they are so cute.

Okay. Well! Thank you to all of you who are visiting my “In the Shadow of Narcissa” site even though I already told you there is nothing there yet but a photo!! You are making me feel guilty!

ME (stumbling upon my stats page this morning because I still can’t figure my way around the back end of that new site): “Oh my goodness! Visitors! And I have nothing to give them!”

It’s sort of like having house guests and no food in the house…

I am going to try, once again, to work on that today and post something there. Although I wasn’t expecting it to take this long and need to focus more on the play. But we’ll see how it goes.

My solution to the problem of not being able to get the new site to do what I want it to do, is that I’ve made it just one single page. That’s it. You can follow it. You can contact me. But that is the only bell and the only whistle.  I am just going to post there on that one single page and that’s it.

So frustrating! (grumble grumble) And I’ve been building web sites since 1997, when you basically had to build the whole darn thing from HTML.

Why do they have to “make things better” only to then make them impossible to figure out?

A dear friend of mine, who is almost 80, asked me to look at her brand new dishwasher for her on Monday because it wasn’t washing the dishes. She would load up the soap, press “start,” but the soap would never be used, just be spilled all over, dry,  when she opened it, hours later. And her husband, who has dementia, kept putting dirty dishes away in the cupboards. She was going nuts.

HER (heavy sigh): “I should have gotten another Kitchenaide instead of this one.”

ME: “No, this is an LG. It’s much better than a Kitchenaide. Something’s just weird here. Let me look at it.”

And it turned out that the dishwasher had a “Delay” button connected to wi-fi, which had somehow been turned  to “on”, so that you can start your dishwasher later on, from your cell phone! She had no clue!  It was perpetually set to “delay.”

For Christ’s sake. Who fucking really needs that?! I can understand wanting your home security system connected to your cell phone. I can almost even understand wanting your thermostat connected to your cell phone. But your dishwasher?

My poor friend was going insane because her brand new, really expensive dishwasher wasn’t doing a darn thing and she was ready to have them come take the really nice brand new dishwasher away. (And she has her hands full enough, trying to look after a husband who has dementia.)

So. Anyway. My solution to my growing annoyance over the back end of the new web site was to simply make it one page. That’s all I really need anyway.  And, hopefully, on we go.

Nick Cave‘s Red Hand Files newsletter came out again this morning. I already read it, sort of by accident. I usually read it after I “get everything done.” It came earlier than it usually arrives, though, and I was just rapidly scrolling through my inbox on my phone, cleaning everything out of there (meaning “delete, delete, delete”) and then suddenly there it was, right in front of me, so I read it.

It seemed sort of sad to me. Of course, I always read everything from my own perspective, so I could be wildly wrong about that.  I will have to read it again, but it sort of seemed sad. God knows, I now have something else to ponder. And no answers will ever be forthcoming, so it will likely be one of those things I ponder until the cows come home.

Although, that said – around these parts, the cows actually do come home…

And raccoons, too! I’m thinking that the mommy racoon is probably one of the cubs that was born in the tree last spring. I have missed them so much!

Which in a roundabout and very convoluted way, brings me back to my thoughts about my niece (see yesterday’s post). And I feel like I can’t figure out what I should really do there.

My one sister and I are very close. She raised 2 girls, and she did an incredible job at it. (When she and her partner got together a million years ago, her partner had 2 very young daughters from a previous marriage and my sister helped raise them until they went off to college.)

And she loved those girls, and did everything she was supposed to do and all that. But they did make her crazy because they did stuff that all young people do. And I recall one time, a guy my sister knew was really, really wanting to have kids but his wife didn’t want them.  And my sister took the guy out to her truck, opened the side door and told him, “Here, dude. Slam your dick in this door a few times until the feeling goes away.”

She’s not a real fan of raising children anymore.

And she definitely has a really low tolerance for bullshit from young people now. And her opinion yesterday re: my concerns over my niece was drastically different from mine. And I know she knows what she’s talking about and so I think, what do I do here? Just let everyone live their own lives and look the other way?

Well, yes, let everyone live their own lives. But the other part – not even trying? Just walk away? Mind my own business?

It’s mostly my niece’s dad that I want to talk to my niece about. My brother. Because I saw and I knew a side of my brother that nobody else ever saw. Ever. I was really close to my younger brother for a long time, until he pushed me too far, too, and I finally had to walk away.  Like everybody else had.

But I know there was another path he had tried to go down; there was another kind of man he had tried to be. I remember that man he was so well, and I’m certain my niece has no clue that man ever existed. She just sees the man as he is now (indescribable alcoholic). I hate to think that’s all she’s destined to see.

My younger brother is on the left; my second husband is on the right. In Jackson, Ohio, Spring 1993.

Well, okay. Let me get going here. Spend some time on the other site and hopefully get something underway there, finally.  And spend a million hours pondering the Nick Cave thing. God knows, I can’t have a fulfilling life without stuffing my head full with a bunch of questions that have no answers whatsoever!

Have a great Thursday, wherever you are in the world! I leave you with this today. A song my brother and I used to play the fuck out of the summer after the album Centerfield by John Fogerty came out (1986). PLEASE please please play this one really loud, okay? In honor of the guy my brother used to be, such a long wonderful time ago. A summer I will never forget.

Thanks for visiting. I love you guys. See ya!

“Rock And Roll Girls”

Sometimes I think life is just a rodeo
The trick is to ride and make it to the bell
But there is a place, sweet as you will ever know
In music and love and things you never tell
You see it in their face, secrets on the telephone
A time out of time, for you and no one else

Hey, let’s go all over the world
Rock and roll girls, rock and roll girls

Yeah, yeah, yeah

If I had my way, I’d shuffle off to Buffalo
Sit by the lake and watch the world go by
Ladies in the sun, listenin’ to the radio
Like flowers on the sand, the rainbow in my mind

Hey, let’s go all over the world
Rock and roll girls, rock and roll girls

Hey, let’s go all over the world
Rock and roll girls, rock and roll girls

Hey, let’s go all over the world
Rock and roll girls, rock and roll girls, yeah, yeah, yeah

c – 1985 John Fogerty

Just Another Crazy Heat-filled Day in Crazeyland!

What a day, gang!

I am just now getting around to posting to the blog. The internet was out for 3 hours.

I am trying really hard to move my whole life over onto the new laptop. It’s kinda rough. It seems like everything is just slightly in a different language, you know?

I’m doing it. But it’s making everything go so slowly.

And I thought I was going to spend the day blithely working on the first post for the new blog/memoir thingy, In the Shadow of Narcissa. However, WordPress decided to force me to use the new page editor, and the new site builder. Which is not user friendly, by any stretch.

I thought I had the site all ready to go last night, but I was wrong. There were still some wonky things happening, and it only took me HOURS to fix it!

Not only because I couldn’t find my way around the new “user-friendly” streamlined site builder that kept doing nothing that I was trying to get it to do; but because I’m also still trying to get comfortable on the new laptop AND it’s about  95 degrees Fahrenheit in my bedroom today. So what should be minor annoyances feel like they weigh a psychological ton in all this heat.

For instance, what used to be my “delete” button on the keypad, is now where the “page down” button is. So every time I have to delete something, I suddenly jump down half a page instead!! Took me forever to figure out why that kept happening.

For no reason at all, I just want to post this picture here. I don’t know who drew it but I just love it. It is of course based on Tom Petty’s song “Wildflowers,” from 1994.

And White Lunar, the CD of film music composed by Nick Cave & Warren Ellis arrived.  I have not had time to listen to too much of it yet, but I really like it.  So I guess I’m glad that Amazon alerted me that it was apparently missing from my collection… (Amazon is kind of spooky that way, gang.)

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And Sandra finally called me. It only took her about 2 weeks. Seriously. For 2 weeks, I was sending texts out to no man’s land. But at least she did text me on Monday. Anyway. I still can’t go into it on the blog but it is such good news, gang. Just such good news about our theater project in Toronto, Canada.

It’s almost like I can’t even process it yet. (And everything seems doubly hard to process because of all this fucking heat.) But I am super happy.

And then the other thing I got bogged down in earlier was something that was worrying me about my niece – my brother’s daughter. So I texted my sister to see if maybe I was wrong, but I wasn’t. So then my sister & I got into a texting marathon about that. And then I discovered, either by accident or sheer necessity, that I have this weird sort of “parental” thing lurking inside me.

I never knew it was in there.

In fact, when (grown) friends have asked me, out of sheer desperation because they could find no other sitter,  to babysit their very young children in the past, it was always a strange experience.  I’m extremely maternal, you know, but I never had any sort of “authority” bone in my body.  I’m always on the same psychological level as the kid is. And then the parents would come home and say, “My god, Marilyn, what happened here?!”

ME: “She said she was allowed to do it.”

THEM: “Marilyn, she’s four. Of course she’s going to say that. But you’re the grown up here. You’re supposed to set the rules.”

Anyway. I never think of myself as “parental,” mostly because I don’t have any kids. So I was very surprised to see where I was heading with this whole thing with my niece.  I honestly don’t want to live her life for her, or live anyone’s life for them, for that matter. But I suddenly found myself texting her: You’re gonna come here, and you’re gonna listen to me and you’re gonna do what I say.

HER: “Okay.”

ME (stunned, thinking): Wow. That was easy.

I know I can get on my family’s nerves when I get it into my head to tell people how they ought to live. It totally ruined the relationship I had with one of my sisters. She made sure I had nothing to do with her daughter the whole time my other niece was growing up. So I’ve tried hard to sort of mind my own business since then.  But at the same time, I’m not one of those people who can just keep the family skeletons hidden away in the closet.

I think denial and avoiding things hurts younger people, especially, more than it helps them. So I’m guessing I’m going to piss everybody off. But I would rather my niece be able to make choices about her life and who she is, with her eyes open. If she wants to.

So I guess we’ll see. I just hope I don’t say something horrible, like, “I’m so disappointed.” Aaaarrrrgh….

Okay, gang. Even though I made no headway whatsoever in what I was hoping to do today, I’m still closing up shop, walking away from the desk, and going downstairs to watch another episode of “Z: The Beginning of Everything.” F. Scott Fitzgerald has finally sold his novel, This Side of Paradise, and so the Jazz Age is getting ready to officially begin!!

Have a wonderful evening wherever you are in the world. It’s frustrating for me to not be able to tell you where Nick Cave is tonight and what he’s wearing, but he is steadfastly refusing to post his own private life to Instagram so I am helpless here until his Conversations resume.

Meanwhile, I leave you with my breakfast-listening music from this morning. A totally hot little rock & roll love song from Tom Petty’s skinny, angry, cynical, attitude-filled years! ” A Thing About You” from my own personal favorite Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers album, Hard Promises. (Play it loud or it doesn’t work, gang!!)

Okay, Thanks for visiting! I love you guys! See ya!

“A Thing About You”

I’m not much on mystery
Yeah you gotta be careful what you dream
I thought this might pass with time
Yeah I thought I was satisfied

But oh baby let me tell you, I got a thing about you
Baby let me tell you, I got a thing about you
It don’t matter what you say
It don’t matter what you do
I, I, I, got a thing about you

Somewhere deep in the middle of the night
Lovers hold each other tight
Whisper in their anxious ears
Words of love that disappear


Baby you hold some strange control over me
Yeah it’s so wild it hypnotizes me


c – 1981 Tom Petty

Another Wonder-Filled Evening in Crazeysburg!

I’ll be brief because it’s been a long day.

A long fabulous day! And I’m tired!

Plus, recently, my new coffee cup – the one that loves me, or I should say, has that very loving quote on it by F. Scott Fitzgerald that makes the cup appear to love me. Well, recently, the cup reminded me that I never finished watching “Z: The Beginning of Everything” on Amazon Prime because I moved to this house  in the middle of it and then forgot all about it.

So I’m trying to make myself stop working in the evenings and watch that show in its entirety.  In other words, be like a normal human being (sometimes).

However, as I indicated earlier today, I am indeed going to be doing 2 new blog-related things every week. I am launching a new blog that is an intimate memoir-in-progress, titled In the Shadow of Narcissa. You can look at it here, but there is only a photo there right now.

If you were raised by a narcissist, or deal in any personal way with a narcissist, you know what a scarring psycholgical nightmare that can be.  It’s not going to be a nightmare about the horrors of being raised by a narcissist. It’s about how my mind helped me creatively survive being raised by a narcissist and how that childhood shaped me into the delightfully erotic and neurotic creature I am today!  I will probably post there twice a week.

However, I’m also going to be taking excerpts from those posts, condense them down considerably, and publish them at the Edge of Humanity Magazine once or twice a week, as well.

So I am excited and I will keep you posted about all of that.

I am also very excited to announce that an excerpt from my new novel, Blessed By Light (an excerpt that none of you have read yet, I might add) will be published in an upcoming issue of the Exterminating Angel Press Magazine.

So I am just very, very excited, gang. On all fronts.

But now I am just very, very exhausted, so I’m gonna close down the laptop and actually step away from my desk!! And I’m gonna go downstairs and watch F. Scott Fitzgerald convince Zelda (she is, in fact, the “Z” who is the beginning of everything) that he is going to marry her, even though she’s beginning to worry that he’s just a weak alcoholic and not committed to being a great writer.

Okay! Thanks for visiting, gang. I hope your evening is swell, wherever you are in the world and whatever you’re doing in it! I leave you with what I was listening to this afternoon on my “lunch hour” (or 20 minutes, or whatever I actually allow myself!). New from Texas Hippie Coalition, “Why Aren’t You Listening?” From their album High In the Saddle.  Okay. I love you guys! See ya!

“Why Aren’t You Listening”

The song has been sung
The deed has been done
God has not come
Why aren’t you listening?

Deep inside I deal with struggle
As you’ve seen my mind gets muddled
And though I seem complicated
It’s the reason I’m so hated
And though some may find me frightening
Others say I’m quite enlightening
And though you may find it shocking
I am still alive and rocking

The song has been sung (I’m still singin’)
The deed has been done (We’re still breathin’)
God has not come (I’m still believin’)
Why aren’t you listening?

I hear you say you want to kill me
And still deep down I know you feel me
I try to cut through all the static
Still I feel a little panic
Please address my mental illness
And please tell me that you feel this
And though you may find it shocking
I am still alive and rocking

The song has been sung (I’m still singin’)
The deed has been done (We’re still breathin’)
God has not come (I’m still believin’)
Why aren’t you listening?
Why aren’t you listening?

It doesn’t have to be mystical
Just as long as it’s spiritual
No need for the ritual
Just as long as it feels magical
It doesn’t have to be mystical
Just as long as it’s spiritual
No need for ritual
Just as long as it feels magical

You’re still singin’
We’re still breathin’
I still believe in
Why aren’t you listening?

The song has been sung (I’m still singin’)
The deed has been done (We’re still breathin’)
God has not come (I’m still believin’)
Why aren’t you listening?
The song has been sung (I’m still singin’)
The deed has been done (We’re still breathin’)
God has not come (I’m still believin’)
Why aren’t you listening?
Why aren’t you listening?

C- 2019 Texas Hippie Coalition

The world of author Marilyn Jaye Lewis