Well, somehow I got through yesterday. Many phone calls — all of which helped me find balance and perspective, and redirect my focus toward the future, and all my other projects.
A few of you wrote to me yesterday (thank you), some of you not understanding why my having written a play about a black painter is now considered “racist.”
The term is actually “cultural appropriation,” which means that white people are not supposed to write about black lives because we can never truly understand them and would therefore create a false perspective of what it means to be black in America.
I can agree with that, but only so far; only up to a point. At some point, we all become human beings. I wrote a play about a woman’s life with not only her full consent to write about her, but with her very deep hope that her story would reach the world in some way.
I also feel that the accusation of cultural appropriation threatens to ghettoize all writers, because it also means that blacks can only write about black lives; Asians can only write about Asians; Latinos can only write about the Latino experience of life on Earth; Native Americans can only write about Native Americans; and Eskimos or any other indigenous people, are only capable of expressing what life on Earth means to an Eskimo, etc. Men can’t write about women; women can’t write about men; Gays can’t grasp the lives of straight people, and straights can’t imagine what it’s like to be Gay.
It gets dangerous to compartmentalize everyone’s experience of Life on Earth, gang.
However, sadly, I saw this coming a few weeks ago — even before the Black Lives Matter protests exploded again with the murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis — because I attended a poetry reading online that truly alarmed me in its rage and anti-white agenda.
It was a fundraiser, and at the time, I was impressed that they’d raised $9,000 during a pandemic. Until another fundraiser I attended online — a multi-cultural poetry reading, heavy with Latino/Latina poets — raised $140,000 in 24 hours, during the same pandemic.
I was just incredibly alarmed, gang, by all the “vibes.” I could tell that something was going to absolutely explode. And I could also tell that my play was going to somehow get hit by shrapnel.
Anyway. It did. It has. And now on we go, toward the future.
I have no lack of projects to devote my attention to — and that’s an understatement. And I hope that all the sorrow and devastation I felt yesterday, cleared the deck for me emotionally, and I can get back to focusing on these other things. For instance, Girl in the Night sits there with only one additional sentence since Sunday. And everything else imaginable remains, basically, half done.
But it is a really unbelievably beautiful day here today. And I slept great (through some miracle), and I am still in love with my life. I don’t really give credence to that saying “everything happens for a reason,” because I’m more of a firm believer that once something is created, it lives, and it goes out into the world, either in spirit or in physical form, or maybe even both. Allow creation to happen for the joy of creation itself. Just allow — you know?
It’s not always easy to get to that place of allowing, but it beats the energy of resisting. For sure.
Okay. I hope you all have a terrific Tuesday underway out there, wherever you are in the world! Thanks for visiting, gang. I leave you with something I was listening to, just for the hell of it. The joy of it. For the years gone by and all the joy and dreams-under-the-bridge-of-it! “Emotional Rescue,” by the Rolling Stones. This was their album that was a huge hit at the time that I moved to New York City, in 1980 (at age 20) and finally started having my “real” life.
So listen and just rejoice, gang. I love you guys! See ya!
I honestly cannot believe I’m having to post this, but it is looking like my play about the painter Helen LaFrance, Tell My Bones, is being shelved indefinitely due to my being a white writer and the play is about a black woman.
Since the Black Lives Matter protests have taken over the country, no one wants to be perceived now as racist or as politically incorrect.
I’ve worked on Helen’s life story now for 8 years — as a screenplay first, then as a play with music.
I’m devastated. I can’t really even think straight. This has been going on since last evening, so I’m really just a mess. My nerves are destroyed.
Naturally, I got no significant work done on Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. And today — in between bouts of crying, I’m just worn out. Just wanting to vomit.
A bright note — the other day, I found a first edition of the photo book Fish in a Barrel, in excellent condition at list price. These are photos the photographer Peter Milne took of Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds on tour, and it came out in 1993. It includes some of my favorite photos of them.
The book arrived in today’s mail. I’m happy but I’m also sad because I don’t know how 27 years flew by so quickly. This all seems like yesterday.
Don’t forget! If you live in Copenhagen, or can get there, Stranger Than Kindness, the Nick Cave exhibit, opened today!!
And on another sad note, my best friend Paul, who died from AIDS in 1999, would have been 61 today. I like to feel that he’s hanging out with me a little bit today, but honestly, I just don’t know anything anymore.
Have a good Monday, gang, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting, I love you guys. See ya.
This is another one of those posts that is going to be brief!
It is just a spectacularly sunny day here, today. And add to that, that I managed to get the house all vacuumed yesterday, so the sun is not shining in on a ton of cat hair everywhere — and I’m just super happy about that.
If you saw my post from last night, you know that Letter #8 for Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse took an unexpected turn yesterday, so I want to get back at that. See where it wants to take me now.
Last night, I also posted about the discouraging news about the birthday stuff for next month — well, now my dad is really sick. So I’m guessing he is just really stressed out about all of this.
You know, since there is not a damn thing I can do about this stupid pandemic, I cannot get too bogged down in all these unhappy feelings. I need to just accept “what is.” Somehow, move forward.
Okay. Don’t forget — if you live in Copenhagen, or live somewhere where you’re allowed to travel to Copenhagen, the Nick Cave exhibit, Stranger Than Kindness, opens tomorrow!! And if you get to see it, please write and tell me about it!!
All right, well that’s it for today. I want to get started here.
I hope you have a good Sunday, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting, gang. I leave you with “Oh Happy Day,” that huge hit by the Edwin Hawkins Singers from something like 45 years ago. It’s how I’m feeling at the moment! I hope you are, too! Enjoy. I love you guys. see ya!!
It’s been a really lovely day here, gang, but kind of sad.
My dad and I have birthdays one day apart: mine is July 22nd and his is July 23rd. We were supposed to have a big family gathering this July, to celebrate the fact that my dad is turning 90 and I’m turning 60. Plus it was a way for everyone to be together again for something a little happier than my stepmom’s funeral (which was back in January.)
Anyway, today my dad canceled the party because of the pandemic. Nursing homes and their surrounding “assisted living” residences are still under tight lockdown and might stay that way through the fall.
So it’s frustrating and sad.
I did vacuum the house, though. No help from the cats, of course. And oddly, after spending so much time with that first page of the new segment for GirlintheNight, I was working some more on the second page today and then realized it was actually the first page of the segment and wound up totally deleting that whole other first page. (This is for Letter #8.)
I sure wasn’t expecting that, but it’s okay. The Letter has taken on a whole new tone.
The day is indeed over and now the evening is just so lovely. So quiet. But I still feel a little sad.
The sun is still on the horizon. I’m going to watch yet another CharlieChan movie— another one that I’ve seen before. I’ve seen most of them many times! Anyway, they’re fun and I don’t really have to think, which is what I want right now.
Okay.
Hope your Saturday was good to you, gang. I love you guys. See ya!
Well, to be honest, around here, the lockdown is as good as over. And by June 10th, pretty much everything will be open again, but social distancing is still going to be required.
(Oddly enough, June 10th was the day I graduated from high school — 42 YEARS AGO!!!!)
Honestly, I don’t even understand that number…
Okay. Well, I did a little bit of laundry here this morning. And I sort of looked around the various rooms of this bonny house of mine and decided that, without a doubt, everything needs to be vacuumed again.
The cats are on some sort of mission right now to shed as much as they possibly can. I told them, pretty plainly, that it’s not funny anymore and I brought out the vacuum cleaner and left it in the middle of the family room floor for them, as I always do. And they barely even glanced at it and then went and sat in the windows to watch the birds, as they always do. So we’ll see who breaks down and gives in first… Here’s a hint, though:
Me:
Them:
All righty!!
Actually, the main reason I hate vacuuming is because it scares the bejeezus out of all the cats. Even after all these years, they are still absolutely terrified of it. They dart everywhere and knock things over, and hide behind the dryer, which disconnects that big hose from the dryer vent, and then I have to move the dryer and reconnect it…
Stuff like that. Every time I vacuum. So, sometimes, I look at all the cat hair starting to accumulate again everywhere and I look at all the cats lounging around so blissfully, and I just sigh and say “fuck it.” But eventually, you know. Someone’s gotta do it. After all, I’m allergic to cat hair…
Yesterday, though, I ordered one of those little Black & Decker high-powered dust busters. You know, just flick it on and off, and not worry about having to constantly wheel that vacuum cleaner out of the hall closet and send everyone scurrying. So we’ll see if that helps. Because, honestly, allergies aside, I am a bit of a cleaning freak. But I’m such a huge softy when it comes to not wanting to upset the cats!
All righty. I heard from the Amish guys last night. Next weekend my new barn door will arrive!! I’m so excited. A whole new era in living here will get underway. 24/7 access to my barn. How cool.
You know, usually, on the rare times when I can get access to it, I am really reluctant to spend too much time in that barn. I don’t want to say that I sense spirits or energy everywhere I go, but I am sensitive to accumulations of energy. I think we all are, actually, but I just pay a lot of attention to it.
For instance, when you go house-hunting, you can just tell when the energy inside a house repels you. I always wait until I walk into a house and feel that rush of joy, that feeling of “home,” and then nothing will change my mind — I have to have that particular house.
I totally felt that way about this house — I wanted it from the moment I set foot in it. there are energies all over this house; really joyful, happy energies.
But the barn itself has like a sort of accumulation of energy. Intense. Not bad, or anything, but I always feel like I’m intruding on someone when I go in there. It’s very noticeable to me. I’m thinking that if I can spend more time in it, I will get more used to that feeling and I can finally have my gardening shed!
Well, okay. I guess I don’t really have much to say today. I need to get back to my writing. It’s just a really lovely day here. I’m looking forward to just sort of enjoying it.
Oh, before I forget, there was an alert yesterday from Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds that, starting in July, they’ll be uploading fan-made videos to the Bad Seed TeeVee channel. Submission guidelines are here.
Okay! I hope you have a happy Saturday, too, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting, gang!! I leave you with one of my favorite scenes from the old Walt Disney movie, The Aristocats — “Everybody Wants to Be A Cat.” You need to get at least one minute in before it really starts swinging!! It is quite jazzy!! All righty. Enjoy. And on that note, I love you, guys. See ya!
That illustration above is connected to my post from the other evening, Memory Lane.
In case you aren’t American or don’t know what a merry-go-round is, or why grabbing the brass ring was a fun thing to do, or why I would want to save it for something like 30 years… ??? So I saw this illustration and thought it may help give you a happy “visual”!
Okay!! Onward to today!!
I did indeed finish editing Peitor’s book yesterday and sent it back over to him. but it took me a lot longer than I’d thought it would — mostly because it was incredibly hot & humid here yesterday and so I was having the breathing problems again. But eventually, everything got under control and I got everything done.
Today is ALL ABOUT finally getting back to Letter #8 (“The Choice to Kill”) for Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. Yay!
I’ve also started doing a good, old-fashioned aerobics routine around here. The tai-chi didn’t seem to be helping me at all with my metabolism. So between tai-chi and yoga, I was super flexible and super calm & relaxed, but not able to kick up my metabolism back to how it felt before I got the virus.
I’ve done yoga now for about 13 years, but I also always used to walk — a lot. After I began having hip joint issues, I became really tentative about doing too much walking anymore, even though the glucosamine supplements work great. They really do.
But, finally, the other day, it dawned on me to try going back to low-impact aerobics, which I used to swear by for years — many years ago. And, voila! It’s working!!
And even though maybe you’d think that the breathing issues and the high humidity (i.e., right now it’s 98% humidity and I can barely breathe) — you’d think that doing a bunch of aerobics would make the breathing more difficult, but I found that it’s the opposite. I actually breathe better when I’m doing aerobics and my heart is pumping more.
But since I can’t figure out, yet, how to sit at my desk and write (or post to the blog) while doing a bunch of aerobics, I’m sort of stuck with not breathing for most of the day — and praying for rain so that the humidity will disperse!
Well, okay!!
Let’s see. Right as I sat down at my desk, I got a text from Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds (to me personally — I feel certain that I’m the only one who got it!!) that a new video had been uploaded to YouTube. It’s an instrumental, soundtrack piece by Nick Cave and Warren Ellis — very atmospheric, really lovely: Far From Men 2
I don’t know if it’s being added to Bad Seed TeeVee or not, but more new content has indeed been added to that channel recently, so check it out!!
Also, Nick Cave sent out such a beautiful Red Hand Files letter today — it was Issue #100 !! (They are called “issues” but I think of them more as letters, but he answers questions that people ask him, so they are “replies.” So that’s why a lot of the time, I call them “thingies.”)
Anyway, this reply was so endearing. Really, just so sweet. It’s another very short one so you can read it in about 5 seconds if you so choose. It is here. (And it concerns another type of ring that would have sentimental value!!) (Probably more so than a brass ring from the merry-go-round at Coney Island, though.)
(It all reminds me of a sort of sad story about one of my wedding rings — my second marriage. We got engaged at Tiffany’s — the main store, the one on 5th Avenue in NYC, so my engagement ring and the matching wedding band came from Tiffany’s and were very valuable. But then, after I had left my second husband, and the man I was living with after that, and very much in love with, turned out to have a severe gambling addiction that suddenly reared its ugly head, and before I had time to even discover it, he had gambled away my life savings — along with a $9,000 check I’d just gotten from the insurance company (I know, this sounds like a Joni Mitchell song) — and as part of trying to not lose the house, I had to sell my Tiffany engagement ring and the matching wedding band. I was divorced, so I guess it wasn’t the end of the world, but it still really upset me to have to do that. A lot.)
Anyway. In keeping with the recent happier trip down Memory Lane… Here’s a photo of the wedding rings from my first marriage. The yellow gold one was from Macy’s Herald Square, and it was the ring we used on our wedding day. The ring beneath it, though, even though it hasn’t been polished in decades, is actually more valuable. It’s white gold and was a wedding gift from my husband’s parents in Singapore. They bought us matching rings.
Well, okay!
I’ve gotta get started here, folks. I leave you with my last-night-and-breakfast- listening music from this morning!! The awesome George Michael smash hit from 1987, “Father Figure,” from the album Faith. I will not explain why I was suddenly thinking about this song after all these years!! It is sufficient to say that I love this fucking song!! I hope you do, too.
All righty! Enjoy your Friday, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys. See ya!
“Father Figure”
That’s all I wanted:
Something special, something sacred
In your eyes.
For just one moment
To be bold and naked
At your side.
Sometimes I think that you never
Understand me (understand me).
Maybe this time is forever.
Say it can be, whoa.
That’s all you wanted:
Something special, someone sacred
In your life.
Just for one moment
To be warm and naked
At my side.
Sometimes I think that you never
Understand me (understand me).
But something tells me together
We’d be happy, oh, oh.
(baby)
I will be your father figure.
(oh, baby)
Put your tiny hand in mine.
(I’d love to)
I will be your preacher teacher.
(be your daddy)
Anything you have in mind.
(it would make me)
I will be your father figure.
(very happy)
I have had enough of crime.
(please let me)
I will be the one who loves you
‘Til the end of time (of time).
That’s all I wanted,
But sometimes love can be mistaken
For a crime.
That’s all I wanted:
Just to see my baby’s
Blue eyes shine.
This time I think that my lover
Understands me (understands me).
Please
If we have faith in each other
Then we can be
Strong.
(baby)
I will be your father figure.
Put your tiny hand in mine.
(my baby)
I will be your preacher teacher.
Anything you have in mind.
I will be your father figure.
I have had enough of crime.
I will be the one who loves you
‘Til the end of time.
If you are the desert
I’ll be the sea.
If you ever hunger
Hunger for me.
Whatever you ask for
That’s what I’ll be.
So when you remember the ones who have lied,
Who said that they cared,
But then laughed as you cried,
Beautiful darling,
Don’t think of me.
Because all I ever wanted…
It’s in your eyes, baby, baby.
And love can’t lie.
No.
Greet me with the eyes of a child.
My love is always tellin’ me so.
Heaven is a kiss and a smile.
Just hold on, hold on.
And I won’t let you go, my baby.
I will be your father figure.
Put your tiny hand in mine.
I will be your preacher teacher.
Anything you have in mind, baby.
I will be your father figure.
And I have had enough of crime.
I will be the one who loves you—
So, I am gonna love you—
‘Til the end of time.
I will be your father.
(I will be your…)
I will be your preacher.
(…father)
I will be your father.
I’ll be your daddy, whoa.
I will be the one who loves you
‘Til the end of time.
Okay, well, last night’s post — Memory Lane — is actually going to be today’s post, too! If you didn’t already read it, you can scroll down to the previous post (Memory Lane) or use this link.
I am almost done editing Peitor’s book, about 50 more pages to go, so I want to get that finished here this morning and get it back to him, then get back to work on Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse.
But I wanted to alert you that, if you’re a fan of any of the stories linked up there in “From the Vault,” that whole section is being removed. I am doing new editions of The Muse Revisited Collection, including print-on-demand options to buy them in trade paper, so none of the stories will be available through the home page of this site. If you have direct links to any of the stories, they will still work, you just won’t be able to find them linked here.
So, just FYI.
Okay, I’m gonna close and get started here! However, I wanted to leave you with this very cool & very short video, for Nick Cave’s Stranger Than Kindness exhibit, FINALLY opening in Copenhagen on June 8th!! Enjoy!! Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys. See ya!!
Peitor’s birthday is in a few days, and I went looking through all my storage boxes for a photo he took of us at a rooftop party in the East Village in June 1986 for his birthday that year.
It was a beautiful photo and I remember we both looked so genuinely happy in it. That year, he and I were both dating guys who had the very same name — first and last name. Totally different guys. But so weird, right?
Anyway. I know for sure I still have the photo stored away somewhere but I could not find it. Instead, though, I found a ton of stuff to share with you here on the blog!!
Quite an eclectic bunch of memories, but here we go.
Me with my date, Michael, getting ready to go to my first prom. May 1977. (It was his senior prom.) We’re in my driveway, getting ready to get into his car. I’m 16 here.
Here is the cork from a bottle of Moët Chandon champagne from my first wedding anniversary to my first husband (in NYC). April 1982.
Here is one of the very first publicity-type photos taken of me when I was a folksinger in Greenwich Village, in NYC. This was an advertisement for a special gig, but I don’t recall now why it was special. I am in a broken TV set with Frank Mazzetti — an older, more established folk singer, who “discovered” me at an open mic night at Gerdes Folk City. I am 21 here.
This is an ad from the Village Voice newspaper, where my really good friends (called here The Brunette Farmers, but that was not the name of their usual band) were opening for The Fleshtones at the Peppermint Lounge, in NYC. This is probably 1982 or 1983.
This is the (very rusty now) brass ring from the merry-go-round on Coney Island. I had spent a wildly intense and amazingly debauched day/evening there with the drummer from The Fleshtones (this was when they were famous — long after the gig at The Peppermint Lounge.) Bill (the drummer) grabbed the brass ring and gave it to me. I’ve kept it all these years, but I no longer remember when it happened.
Here is my best friend Paul who’s been dead now since 1999, when he was visiting me in NYC. I was already married to my first husband. Paul is fooling around with my electric typewriter. This was probably winter 1981. I still have this very same desk!! It was a wedding gift to me from my first husband. At this point in time, Paul was a set designer for an opera company but I don’t recall which one. He went on to become the set designer for the Woolly Mammoth in Washington DC (a famous theater company there), then for Hollywood movies.
Here , I have already separated from my first husband even though we remained married for a long time afterward (he moved to Honolulu to get a Masters Degree and I wanted to stay in NYC to pursue my singer/songwriting stuff). Paul was visiting for Thanksgiving and had bought me a Polaroid camera as a gift. This is the hellhole apartment in the tenement in the East Village. The bathtub was in the kitchen, but a previous tenant had built a makeshift privacy wall so that the bathtub wasn’t right next to the kitchen table. Here is Paul trying to take a bath in the really small, old, iron bathtub. I’m using my new Polaroid camera!! (Paul was very tall — about 6 foot 4 inches.) This is November 1984.
Here he has taken a Polaroid of me!! Same day. I’m 23 here. Paul was 24. (He was gay, by the way, and died from AIDS.) I am tall, too, so I never fit in the bathtub, either!!
Here is that action figure of Keanu as “Neo” in the first Matrix movie. Remember how I was searching for this a couple weeks ago? I finally found it!
A really close friend of mine was at a restaurant in Midtown Manhattan once and saw Papa John Phillips and got his autograph for me. It’s the only autograph of a famous person that I have. (Papa John was the main guy in The Mamas & the Papas, and wrote all those amazing songs. He’s dead now.) This is fall 1988. At one point, I had made an art project out of this. I made a collage where the autograph (which says “Good Luck”) was surrounded by every little paper fortune I’d ever gotten from a fortune cookie (those cookies that come with Chinese take-out food).
The first postcard I received from the Southern writer/ poet, Rosemary Daniell. I had written her a letter after reading her poetry collection, A Sexual Tour of the Deep South, and she wrote me back and I was so thrilled!! I loved that book so much and still have it (I have all her books). She and I actually eventually became friends. She lived in Savannah, Georgia. This was November 1984.
Here is the back. She talks about some of her other books.
Here is a photo of me in the recording studio, back when Marilyn’s Room, Inc. had launched. One of the partners in Marilyn’s Room was a 24-track recording studio in Midtown Manhattan, and this is where we recorded all the interviews with filmmakers, artists, poets, writers, and publishers who were featured on MarilynsRoom.com. And we taped the readings of the poets and writers here, too. I was the Executive Producer on all of that stuff. Even though I have a degree in audio engineering, I was not the engineer on any of it. I was, instead, the person who went insane trying to stay on top of everything. This is sometime in 1998. (I cannot believe how huge my glasses are!)
And here is something I’ve never shared anywhere. It is the first letter I received from the writer Hubert Selby, Jr (called “Cubby” by his friends). His famous book, Last Exit to Brooklyn, was the inspiration for my first book, Neptune & Surf, so when my book was published in spring of 1999, I sent him a copy, along with a letter telling him how much his book had inspired me. When I received this letter from him, it made my day!! Or week. Or year! He and I eventually became friends, too, and I had lunch with him at House of Pies once in Los Angeles. He has been dead now for a long time. But I have a whole collection of the letters he wrote to me. (He was a lot older than me — married, loved cats!). I’m letting you read the entire letter here. This is the first time anyone else has ever seen it. I’m always very private with my correspondences. But since he’s been dead over 15 years now, I guess it’s okay.
Okay, gang. I hope you’ve had fun! Have a wonderful night. I love you guys. See ya.
Well, yesterday was a really unfortunate eye-opening sort of day.
I was more than happy to participate in the black lives matter hashtag because I do believe, with every fiber of my being, that the civil rights of black Americans need to be respected without question, 24/7.
However, I also believe that about every American. There are, unfortunately, a whole lot of Americans who are indeed treated like second class citizens, at all times. That’s gone on for as long as I’ve been an American.
Civil liberties are extremely important to me, and because of that, I’ve learned the really difficult part of that — and that is that sometimes I have to support the rights of people I absolutely do not agree with but it’s the underlying foundation of being part of a Democracy.
It’s a really delicately balanced give & take, and because of that, America’s destiny has always been fraught with extreme emotions and outright violence. But I don’t support violence. I am a complete pacifist. And I don’t support racism of any kind.
I chose not to participate in the Black Out on Instagram yesterday because it felt a little like being forced by the Union to walk the picket line, even when you see some huge holes in the agenda that you can’t get on board with. For instance, the violence. And the underlying anti-white agenda that’s going on there, too. And the militant thinking, etc.
Not everyone is in all those camps, but all those camps were under the banner of that agenda yesterday.
Signing on for the Black Out meant you were supporting the whole kit & caboodle, and I’m not such a generally-sweeping kind of gal. I prefer to stand back and be a critical thinker and throw my support behind each specific thing that I truly believe in.
But standing back, allowed me to see some of the really inexcusable stuff that went on. For instance, people choosing to not participate in the Black Out but posting their own meaningful posts about nonviolence instead, were slammed as racists.
Sean Ono Lennon springs hugely to mind. He posted an incredibly thoughtful post, in line with his Buddhist beliefs in nonviolence, and that nonviolent revolutions bring on more substantial change, and instead of being praised for being his own person and having his own mind, he was treated like a racist by total strangers slamming him on Instagram.
So, that kind of stuff, I can’t participate in. Anything militant, I can’t participate in, regardless of nationality, race, gender, religion, etc.
But the hugest hole in all of this is that I wouldn’t vote for Joe Biden if you paid me. So where are all these protest leading?
Anyone with an ounce of critical thinking can see that Biden’s sleazy and ineffective — and yet much more controllable than any of the other candidates who were vying for the job — and, if elected, he will likely just be a puppet President for the Democrats to prop up and stand behind so that they can then get down to practicing their own brand of dirty politics, business-as-usual. Because Democrats are just as guilty of that stuff — Hilary and Obama seem to have led the pack during their final year in the White House, based on what seems to have come to light in the Senate Judicial Investigative Committee on Mike Flynn.
So where does that leave someone like me? Voting for an Independent candidate again, which means — in the eyes of many — a wasted vote. No Independent candidate is ever ever ever going to be elected President of the United States.
Anyway, my point is, the protests (which are beginning to become more peaceful in some cities), are only throwing way more voters into Trump’s lap. And leaving no strong leader-type candidate to oppose him. None. Zippo.
That’s a huge gaping leaky hole in that boat that’s organizing both violent and nonviolent protests all over the country. You know — what is all this massive (and justified) unrest leading to? Joe Biden? And is there going to be a Presidential debate between Biden and Trump? In what universe is Biden ever going to win that? Honestly, we all know he has trouble forming coherent sentences.
And so where does that really leave people like me, who are nonviolent, who don’t support racism, who do support the complex inter-balance of civil liberties across the board…
So, yesterday was not a pretty picture at all, in my opinion.
And then something else happened that appalled me beyond belief.
A white man connected to my play, Tell My Bones — a play about the 100-year-old black painter Helen LaFrance — was using Helen’s incredible painting, “Canning Peaches,” as his wallpaper during a Zoom meeting the other day, and he was accused of being a “white Master on a slave plantation” and told to remove the painting.
Is this really what we’re coming to in America? Such extreme intolerance between the races? Helen’s painting couldn’t be more magnificent — especially if you’re lucky enough to see the painting in person. Her use of light, of primary colors, and her unbelievable attention to detail and perspective just stagger the eyes when you really look at it. (And she’s a Memory Painter, which means, she paints everything from her memories — she uses no live models or actual landscapes.)
Are we really saying that only black people are permitted to stand in front of, or be depicted in front of, any of Helen’s paintings that feature black people in them? (And in the case of “Canning Peaches,” it’s Helen and her mother. They aren’t slaves or even sharecroppers. They’re in the farm house that Helen grew up in — on the farm her family owned.) So, really?
Well, it happened, gang. Just this week.
Canning Peaches by Helen LaFrance. Permanent Collection of Kentucky Folk Art Center at Morehead State University
You know, I wrote, first, the screenplay (Tell My Bones), and now the play, about Helen LaFrance because I fell in love with her paintings. And I wanted to try to help the world find out about her art.
And when I secured a chance to actually meet her in person (through Gus Van Sant, Sr.), I had a 15-year old beat-up car, with 150,000 miles on it, but I threw an overnight bag into it and just took off. By myself. And it was a 10-hour drive. Plus, back then, I was suffering from acute anxiety disorder and I had a dread fear of crossing bridges. But I had to drive over so many fucking bridges to get to the farthest south-western corner of Kentucky, where Helen lived (in a nursing home) — including the enormous bridge spanning the Ohio River just to get into the State of Kentucky.
But I drove and drove and drove. And drove and drove and drove. And crossed many, many bridges that made me feel like I was going to have a heart attack. And when I finally arrived in Mayfield, and the woman who handles all of Helen’s business affairs, took me in to meet Helen, Helen was not at all interested in talking to any white person. She was cold as stone, suspicious, and not friendly at all. (She was working on a painting and would barely look at me.) (She paints with her left hand now, because she is paralyzed down her right side.)
You know, some white people have been of great help to her career, but a number of white people have exploited her terribly. So she was absolutely unimpressed with me and my white girl enthusiasm.
But I stuck with it and eventually I guess she could see that I was genuinely in love with her art and that I wanted to write about her life. And by the time the trip was over, she had given me the Life Story Rights to write about her life, and the okay for me to have access to her handwritten journals.
So when this man told me on Tuesday that he was accused of being a “white Master on a slave plantation” because he used “Canning Peaches” as his Zoom background and being forced to remove it — Jesus. I didn’t know whether to cry or to scream or to shoot myself. (And this was an educated white person accusing him of this, btw.)
What has happened to critical thinking in this country? I just don’t know. But it really hurt when he told me that. It really upset me. Plus, it was so humiliating for him — he couldn’t be more in love with Helen’s paintings if he tried.
So. Anyway.
Now I will talk about Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds!
According to Instagram, today is the 35th Anniversary of the release of Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds’ astoundingly amazing album The First Born is Dead.
This is the record that totally blew my mind and made me a life-long believer in the utter genius that is Nick Cave. (I’ve written in detail about this before — getting off the subway train in Hoboken, NJ, to visit my girlfriend, finding that tiny record store along the way, which was filled with impossible-to-get (expensive) imports, and finding The First Born is Dead, taking it home, playing it, and becoming eternally stupefied.)
So anyway. Let us celebrate that, okay??!! Not so much my stupefication, but the album, over all. And let’s celebrate that it’s June, and that somehow, someway, everything always kind of works out all right. All things considered.
I’m gonna leave you not with the really, really famous song, “Tupelo,” but another favorite of mine from that album, “Train Long Suffering.” So listen and enjoy.
Thanks for visiting, gang!!! I hope you enjoy your Wednesday, wherever you are in the world today — regardless of your race, nationality, gender, sexual preference, religion, education level, or state of your bank account!! Yay! Seriously, though. Thanks for visiting. I love you guys. See ya!
“Train-Long Suffering”
Woo-wooooooo Woo!
In the name of pain!
(In the name of pain and suffering)
In the name of pain!
(In the name of pain and suffering)
There comes a train!
(There comes a train)
Yeah!
A long black train
(There comes a train)
Lord, a long black train
Woo-woo! Woo-woo!
Punched from the tunnel
(The tunnel of love is long and lonely)
Engines steaming like a fist
(A fistful of memories)
Into the jolly jaw of morning
(Yeah! O yeah!)
O baby it gets smashed!
(You know that it gets smashed)
O baby it gets smashed!
(You know that it gets smashed)
I kick every goddamn splinter
Into all the looking eyes in the world
Into all the laughing eyes
Of all the girls in the world
Oooooo-woooooh
She ain’t never comin back
She ain’t never comin back
She ain’t never comin back
She ain’t never comin back
And the name of the pain is…
And the name of the pain is…
And the name of the pain is…
And the name of the pain is…
The name of the pain is
A train long-suffering
On rails of pain
(On rails of pain and suffering)
There comes a train
(There comes a train long-suffering)
On rails of pain
(On rails of pain and suffering)
O baby blow its whistle in the rain
Woo-oo Woo! Woo-oo Woo!
Who’s the engine driver?
(The engine drivers over yonder)
His name is Memory
(His name is Memory)
O Memory is his name
(Woooooo-wo!)
Destination: Misery
(Pain and misery)
O pain and misery
(Pain and misery)
O pain and misery
Hey! Hey!
(Pain and misery)
Hey! That’s a sad lookin sack!
Oooh that’s a sad lookin sack!
And the name of the pain is…
And the name of the pain is…
Ooh the name of the pain is
A train long-suffering
There is a train!
(It’s got a name)
Yeah! It’s a train long-suffering
O Lord a train!
(A long black train)
Lord! Of pain and suffering
Each night so black
(O yeah! So black)
And in the darkness of my sack
I’m missing you baby
(I’m missing you)
And I just dunno what to do
(dunno what to do)
(Train long-suffering)
(Train long-suffering)
(Train long-suffering)
(Train long-suffering)
O she ain’t never comin back
O she ain’t never comin back
O she ain’t never comin back
O she ain’t never comin back
And the name of the pain is…
And the name of the pain is…
The name of the train is…
The name of the train is
Pain and suffering
Marilyn's Room 