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Where Is This Day Going To??!!

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Well, I am trying to get started here today!

For some weird reason, I was just about to get out of bed at around 5am, when I decided to take mental inventory of the day ahead of me, and voila! — I was sound asleep for two and half more hours! WTF???

The glucosamine is finally beginning to work and I am starting to notice a bit of a positive difference in my legs. That same feeling, like: I hadn’t realized that things were changing and so now that there is the ease coming back into my joints, I am recalling how it feels to  just move really freely. It does feel great, but I still went to bed last night feeling some pain in my legs. I think that disrupted my sleep — well, that and this weird habit I have now of being on Instagram at all hours. Anyway.  I think that’s why I suddenly slept like a rock — the inflammation in my legs finally died down.

All righty!!

So I’m trying to do laundry here. Trying to get ready for my several hours of script work today with Peitor. I’d been hoping to get to answering some emails this morning, too, but I’m also feeling frustrated by the lack of productive time I am finding to spend on Thug Luckless: Welcome to P-Town.

Yesterday, I stared at the file, open in front of me on the desk top, for hours. Literally And only made about 3 changes to what was already there, and then came up with the name that P-Town had before the “accident.” (And that is: Sandover — in honor of James Merrill’s epic multi-volume poem from 1976-1980, The Changing Light at Sandover.)

(In my novel, so far I am only calling the accident: “the terrible accident at the factory.” I’m not sure yet, but I don’t think I’m ever going to say what the accident was or what they did at the factory because everything comes from Thug’s POV and he is an AI robot and only “knows” what people tell him.)

(I’m starting to see very clearly now that Thug Luckless is going to be another experimental novel. Which of course translates into “small press/no money.” But you know what? I just can’t go there anymore. I can’t worry about it. According to international legal resources, the book has already been pirated anyway, and it hasn’t even been written yet!!)

(And I’m not sure why all this stuff is in parentheses, but it is.)

Whatever. If money were the thing motivating me ever in my entire life — well. I don’t even have to explain what the rest of that sentence might look like. (i.e.: My life would look nothing at all like how I live.)

Last night, it occurred to me that my home-ownership priorities are just so strange. I’ve been here 2 years now and I don’t have a dishwasher yet — just a gaping space for it in the kitchen. Or central AC — although I’m not likely to ever get that because I have this love affair with open windows. I still haven’t put the door back on the linen closet in the upstairs hall (the door is out in the barn, so it’s not as if the door is just somewhere handy.) But the light at the top of the stairs went out last night so I replaced the bulb because I have a whole stockpile of energy efficient light bulbs. And then the battery in one of the smoke detectors went out and I got out of bed and replaced that because I have a plethora of batteries around here of various voltages.

I mean, I have so many batteries and light bulbs, and paper towels, and toilet paper and Kleenex. And a stockpile of filters for the vacuum cleaner. And I have just tons of cloth dish towels, even though I only always use the same one. And I have 17 thousand-million dishes, and glassware, and bar ware — including cocktail shakers and ice buckets and ice tongs, etc., that never get used.  And I have so many bed linens in this place that you’d think I was running a dormitory (I even have linens for twin beds, which I don’t even own).  And of course, the tidal wall of age-defying products from France bursting from the storage closets of both bathrooms…

Weird, right? I think that’s weird, anyway.  Such an extreme amount of only certain things.

Including leaves. Even I was forced to sigh heavily and shake my head this morning, as I glanced outside my backdoor window and saw just the enormous pile of dead leaves that had blown into a massive heap outside my backdoor — where my neighbor’s privacy fence meets my yard. And try as they might, all those leaves cannot get up enough velocity to blow themselves up over that really tall fence and settle nicely into my neighbor’s yard.

I have no idea what to do about those leaves.  Because I am definitely not raking them. But I can just see my lawn guy getting right back into his truck when he comes to cut the grass for the first time next month and sees something like that.

Or the gutters. We are not even going to talk about the gutters, although I am at least aware that I need to deal with my gutters.

What I really need, though, is someone to be the actual homeowner here so that I can just wear the title: Homeowner. And then just sit at my desk for hours on end crafting masterpieces of fiction that most people the world over will not understand. (Starting with my father.)

Okey-dokey!!! On that lofty note! I gotta scoot, gang. The morning is almost officially over. I need to get ready for Peitor.  (Who is out there in West Hollywood right now, doing yoga and meditating to the sound of Tibetan bowls and all sorts of spiritual goodness type stuff.) (He’s even a vegan– he recently one-upped me on my vegetarianism.) So I’m gonna get crackin’ here.

Have a terrific Tuesday, wherever you are in the world!! (And while I was typing here, a little fruit fly landed in my coffee cup and had all the limp signs of being horribly drowned to death. But I scooped him out of the coffee with my fingertip, put him on the back of my hand, blew on him a little bit and then let him just dry out for awhile. And after several minutes, guess what? He came back to life, walked around on the back of my hand and then flew away! Tiny miracles everywhere, gang. You just gotta know where to look. And you’ve gotta make up your mind that you’re gonna see them when they happen!!)

So! I leave you with my listening-music from last evening!! Turn it up and just smile (or, you know, grab onto someone you’re super  hot for & swing.) Have a great day. I love you guys. See ya!!

Just Another Joyful Little Morning in Crazeysburg!

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All righty, gang. Things are really looking good over here. Day #2 out of  the psychological morass, sometimes known as “moi.” (And thanks for all your emotional support — I really appreciate it, so much. I do.)

It’s quite freezing outside there in Crazeysburg, but it’s a sunny, sunny morning once again. Birds are still singing. It’s March 1st, and Spring is on its way.

I know it’s uppermost in your  minds, so I want to start off by assuring you that I have managed to choose a suitable breakfast bowl/coffee mug/ juice glass combination to take me through until Easter, without actually purchasing more dishes.

That said, though, we’re not completely out of the woods yet, because, if I find myself in some sort of shopping location where dishes can be perused, I might peruse. We’ll see.

If life proceeds like it usually does, though, I won’t have time to go to any sort of store and shop. I don’t even understand what having that kind of free time even means!

Well, part of that is because I live a million light years away from any sort of “shopping area.” Because I guarantee you, when/if I do find myself in a place that sells dishes — even used dishes or vintage dishes in consignment shops — oh my god. That’s like heaven to me. The world stands still. Time stops.  For instance, antique malls in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania? Holy McMoly!!They have the best stuff.  I’m not going to have an orgasm over it or anything, but if, like, you’re there with me and offer to buy me a bunch of that stuff? Whoa.  We will likely find ourselves in a position where orgasms for everybody are rapidly approaching on the multi-hued horizon.

‘Nuff said!!

(I am, of course, 90% not kidding…)

Okay!! Anyway.

So, a couple weeks ago, I made up this schedule for the Abstract Absurdity Productions web site, and how to best keep us on track if we wanted to launch a basic website with a companion YouTube channel by April 1st.

Luckily, a whole lot of the stuff on that To-Do list was in Peitor’s court!! Yay!! I could sit back and do nothing because I’d made the list!! And that part was (deceptively) easy to do!

However!! He appears to be really good at following schedules and timelines and To-Do lists, because a whole heck of a lot of stuff is now making it’s way into my inbox and on to my desk top and now I have to actually do something with it. Who the fuck has time for this??!!

Man! And who’s brilliant idea was this in the first place??!! It is amazing the amount of work I can create for myself. And truth be told — some of this stuff I asked him to send me — I don’t know how to fucking do this stuff! I only know that we need it.

So I’m sort of winging it, as they say. (He doesn’t read my blog so it’s okay — I can be perfectly candid here among my discreet and loyal readers.) And he is really appreciative.

HIM: “Thanks for taking care of all this stuff, Marilyn. I really appreciate it.”

ME (out loud): “No problem. ”

ME (not so loud): I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

(That’s not really true. I’ve been working on web sites since 1997 — and DON’T tell me that was long before you were born. However, that doesn’t mean I can figure out how to use all these “user friendly” templates that they have nowadays. It’s amazing how complicated they can now make “simple” stuff.) (And then if you need to click on the “?” button — man, the explanations there are even harder to figure out.)

But anyway. Eventually it all gets done. And we live/laugh/love in the process, right?? All I know is that when Peitor and I are working together, we have so much fun and that matters most to me. (I have had quite a few business partners in the past who were seriously not fun in any way, shape, or form, and so I know just how precious it is to have someone who simply respects me.) (And he has this sort of regal disposition that makes me have to keep my mind out of the gutter for a few hours at a time, and so the whole world benefits!)

And so — onward!

Okay. I’m not gonna tarry here this morning! Have a beautiful Sunday, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting, gang! I leave you with my breakfast-listening music from today — unlikely choice as it may seem for a sunny morning in Crazeysburg! But I fucking LOVE this song!!!!! “No Pussy Blues,” from Grinderman, 2007. (I love this whole album! I like Grinderman 2 — well, I love the songs themselves, but, man, is that album LOUD.  It always makes me jump and then scurry for the volume control.) Anyway. Enjoy, gang!! Have a fun Sunday. I love you guys. See ya!

“No Pussy Blues”

My face is finished, my body’s gone.
And I can’t help but think, standing up here
in all this applause and gazing down
at all the young and the beautiful.
With their questioning eyes.
That I must above all things love myself.
That I must above all things love myself.
That I must above all things love myself.

I saw a girl in the crowd,
I ran over I shouted out,
I asked if I could take her out,
But she said that she didn’t want to.

I changed the sheets on my bed,
I combed the hairs across my head,
I sucked in my gut and still she said
That she just didn’t want to.

I read her Eliot, read her Yeats,
I tried my best to stay up late,
I fixed the hinges on her gate,
But still she just never wanted to.

I bought her a dozen snow-white doves,
I did her dishes in rubber gloves,
I called her Honeybee, I called her Love,
But she just still didn’t want to.
She just never wants to.
Damn!

I sent her every type of flower,
I played her guitar by the hour,
I patted her revolting little chihuahua,
But still she just didn’t want to.

I wrote a song with a hundred lines,
I picked a bunch of dandelions,
I walked her through the trembling pines,
But she just even then didn’t want to.
She just never wants to.

I thought I’d try another tack,
I drank a liter of cognac,
I threw her down upon her back,
But she just laughed and said
that she just didn’t want to.

I thought I’d have another go,
I called her my little ho,
I felt like Marcel Marceau
must feel when she said
that she just never wanted to.
She just didn’t want to.

I got the no pussy blues.
I got the no pussy blues.

I got the no pussy blues.

I got the no pussy blues.
I got the no pussy blues.
I got the no pussy blues.
I got the no pussy blues.

c – 2007 Nick Cave, Warren Ellis, Martyn Casey, James Sclavunos

Bissextile Joy!!

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Yes!! It’s Leap Day!! Yay!!!

And even though “bissextile” is a super happy-looking word because it immediately makes us think of bisexuals and how wonderfully exciting & full of possibilities they are — it really only refers to the Leap Year. (Which, of course, is also wonderfully exciting and full of possibilities, but only in that meager way where non-sexually-related things can ever seem “wonderfully exciting” or “full of possibilities.”)

Well, if I may be serious for just 4 seconds… It’s official. I went from pre-crisis to post-crisis without having an actual crisis, even though it took about 24 solid hours of exhausting brain work to manage it. I awoke at around 3am this morning and realized that the anxiety had passed without ever really taking root and that I was actually feeling happy and in a good place.  That feeling that I needed to have a vice grip on my thoughts was over and my thoughts were just in a really clear space.

And what was even better, when I was down in the kitchen feeding the cats, etc., I had a sort of breakthrough thought — the distinct feeling that it wasn’t going to happen again, that something in my brain had finally really shifted. For real. It was a very pronounced feeling. I’ve come through these episodes feeling stronger each time that it’s happened over the last 5 months or so, but this time, I don’t know — it just felt like it was really over. (Meaning that this emotional trigger I have is done, played out, over.)

I still have some work to do on, I don’t know what to call it — “who I am”.  But I just feel totally different today.

And then I switched to my Easter dishes! Already! (At this rate, I’ll be using my Christmas dishes again by the 4th of July!) I doubt I’m actually going to keep using them all the way up until Easter, I just wanted something really sunny and yellow at the breakfast table this morning (it was still pitch dark outside). So I decided to go ahead and use them.

But what I also detected –lurking deep inside myself somewhere — was a desire to perhaps maybe  — yes —  buy some more dishes!! I really want something cheerful and I don’t want to be using my Easter dishes for like, 6 weeks before Easter.

Of course, I could perhaps peruse the 17,000 dishes I already own and maybe discover a set of cheerful dishes I’d totally forgotten I had. God knows that’s happened before! But we’ll see. Something new might be just really wonderful.

Well, the script work with Peitor was very good yesterday, but also very much like that neurosurgery thing.  Where each word, every shot, was under a microscope.  We worked for a few hours and we were still on the same page that we’d started on at the beginning of the session. However, we brought our main character in through the door and across the room and standing where he needs to be standing when he finally says his first line of (killer) dialogue.

But at that point, we came to a little impasse because Peitor was seeing that specific shot (with the line of dialogue) differently than I was, so we had to just totally stop and really think about it.

ME: “We need to keep this completely seamless here or we’ll lose the erotic energy of that line.”

HIM: “No. We need to break out of that POV, just for a moment, create a breath, a space, and then come right back. Something Luis Bunuel.”

ME (thinking this, not saying it because saying it would have only been indescribably petulant at that moment): “Should we just slice the guy’s eye? That’ll create some emotional space.” (Un Chien Andalou, 1929)

But, yes! — you can be proud of me; I did not say that. It would have gone nowhere fast. Instead, I said something like, “I don’t agree with what you want to do here but if you feel that strongly about it, let’s just explore that direction.” (I was really mature for a wee bonny lass of 12.)

And so then we explored it, and we made a little progress but ultimately we left it right at that line of dialogue yesterday and will resume on Tuesday.  (But I did text him at about 6:03am this morning, my time zone, to urgently point out: “We forgot to have him take off that white trench coat!”)

It seems pretty clear, though, that the destiny of Abstract Absurdity Productions is that great & lofty art museums all over the world will one day include our work in their future exhibitions of Little Known Cinematic Masterpieces of the Early 21st Century Short-Subject Film Movement. Because, man, this stuff we’re doing is just fucking insane. And it is taking forever.

All righty. Well. Today will be about yoga, washing my hair, and just feeling happy. Sort of maybe even triumphant — I’m actually getting to that place where I can believe that I’m not only allowed to be alive, but that I can also have more than just the tiniest existence. I can feel that I’m still taking these mental baby steps. Still, it’s all right. I think the idea that I wanted to buy more dishes today was sort of a breakthrough, too. You know, like: I don’t give a fuck that I already have a million dishes; the reality is that I want more. So we’ll see.

And then I’ll also probably write something!

So, have a great Saturday, wherever you are in the world! I hope you have that breakthrough you need– if, indeed, you are seeking one! Thanks for visiting, gang.  I’m still in that awkward listening-space of “Babe, You Turn Me On” at night and “Take Five” in the morning (!!), so you can either scroll over to yesterday’s post and/or the post from the day before and listen to those amazing songs again. Or, I could leave you with this.

When I was about 4 years old, I had the soundtrack to this — the Broadway cast of the musical, Peter Pan. And I loved this lullaby, “Distant Melody”. It made me think of my “real” mother — my birth mom. I was always trying to remember who she was, even all the way back then.

This song used to make me believe that I could somehow remember what she felt like — to be held by her. Even though I was told that I was created by accident — born by accident — I knew, even in my tiny little bones, that my real mother loved me and wanted me back. (And I was right.) All righty. I love you guys. See ya!

“Distant Melody”

[Spoken]:
Peter? Do you know a lullaby to sing to our children?
Lullaby? Lullaby.
I think so.
Sometimes, late at night I seem to remember…

[Sung]:
Once upon a time and long ago,
I heard someone singing soft and low.
Now when day is done and night is near,
I recall a song I used to hear.

My child, my very own,
Don’t be afraid you’re not alone.
Sleep until the dawn for all is well.

Long ago this song was sung to me.
Now it’s just a distant melody.
Somewhere from the past I used to know,
Once upon a time and long ago.

c  – 1954 Leigh/Comden/Green

A Bright Snowy Morning in Crazeysburg!!

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Yes, it is a really sunny morning out there today. Here’s what it looks like outside one of my bedroom windows right now:

The intersection of Basin and First Streets at 8am.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just a really pretty morning here, even though it snowed a little during the night.  (And the birds are still singing, despite the snow!)

You want to know something else that’s really charming that my neighbors know about me? I never shovel the fucking snow!! Yay!! Because I have the longest sidewalk in the entire town. And I am not making that up! I actually have the longest fucking sidewalk in the entire town — the one that runs from the front corner of my house all the way to the back edge of my barn.  So it’s not fair to ask me to shovel that, when everyone else in town only has to shovel, like, a 3-foot long thing. Plus, God does this thing called “melting it eventually” so I choose to rely on that. (It’s similar to that thing God does wherein He provides wind to blow all my un-raked leaves away — or into neighboring yards.)

But, of course, there are those smarty-pants people who like to point out that if someone falls and breaks their back on my snowy sidewalk, I could get sued! But if it ever really gets that bad out there, I will put out my sign that says: CAUTION: ICY!! WALK AT YOUR OWN RISK BECAUSE I AIN’T F*CKING SHOVELING THIS STUFF! And under that, the handy NRA-member logo:

Don’t Shovel!! Make America Great Again!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am, of course, just kidding. I am not a member of the NRA. I don’t own any guns at all.  (If you aren’t an American — the NRA is a very powerful political gun lobby here in the USA, and membership in the NRA implies that you own many licensed guns and are more than happy to use them and that your aim is probably spot-on.)

Still,  I’m not kidding about not shoveling…

Anyway!!

Life’s good here in Crazeysburg. I hope it’s good where you’re at, too.

This morning is another one of those Abstract Absurdity Productions script-writing days. We are headlong into Scene 5 now. I don’t expect us to finish writing Scene 5 today because that would be really out of character for us — the scene is a good 60 seconds long. But I do expect it to be really fun because it is just a very, very weird scene. It’s the scene that the whole movie leads up to and then gently falls away from as it trickles to its lofty end. (Or “fin” — as they say in so many film-languages.)

In case you’re interested, gang, yesterday was my first day back doing yoga after 3 weeks of doing Booty Core. I could not believe the difference in the strength in my body.

I don’t do any complicated yoga poses, because mostly I just want to maintain flexibility. But I do headstands, and I couldn’t believe the difference in my arms. And also — as I mentioned a couple weeks ago — in my neck. And I love to do elbow planks and I am suddenly really good at that. (Not that planks are part of yoga, I’m just saying that I like doing those.)

So even though Booty Core got really challenging for me, it made a huge difference. So I will keep doing it.

However, I did have a weird pain issue in my legs again last night.  And I’m thinking it’s probably psychosomatic. Loyal readers of this lofty blog no doubt are aware that I am the kind of person who is always always trying to stay alive. I’ve been plagued by a lifetime of suicidal tendencies — that I don’t believe adequately define who I really am. It’s just that my brain was taught, when I was really little, that I didn’t deserve to exist — that my existence was merely being tolerated, for now — and that it would be preferable if I didn’t exist.

So my brain’s fallback position, when I’m feeling stressed about something, is to try to negate my existence.  I honestly think my brain thinks it’s doing me a favor — or at least, it’s doing what it was taught it was supposed to do. (And I’m making a huge differentiation here between my brain and my mind. My brain is this sort of machine set on automatic, whereas my mind is this amazing, wide-ranging, free-spirited energetic-essence type thing. So it’s a case of my Mind vs. my Brain.)

But I really have been plagued by this brain of mine for decades. And one of my life-long triggers — something I constantly have to deal with in my personality, which involves believing in a lack of love — is hovering out there on my horizon and I just simply refuse to deal with it anymore, you know? I’m just done. I am so fucking done dealing with this shit.

But it means that every single time my brain tells me that “I don’t deserve love, I deserve to die” I have to get in there and replace it with a better thought. It’s a type of addiction — you have to reprogram your brain to respond to something else. And it is fucking exhausting.

I don’t want to spend any additional time thinking about my adoptive parents and how damaging they wound up being to me. I only want my brain to stop doing this. Like, now. I’m so over it. Every single damn day I deal with it, but it only gets really bad when a trigger thing starts happening. And a trigger thing is hovering, so now I’m not only trying to reprogram my brain, but totally eradicate the trigger, too. So that the triggers don’t exist anymore, either.

Anyway, I did really really good yesterday. But by mid-evening, I was just exhausted from it. That feeling, like, why doesn’t somebody just shoot this girl, and put her out of her misery once and for all? Which, of course, goes against everything I was working so hard on during the day!!

And then I noticed the extreme pain in my legs attempting to return — maybe a way for my body to say: we’re going to pull the whole world out from under you, starting with your legs. So, at that point, the only really productive thing I can do is go to bed and start again in the morning. (Meaning, here we are again.)

It’s just so frustrating.  When it comes to everyone else on Earth — for instance, YOU, whoever you are, reading this right now — I completely believe that you deserve to be loved, that you are loved and that you deserve to live. It’s just a given inside me. I believe that about you without even knowing who you are, how you’ve lived, what you do or think about.

But to believe it about me, is extremely difficult. It is a 24/7 job. Or maybe an 18/7 job, because when I’m sleeping, I’m just fine. And most of the time, nowadays, I am sort of fine. I’ve made so much progress out here alone in the Hinterlands. But when I’m facing a trigger point, if it gets out of control, I do actually get suicidal and I absolutely refuse to go there. So then it becomes like a job. And I just feel, like, oh fuck, here we go again.

However, it was really good to notice what my legs did when my thoughts changed last night. So I’m going to keep that in mind.

And I also woke up feeling like I really did make progress yesterday. Because, you know, my life doesn’t have to be some huge tidal wave of joy washing over me for me to feel like living. Just tiny baby steps in the direction of joy is enough. It really is. Because it builds from there.

So waking up to a couple of texts from Peitor on my phone. And opening the blinds and seeing more snow. And going down to the kitchen to be greeted by 7 crazy happy healthy cats. And turning on the CD player — the Dave Brubeck Quartet greeting me again with “Take Five.” A couple of my favorite little pictures of Nick Cave scattered there on my kitchen table. And then plugging in the coffee pot.

Little joys.

That makes for a really good morning. Because then my thoughts can move from there to the larger joys — the plays going into production now, the production company with Peitor, the books I’m still writing, the words going out there into the world, and the best Muse I’ve ever had in my life. And new people I’m meeting. And traveling this year — it starts to turn into a really good day.

So I gotta scoot!! I have stuff to get organized here at my desk before Peitor calls.  I leave you with my listening-music from last evening, before the legs went. I’ve posted this song here before, but I just love it. The imagery. The melody. How it goes to such enigmatic places. “Babe, You Turn me On,” from Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds, Abattoir Blues/ The Lyre of Orpheus, 2004. Enjoy!! I love you guys. See ya!

“Babe, You Turn Me On”

Stay by me, stay by me
You are the one, my only true love

The butcher bird makes it’s noise
And asks you to agree
With it’s brutal nesting habits
And it’s pointless savagery
Now, the nightingale sings to you
And raises up the ante
I put one hand on your round ripe heart
And the other down your panties

Everything is falling, dear
Everything is wrong
It’s just history repeating itself
And babe, you turn me on

Like a light bulb
Like a song

You race naked through the wilderness
You torment the birds and the bees
You leapt into the abyss, but find
It only goes up to your knees
I move stealthily from tree to tree
I shadow you for hours
I make like I’m a little deer
Grazing on the flowers

Everything is collapsing, dear
All moral sense has gone
It’s just history repeating itself
And babe, you turn me on

Like an idea
Like an Atom bomb

We stand awed inside a clearing
We do not make a sound
The crimson snow falls all about
Carpeting the ground

Everything is falling, dear
All rhyme and reason gone
It’s just history repeating itself
And, babe, you turn me on

Like an idea
Like an Atom bomb

c – 2004 Nick Cave

She’s Sort of A Great Big Blank Today!

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I’ve been up for hours already, and I actually got a lot done.  Even shaved my legs, which was sort of a monumental undertaking this time. (I’d been putting it off for days.) (And days.) (Maybe even as much as a week.) (Or two.)

Anyway. Got it done.

It’s a strange , intensely foggy morning here in Crazeysburg, but the birds were singing so rambunctiously while I was meditating this morning, that I finally had to stop and simply lie on my bed and listen to them. So beautiful. So joyous. And this was with all the windows closed, on a sort of chilly, foggy morning.

It brought to mind just how loud it gets when the warmer spring weather finally comes and the windows are open. It’s like you can hear every single bird in Muskingum County, by 4:45am.

And then I thought, So. What am I gonna write today? And I realized I was sort of a great big blank.

Work with Peitor went great yesterday. Even though I have a lot of work to do on the Abstract Absurdity Productions website and the whole production company thing has turned into a  massive undertaking, I am feeling really good about all of it.

And yesterday, I toyed some more with the idea of somehow taking my TV pilot project for Cleveland’s Burning and turning it into more of a theatrical adaptation for the stage. (Loyal readers of this lofty blog perhaps recall that the one veteran African-American actor who was interested in attaching to the pilot, died suddenly this past summer, so I am sort of still at square one with that.) (And even while the executive in charge of programming at a mega-TV-streaming company out in LA wants to hear my pitch, she has already assured me that she doesn’t care what kind of a great writer I am, she won’t hear the pitch if no one significant is attached yet.)

So anyway, I’ve been sort of turning that project over in my mind (in all my free time) — wondering if maybe it might be better served, for now, on the stage. And I know for sure that there’s a theatrical producer in LA right now looking for this exact kind of project. And even though I have absolutely no clue at this point how I would adapt it, it did seem like a really great idea to take on a new project!! I’m only juggling about seventeen hundred right now.

Then, of course, I thought, Perhaps I should back off of that idea and look at all this other stuff that’s on my plate.

So I’ve been doing that here this morning. Looking at all the projects that are on my plate, I mean. Trying to figure out which direction I want to go in here.

Oh, on another topic altogether — Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds announced yesterday that a show in Milwaukee has been added to the North American tour this fall. Tickets go on sale today, I think. You can see the details here.

Meanwhile, I guess it’s just one of those weird days. I slept great. I feel great.  All is right with my world. I have no chores that need doing. I have the entire day & evening ahead of me, within which to create some sort of masterpiece, and now I just have to figure out what that will be. I have no clue. Nothing is calling out to me — except a theatrical adaptation of Cleveland’s Burning. How wonderful.

Ken Burns’ Jazz documentary is at last winding down. Last evening, I watched the episode that sort of focused on the devastation that heroin wreaked on jazz musicians in the late 1940s into the 1950s. That was really gut-wrenching. The show maintains that a lot of jazz musicians (both black and white) wanted to be like Charlie Parker so they started taking heroin in hopes that they would become more like him. I’m not sure how accurate that is, but that’s what the documentary puts forth.

(Charlie Parker became an addict back in the 1930s, when he was in a terrible car accident in Kansas City at age 17. In the hospital, they kept him on a massive dose of morphine and, apparently, he had some sort of epiphany there about music and his saxophone. He came out of the hospital a completely & utterly changed musician with a changed personality, and also with a drug habit that lasted a lifetime.)

Anyway. It was not a cheery episode. Plus it also began looking at the extreme racial problems in America after WWII and how the militant attitudes of the young black Americans made them turn on the older black jazz musicians, seeing them as Uncle Toms since white people liked their music.

Just a big sad mess.

Not too different from today, of course. America can be just so damn rigid. So racist on all sides, against all races, while there are always people trying, often with equal inflexibility, to fight it. It feels like that’s just a part of America that never goes away.

Still, it’s been a really great documentary. Each episode always gives me so much to think about. As if I need more to think about… For me, just the past decade has been an interesting journey, being a white woman, a writer, undertaking a number of African- American projects. I’ve got three projects right now that are essentially comprised of entirely African-American casts; 2 of them I wrote myself and one of them, I’m a co-writer on. So far, I haven’t had to deal with too many objections about my race — sometimes a raised eyebrow, but that’s it. Still, it’s there — an undercurrent of “but you’re white.”

Anyway. On that note, I need to think about what I’m going to work on today. I hope Wednesday is full of all sorts of interesting ideas for you, gang, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting. I’m leaving you with this stunning, timeless song. I used to sing this song to Mikey Rivera, back in the days when we were in love, lying together in bed, he in my arms, both of us worn out from life, wondering how the hell we were going to survive in New York City after 9/11.

And talk about racist — man, NYC was brutal to us; me being so white and him being so Puerto Rican. And that was already in the 21st Century. Eventually, of course, we left the city behind.

Anyway, here you go.  A truly lovely version of “Somewhere,” from West Side Story (yeah, written by a white guy) (heavy sigh). All righty. I love you guys. See ya.

“Somewhere”

There’s a place for us
Somewhere a place for us
Peace and quiet and open air
Wait for us
Somewhere

There’s a time for us
Someday a time for us
Time together with time to spare
Time to look, time to care
Someday!

Somewhere
We’ll find a new way of living

We’ll find a way of forgiving
Somewhere

There’s a place for us
A time, a place for us
Hold my hand and we’re halfway there
Hold my hand and I’ll take you there
Somehow
Someday
Somewhere!

c – 1957 Leonard Bernstein

Another Industrious Day Out Here in the Hinterlands!

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Before I go off on a tangent about how magical and wonder-filled my world is here in the wilds of Muskingum County…

Nick Cave sent out another Red Hand Files thing this morning that was very interesting. It was about his song “Girl in Amber” from the Skeleton Tree album. Plus it includes a photo of his original scribbly lyrics to the song and I always love looking at stuff like that.

“Girl in Amber” is one of the few songs of his that I actually sort of relate to personally.  Even though I love all of his songs (as you have most likely surmised by now), there are only a handful that I feel like I actually relate to personally — that makes me think of things I feel about my actual life, I mean. (“Hallelujah,” of course, is another one.) (And “O’Malley’s Bar.”) (Just kidding about that last one.) (Well, at least right now, I’m kidding — but the day’s still young!)

Anyway. What he wrote about the song  was illuminating and beautiful. It is such a haunting song, You can read his post here if you so choose!

Okay, so today is all about work. (And by way of  my new friend in Switzerland, I am now painfully aware that I work way too much!!) (Oh!! And my ticket to see Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds in Zurich arrived there today!! And even though the concert is 4 months away, unlike Nick Cave’s In Conversation tour, I won’t have to worry about accidentally leaving my ticket here in my room in Crazeysburg because the ticket is already there in Switzerland! Um. How cool is that??) (Very, very cool.)

I digressed. But it was a wonderful digression!!

So, yes. Today is all about work. The laundry is almost done. After I post this to the blog, I’m finally going to force myself to finish those 2 contracts that I had to re-write for Life Story Rights for my play, Tell My Bones. (Yes, indeedy! When I want to avoid something, I can really, really drag it out for days…) But I seriously gotta finish it because people are waiting.

And then I have a few hours on the phone with Peitor this afternoon to work on Scene 5 of Lita’s Got To Go! And this is my very favorite scene. It was actually the whole reason why we decided to write this short film in the first place — this specific scene was the thing that came to us first, while we were sitting at the counter of that French pastry place in one of those farmer’s markets in LA, and we were laughing so hard we almost fell off our counter stools.

(I just want to reiterate that most people won’t find this film so funny that they’ll fall off their counter stools. We are the ones who find it this funny. I’m guessing that most of the people who watch this movie will sit silently for 8 minutes and wonder: What the fuck? But that’s a good thing, too.)

Then after I’m done working with Peitor, I have yet another online seminar, this one about movie financing for short films. (Yes, I try to only take the most uplifting, life-affirming seminars! Because I like to come away from them thinking: Yeah! This is so fun! I love my life!)

So that’s  my day — oh, and Booty Core. Can’t forget that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well, yesterday, I had to venture into my barn (shown above there) for the first time since the summer ended and it was immediately apparent that the raccoons have definitely been having a nice time in there this winter, including creating their own little front door to get into it (ripping aside some planks at the bottom of one of the side walls of the barn).  I really seriously gotta do something about fixing that barn. But I really seriously need someone to haul away that enormous dead oak tree that collapsed beside the barn before I can really work on the barn. And all the many people who have claimed they were coming to remove the tree over these past 2 years that I’ve lived here, have never shown up to remove the tree.

Perhaps this year will be the lucky year!! We shall see. At this point, I am willing to buy the damn chainsaw myself and give it, as a happy parting gift, to whoever actually shows up to do the darn job.

And on my journey back from the barn,  I also noticed that the soffit over the eave next to my back door — the one the starlings insist on fucking with in order to build their nests under it every spring — is now completely twisted and destroyed.  It is a colossal mess now because I didn’t take care of it when I could have — last spring, when the baby starlings flew away. I’m guessing that the starlings will be thrilled to death that it is move-in ready for them this year and they won’t have to fuck with it at all this time.

It’s just amazing — what a great homeowner I am. The many birds and animals appreciate me, anyway. My neighbors – not so much.

 

 

 

 

Oh, anyway. I’m happy. And eventually, it all gets done.

Okay, well, I think I’d better get this day underway here. I hope you have a terrific Tuesday, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting, gang! I leave you with my listening-music from last evening. I’ve posted it here on the blog before: “Time to Move On,” from Tom Petty’s solo album, Wildflowers, 1994. The lyrics by themselves make it seem like a sad song,  but I actually find it sort of empowering and uplifting.  You can, of course, decide for yourselves!  All righty. I might be back to the blog later. We’ll see. Meanwhile. I love you guys. See ya!

 

“Time To Move On”

It’s time to move on, time to get going
What lies ahead, I have no way of knowing
But under my feet, baby, grass is growing
It’s time to move on, it’s time to get going

Broken skyline, movin’ through the airport
She’s an honest defector
Conscientious objector
Now her own protector

Broken skyline, which way to love land
Which way to something better
Which way to forgiveness
Which way do I go

Time to move on, time to get going
What lies ahead, I have no way of knowing
But under my feet, baby, grass is growing
It’s time to move on, it’s time to get going

Sometime later, getting the words wrong
Wasting the meaning and losing the rhyme
Nauseous adrenaline
Like breakin’ up a dogfight
Like a deer in the headlights
Frozen in real time
I’m losing my mind

It’s time to move on, time to get going
What lies ahead, I have no way of knowing
But under my feet, baby, grass is growing
It’s time to move on, it’s time to get going

c – 1994 Tom Petty

More Miracles Approaching!

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And, no — by “miracles” I don’t mean that my cats are finally cleaning!

What I do mean, is that I have to clean — well, that’s not the miracle, either. I do try to keep my humble, cat-infested abode clean. But I haven’t actually vacuumed in weeks.

The last time I vacuumed, some sort of pebble-thing got sucked up into the vacuum and kept rattling around in there and freaking me out. So I figured that if I just let it sit quietly in the dark hall closet for many weeks, it would fix itself.

I feel pretty confident that it did.

But that’s not the miracle, either.

The miracle is that I happened to see a mortgage-banker that I know casually and as I was saying hi, I suddenly asked him if he knew a reputable & affordable plumber who could fix my upstairs toilet, since he deals with home mortgages and all that. And he said, “I’ll do it. Just take some photos of the parts you need, text them to me and I’ll swing by on Sunday and fix it for you.”

Whoa. (That’s the miracle part there, in case you didn’t recognize it. He’s saving me a fortune!)

He’s friends with my friend Kevin — not the director of the play, but the other Kevin, who stores his vintage 1965 VW camper van in my barn all summer. So he’s bringing Kevin along with him. And since this constitutes “people in the house,” I decided that I’d better fucking vacuum today.

I figure the pebble-thing has certainly had plenty of time to de-manifest from the vacuum cleaner by now. I guess we’ll see.

This has already made me feel very spring-cleany-ish, though. I put the Easter wreath up on the kitchen door this morning (yes, while it was still dark out — God knows, you gotta put your Easter wreath up at 5am on a freezing cold February morning…) and I put out all the little spring/Easter things in the kitchen. Not sure what the hurry is, it’s not even Mardis Gras yet. I think it has something to do with all the birds returning.

So.

Today is my older brother’s 61st birthday. (Yes, there is a mere 49-year age difference between him & me.) (And what’s even odder — when I was first adopted, there was only a 17 month difference in our ages!) (And what’s even more weirder – I will still be 12 on my next birthday!) (I know — like, how weird is that? Just one of those mysteries of life that’s best left un-pondered.)

Anyway. My indescribable immaturity aside. I haven’t seen my older brother in 26 years. I know he’s still alive. And he’s happily married — and has been for 26 years. (Yes, I haven’t seen him since his wedding, however, I was actually invited to that wedding.)

(That was his second wedding — I wasn’t invited to the first one because our adoptive dad paid for that wedding and it was one of those years where being really mean to Marilyn was seriously in vogue with my adoptive dad.)

(Honestly, I have no idea why I wasn’t invited to my brother’s first wedding. I wasn’t invited to my dad’s 3rd wedding, either. I can understand not being invited to my dad’s first wedding, because I wasn’t born yet. And I can understand not being invited to his second wedding, because it happened hurriedly, the night before I moved in with him, briefly, when I was 14, and he decided that to remain shacked up with his 27-year-old cocktail waitress girlfriend while I was living there with them would set a bad moral example for me. (I know — don’t laugh. To see those words “moral” and  “me” in the same sentence, but he tried.) (And I have to say that after I did move in and my new 27-year-old stepmom and I were hanging out together in the living room, smoking cigarettes while my dad was out on the road, and she was having a cocktail and sort of sharing it with 14-year-old me, she said, “Thank you so much for moving in, Marilyn. I didn’t think your dad would ever marry me.”)  Anyway, there are just a whole bunch of family-related weddings that I wasn’t invited to, even though I behave really well in public. I do. I’ve got that whole “how to attend a wedding” thing down. I know how to dress, what to say, I’ve got table manners and stuff. And I bring gifts. So who knows.)

Well, so, I digress.

My older brother is 61 today and I haven’t seen him in 26 years.

He used to look like this, though (and I used to look like that):

 

 

 

 

 

 

And of course, all of this makes me wistful — I really don’t know my brother as a grown man; I know him more as a little boy — and it makes me want to spend some time working on In the Shadow of Narcissa. But I’ve still got to finish up the new Life Story Rights documents for Tell My Bones and get those off in the mail. And the longer the files stay open on my desk top, the more I seem to resist them. So I really have to just force myself to get those finished and back into the mail.

After I vacuum, though.

And do Booty Core.

My Booty Core program is almost over, by the way. 4 more days. Then I will just do it maybe 3 times a week and do yoga the rest of the time. And then just sail off into old age as a sort of splendid swan.

Oh, and I finally broke down and bought glucosamine chondroitin supplements, too. So I guess we’ll see how that goes. I’m really not trying to stop myself from aging. I’m just trying to, I don’t know, keep walking? Stay on good terms with my lovely legs? When I bought this house, one of the reasons I bought it was because the dining room can easily be turned into a first-floor bedroom (and I think it was one in the past) and there’s a full bathroom on the first floor, too, so in case my now elderly adoptive dad wanted to live with me as he got elderly-er, he could have these things. I didn’t get that stuff so that I could be elderly here, you know? It was for him. But, for some hard to discern reason, he doesn’t want to be elderly here in the wilds of distant Crazeysburg where there is absolutely nothing at all…

Well, the script work with Peitor went very well yesterday.  We got a lot done. On Tuesday we will finally begin working on my very favorite scene in the whole 8-minute  film! The only scene in it where there is a person who actually has lines of (erotic) dialogue!! I cannot wait!! (Honestly, it is going to be so fucked up and so cool!!) This is one of the reasons why I love not living in the regular world. You can just open up your mind and the most entertaining stuff comes out. Seriously.

I haven’t lived in the regular world in such a long time. Actually, I don’t think I ever did. But for a lot of those years, people thought of me as mentally ill. But I’m not ill. I’m just not able to live in a half-sort of world, where you have to squish yourself down and worry all the time about what other people might be thinking of you. Of course, when people think you’re mentally ill, they can just say, “Oh, she’s like that because she’s crazy,” and give you all sorts of leeway and social dispensations and still invite you to parties and stuff. But when you’re not crazy, people don’t know what the fuck to make of you so they just give you a wide berth and leave you mostly alone.

But I don’t really like parties anyway.

However, one part of the regular world that I do live in involves having to deal with that pesky film budgeting stuff. Peitor and I discussed that yesterday, too. And it seems that MovieMagic budgeting & scheduling software is the industry standard and people will be expecting us to work with that, so we will breakdown and buy it (it’s really expensive) and then I will break down (hopefully not in tears) and learn how to use it.

And we shall sally forth into the great creative unknown!!

Well, on Instagram yesterday — quite a bevy of happy folks buying tickets to see Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds on their North American tour! Tickets went on sale yesterday. That was so cool to see, even though when I saw someone post a receipt for their ticket to see them at the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville, my heart kind of, you know, winced a little. However, I am extremely happy with how things are turning out for me, regardless. But what’s weird, though, is that I know for a fact that the guy who bought that ticket for the Nashville show lives in fucking Australia. Isn’t that funny?  People going all over the world to see stuff? (You can  buy tickets at that link there, btw.)

Meanwhile, I must get going here!! Jesus. I’ve been working on this post for 3 hours already. I’ve got to get this house clean!! Okay!! Have a great Saturday, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys! See ya!!!

“Even the Orchestra is Beautiful!!”

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The above is one of the opening lines from the musical, Cabaret:

M.C. (with great irony and a heavy German accent): “In here, life iz beautiful! Za gurls are beautiful! Even za orchestra iz beautiful!”

And that’s sort of how I feel about today! Only without the irony (I still keep the heavy German accent though — in my head, anyway).

Gus Van Sant Sr has a birthday in a few days, so I went outside first thing this morning and walked across the road to stick his birthday card in the mailbox, and even though it was quite cold out and frost was everywhere, guess what?! The birds are back! They were out there singing!

I would not have known this had I not ventured forth into the frozen dawn, still in my jammies & flip-flops!

What a blessing, right?  To be rewarded with that reminder that Spring is on its way. And those happy words came to me (without the irony but with the German accent):  Even za orchestra iz beautiful!!

So.

Yesterday was a little intense. I did not get to work on Thug Luckless much at all, because more legal stuff came up re: Tell My Bones and I had to deal with that, and with trying to re-write even more legal documents without losing my fucking mind.

ME (on the phone, not really saying this, only thinking it): “Just give me the rights to my fucking play! Fuck all this other shit! That’s all I fucking care about right now, you fucking assholes! We’re going into table-reads in New York in a few fucking weeks here and you’ve had years to object to this other shit! I’ve already gone above the industry standards on these fucking options and these percentages and at this rate, I’m not going to see any fucking money from this thing until I’m 72 and half years old! For Christ’s fucking sake! Fuck!!”

ME (what I really said, in my nice-Ohio-girl voice, wherein I actually do sound 12): ” Oh I see. Sure. I understand. Let me just make a phone call, okay? And see if I can work on maybe just re-wording this document a little bit because, you know, I’ve given you all of my babysitting money already. So, um. Would that be all right?”

Jesus.

That aside, though. I slept great last night because I had been reading an email from someone that I don’t even know, and I believe that people really are beautiful. They just fucking are. You know, we all have our little roadmaps that we follow in life, trying our best to find our way through whatever is thrown at us. And I think it’s so beautiful how most people just keep trying and keep tweaking that map, maybe, but they find their way. (Me included, of course. God knows.)

And I did oversleep a little bit this morning because, deep down in my subconscious, I knew my script work with Peitor today wasn’t going to begin until this afternoon because he has to go to the eye doctor. And I also knew that I didn’t want to do Booty Core this morning, either — I wanted to take a break. And my bed felt so cozy and I was breathing great because I’d finally changed the furnace filter and everything just felt so perfect in my little world, that I decided to oversleep! And so I did! And then I was still up early enough to hear the birds singing. In February.

Sort of a joyful start to a morning, right? And I’m going to try really hard to make today’s script session better than it was on Tuesday.

I’m still not sure if the tension was coming from me, or not, but I do know that I was upset about that whole Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds North American tour thing that day but I wasn’t talking about it with Peitor because he gets really tired of hearing about Nick Cave. (I know — how weird, right?! He even says stuff, like, “Marilyn, could you please focus? We’re trying to work here.”)

(Although, to be fair, it’s probably not easy having a business partner who’s only 12 — ME: “I found another ladybug today! Oh, and I saw a hoverfly on my kitchen window! And I rescued him in a Kleenex and I put him outside and he just flew away, he really soared. He seemed so happy!” PEITOR: “I’m sure he was. Can we look at scene 5?”)

However!! Now, because of the overwhelming kindness of complete strangers, that whole issue regarding Nick Cave has not only evaporated, it has become this truly amazing thing! This gift in my life.

So. I’m just feeling really good about today.  And I probably can’t work on Thug Luckless today, either, because I still have to work on rewriting the legal stuff for the play. But I did realize yesterday, that the atmosphere I’m visualizing for P-Town feels a lot like that comic book, Fell, written by (the other) Warren Ellis & Ben Templesmith. It began in late 2005. I’m not a comic book fan, but I always really loved that one — that series. I actually have never met anybody who was familiar with that comic book, but I just loved it.

Image result for fell by Warren Ellis & Ben Templesmith

 

And so I got out all those FELL comic books and sort of flipped through them again. And still just loved it.

(Which, in a round about way, reminds me that the guy who turned 18 the other day, and I bought him a lighter? He’s becoming a Navy SEAL. Which is sort of jaw-dropping to me, because — I’ve never told him this, or anything — but he really reminds me of my father, my birth dad. For one thing, he’s always singing these songs that were huge hits back during the Vietnam War, and yet this kid is only 18. But it’s one of the reasons I feel so  drawn to the guy’s personality — he seems so much like my dad. And, of course, my birth dad was a Navy SEAL, in Vietnam.  It was another one of those things that stopped me dead in my tracks and made me wonder: who are we, really? You know? What are human beings beyond this constant transference of energy, of beingness?? That just keeps recycling and expanding and never ending. Wow.)

So on that note!! I better get going here. Have a great Friday, wherever you are in the world!! Thanks for visiting, gang. I leave you with the opening song from the movie version of Cabaret, “Willkommen”. (It includes the quote from up above — and if you’ve never been exposed to this film, this opening song here will give you an excellent idea of what you’re getting into when watching it. I was actually 12 when I saw this movie and was blown away by it. My adoptive mother was with me, though, and her being Jewish, well, she was very disturbed by the whole movie, and understandably so. But anyway. It is now a classic.)

All righty. I love you guys. See ya!!

Honestly, why doesn’t somebody just shoot her?

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You know — like, 14 months ago, when I was sitting in that French place at that farmer’s market with Peitor out in LA, eating taste-temptingly delicious little chocolate pastries, drinking espressos, laughing hysterically…

That part where I said:  “Come on, Peitor, let’s start a production company and just make these films ourselves!”

Or when, after he finally agreed because I badgered him into it, and then it became apparent that, even while both of us are creating the stories together, he is clearly going to direct this stuff — because he’s actually shot movies before, like, on real film and got awards in film festivals and stuff — and I am clearly going to be the person who gets all the little ducks in a row, because I have always been the person who puts all the little ducks in a row…

Well, somebody should have just shot me. Right then.

Jesus Christ, you know? That fucking film budget seminar this evening was intense.

ME (texting Peitor the minute the seminar was over and while my brain was still almost functioning): “Man, Peitor. That fucking film budget seminar was intense.”

HIM: “Great!!”

Jesus, you know?? I was hoping for a little more — I don’t know. Hot cocoa or something. Shit. What the heck am I getting myself into?

I don’t know. All I do know is that I’m doing it again.

Like, back when I was showing Sandra my screenplay for a TV movie based on the life of Helen LaFrance (which won a writing award at a film festival), and she said, “We should make this a play. Something simple. A one-woman show with a few musicians who can sometimes voice a couple characters; something easy that we can put on in a church auditorium up in Harlem…”

And then, right here at my little mini-desk, I turned it into this multi-million dollar budget ordeal and my accountant had to sit me down (metaphorically, over the phone) the other day and say, “Um. I’m going to send you some sample contracts, Marilyn, and I want you to read them over very carefully so that you can get a better idea of what you’re really getting into here, at the various levels…” Shit.

Somebody should have just shot me then, too. I mean, way back at that point when I thought it was a good idea to write about Helen’s life.

Or even yesterday, when I was finally talking over the phone with the director of Tell My Bones about the recent changes I had made to the script, which deal with lynchings and slave auctions during, you know, a musical number… he said, “You’ve taken a lot of risks here, but good job. You’re really brave. I’m so proud of you.”

What?

Shit, you know? Should maybe somebody be shooting me now, too? Before some sort of weird fallout hits the proverbial fan? What did he mean by “risks”?

Man. I am in need of some sort of vacation from life right now.  I really am. I cannot emphasize that enough. I’m getting a wee bit stressed.

Why am I always just out here, doing this stuff? Making my life so intensely complicated, when all I really, really want to do is just sit alone in my room and write. I don’t even need to get published anymore.  The writing part of it is enough. Emotionally, anyway. Why does everything always just grow into this whole other thing when it comes to me and my brain and all my marvelous ideas?

Life just fucking confounds me.

I used to date this Line Producer in NYC. And one day when I was picking her up on location, she said, “Do you want to see one of these budgets? Are you interested?” I was. So I said, yes. And she said, “These numbers are confidential, but this is what it looks like.” And then she explained what all the various numbers meant, and it all seemed super cool & interesting, because we were lovers and getting ready to go back to her place and drink red wine and fuck like little sex-starved bunnies… Cute bunnies.

Well it was 35 years ago, but maybe I can look into sleeping with her again and see if I can persuade her to do all these fucking mind-altering budgets. Because I’m sure not feeling really super cool & interested about doing it.

Christ. Life goes on, though, doesn’t it.

And my script-writing session with Peitor today was one of those tricky ones, where we had to, you know, not step on each other’s toes. And I couldn’t figure out if I had a weird attitude today or what? Where was it coming from? The tension. I mean, we got very good work done today, but it felt a little bit like work. It was just one of those days.

And I had started my day in a really frisky and cheerful mood!! Goddammit!! What happened???

Well, I haven’t done Booty Core yet today, so I still need to get that done. Actually, it will probably make me feel a little bit better. Because I am just feeling so indescribably DOWN right now, that anything will probably be a tiny step in a better direction.

I’m going to close with this, and try not to cry, and try to think instead about that man I love so much who’s as dead as dead can be and see if maybe he’ll come visit for little awhile. You never know. He might.

Have a good evening, gang. Wherever you are in the world. I love you. See ya.

“A Love Song”

There’s a wren in a willow wood
Flies so high and sings so good
And he brings to you what he sings to you

Like my brother — the wren and I,
Well, he told me if I try, I could fly for you
And I wanna try for you ’cause

[CHORUS]
I wanna sing you a love song
I wanna rock you in my arms all night long
I wanna get to know you
I wanna show you the peaceful feelin’ of my home

Summer thunder on moon-bright days
Northern Lights and skies ablaze
And I bring to you, lover, when I sing to you

Silver wings in a fiery sky
Show the trail of my love and I
Sing to you, love is what I bring to you

And I wanna sing to you, oh

I wanna sing you a love song
I wanna rock you in my arms all night long
I wanna get to know you
I wanna show you the peaceful feelin’ of my home

I wanna sing you a love song
I wanna rock you in my arms all night long
I wanna get to know you
I wanna show you the peaceful feelin’ of my home

I wanna show you the peaceful feelin’ of my home

c – 1974 Kenny Loggins, Donna Lyn George

My Goodness, What A Morning!

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(And as May West would have responded: “My goodness had nothin’ to do with it!”)

Anyway.

Wow, I’m in a mood today. I guess you know your morning is off to an interesting start when you’re still on your first cup of coffee and you’re already flipping through page after page after page of your many collections of Baudelaire’s wide and various writings, looking for a mere stanza about the girl who is like a pal and will have anal sex with you.

I don’t even remember what got me thinking in that direction in the first place, but since I couldn’t remember if it was in his journals, or in a poem, or in his other writings, it was seriously like trying to find a needle in a haystack. I knew I’d quoted it before — decades ago — in one of my own journals, but trying to find it in one of those, is like the other haystack that the needle is within. I have something like 42 journals.

But what I did re-discover, is a stanza from “A Madrigal of Sorrow” that I used to have taped to my wall for years. I’d forgotten all about it. I think it was sort of a combination of my mantra and my mission in life. I don’t remember when it came off of my wall. Probably when I left E.12th Street and moved in with Wayne.  From an English translation of Flowers of Evil:

My queen, my slave, whose love is fear,
When you awaken shuddering,
Until that awful hour be here,
You cannot say at midnight drear:
“I am your equal, O my King!”

Interesting, isn’t it? My whole life, I have always flown under the radar; Topping from the bottom. (Meaning, I’m submissive in nature and always have been, but I am always taking mental notes; always. I’m watching you like a hawk. Because the day is going to come when I am going to reveal myself to be just like you.)

Well, another poem of his that I always loved and had forgotten about: “What A Pair of Eyes Can Promise.” Also from Flowers of Evil. Basically, a poem about having sex with a woman who has black pubic hair. (Oui, c’est moi!!! Yay!) (I know — if you’ve never read Baudelaire before, what the hell are you waiting for?)

Anyway. I’m just frisky today. I have no idea why. And I have quite a non-frisky day ahead of me: finish the laundry, then do Booty Core, followed by several hours of script work over the phone with Peitor, followed by a one-time online course in the proper formatting of professional film budgets.  (I know — don’t envy me for my glamorous life!!)

I woke up at 5am, as usual, and today I was singing “Higgs Boson Blues.” Not my favorite Nick Cave song. I don’t dislike it, or anything, but it’s not like — for instance, last night, I was listening to Let Love In and could not get past the first two songs without having to constantly press repeat because I love both those songs (“Do You Love Me? Pt. 0ne” and “She’s Nobody’s Baby Now”) so fucking much that I can’t stop listening to them. I never got to the rest of the CD.

Anyway. Why “Higgs Boson Blues” today? Specifically the line, “I’m driving my car down to Geneva”? I played the song during breakfast and still could not figure out why I was thinking about Geneva.  Much like yesterday, suddenly singing a Pink Floyd song. (Although, except in that instance, I don’t actually like Pink Floyd, so it was even weirder.)

Still, you know. At least my curiosity got me out of bed. And then I realized that I felt quite frisky. And that seems to bode well for whatever I have to do today. Because frisky is good!

In fact, here is the tee shirt I suddenly decided to wear this morning. I’ve owned it a couple of years now, so the booty core curvy-wurvy factor has nothing to do with this tee shirt. It has always fit me like this. And I only paid $3 for it at the dollar store (or the three-dollar store, in this case). But whoever designed this cheap tee shirt is a fucking genius because I guarantee you that no other shirt I own or have ever owned makes me look quite so BLESSED!!!

Me, right this minute, just SUPER blessed

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I know! I look like I could be in Playboy or something. But trust me, I can’t. It’s the darn (or should I say lovely?) shirt… (And I’m not even wearing a b-r-a; nor have I ever had any sort of surgical enhancement that keeps me looking perky. This is all just God’s handiwork by way of a cheap tee shirt, blessing me like nobody’s business!!)

All righty!

So this morning, I jump-started Mardis Gras and the beginning of the Lenten season by switching to my pre-Easter breakfast dishes. The ones from Germany that I accidentally used a few weeks back when Nick Cave was having a Conversation in Germany and for some unknown reason I was inexplicably zoning out at the breakfast table: pink with a white skull & crossbones motif, and the little juice glass with the tiny polka dots of pastel green, yellow, pink, blue, and purple.

I have no clue why I decided it was suddenly time to move forward, but move forward, I did.  By way of my dishes. And it felt quite cheery at the breakfast table — skull & crossbones notwithstanding. (And “Higgs Boson Blues” notwithstanding, either — it’s not really what you’d call a “cheery” song.) However, I felt quite cheerful. And quite frisky. And I’m not going to ponder everything to death today. I’m just gonna flow with it.

(Oh, and if you live somewhere in the United States that is not Crazeysburg (and that’s not a hard thing to achieve, trust me!!), you can get tickets to see Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds on their North American tour, beginning at 10am, your time, this Friday, 2/21. Check the tour schedule here!! And Weyes Blood will be on the bill in some of the larger cities.)

Okay!! I gotta scoot. The morning is just about gone here. I hope you have a terrific Tuesday, wherever you are in the world and to wherever it takes you. Thanks for visiting, gang. I leave you with something you’re probably not expecting at all, but it’s a song I love that always enhances my friskiness factor! “Jockey Full of Bourbon”!! Off of Tom Waits’ truly awesome album Rain Dogs, from 1985. Okay! I love you guys!! See ya.

 

“Jockey Full Of Bourbon”

Edna Million in a drop dead suit
Dutch Pink on a downtown train
Two dollar pistol but the gun won’t shoot
I’m in the corner on the pouring rain
16 men on a deadman’s chest
And I’ve been drinking from a broken cup
2 pairs of pants and a mohair vest
I’m full of bourbon, I can’t stand up

Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone
Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone

Schiffer broke a bottle on Morgan’s head
And I’ve been stepping on the devil’s tail
Across the stripes of a full moon’s head
Through the bars of a Cuban jail
Bloody fingers on a purple knife
A flamingo drinking from a cocktail glass
I’m on the lawn with someone else’s wife
Come admire the view from up on top of the mast

Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone
Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone

I said, hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone
Hey little bird, fly away home
House is on fire, your children are alone

Yellow sheets in a Hong Kong bed
Stazybo horn and a Slingerland ride
To the carnival is what she said
A hundred dollars makes it dark inside

Edna Million in a drop dead suit
Dutch Pink on a downtown train
Two dollar pistol but the gun won’t shoot
I’m in the corner on the pouring rain

Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone
Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone

c – 1985 Tom Waits