Tag Archives: Blessed By Light by Marilyn Jaye Lewis

My Gratitude

I want to thank everybody, even total strangers visiting the blog or on Instagram, who showed love and support yesterday as I tried to cope with the death of Daddycakes.

When cats are feral, they are wild animals. It is so hard to know what to do and exactly when to do it when they are in peril or dying. So these last few days have not been at all fun – watching him suffer but knowing that he still had enough strength in him to attack a doctor.

Anyway, it’s over now and he’s at peace and his little family here is adjusting to his absence, and my friends, as well as total strangers showed me so much love. So that’s how the day is starting out today.


I haven’t been able to really do too much on the novel since Sunday. But the comments from the editor keep coming in daily and they are making me feel good. Not too much needs changing – negligible grammar things. Yesterday, she said that the writing was poignant and funny like barbed wire.

Since the story is told totally in 2nd person from a man’s POV, and since the woman he is talking to never once says a thing throughout the entire novel, it’s imperative that the man be likable, believable, capable of making you, the reader, feel something. So, comments about how the editor is responding to the character are so important to me.

And so far, so good.  Loyal readers of this lofty blog know by now that Blessed By Light is unlike any novel I’ve written thus far, and it is coming entirely from the realm of the Muse. It’s been a really beautiful adventure.

Yesterday, before everything got horrifically dire with Daddycakes and I had to drop everything and somehow get him situated into the car without the help of any sort of restraint or cat carrying device and drive 30 miles to the veterinarian farther out into the country who was willing to treat a feral cat; before that happened – my new boots arrived.

I love these boots. They are vegetarian-friendly and yet look like leather. They fit perfectly and I just totally love them. And they hardly cost anything because they aren’t made of any sort of dead animal! Anyway, look!!

Okay! On that happy note, I’m gonna get the day underway here, gang. I’m trying like heck to stay focused on the love and just keep going, you know?

The future’s bright and I’ve got nothing but opportunities lining up at my door. I need to stay focused and charitable and generous and loving about the world and being in it. (Although, I have to say that Notre Dame Cathedral going up in flames while Daddycakes was dying was a little more than I could really process yesterday.)

Anyway. Thanks for visiting. I leave you with the song I played over & over in the car yesterday as I tried to keep Daddycakes calm. It worked. (On the trip home, though, without him, it only made me cry so I had to turn it off and just listen to the silence.) Okay. I love you, gang. See ya.

Into My Arms

I don’t believe in an interventionist God
But I know, darling, that you do
But if I did I would kneel down and ask Him
Not to intervene when it came to you
Not to touch a hair on your head
To leave you as you are
And if He felt He had to direct you
Then direct you into my arms

Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms

And I don’t believe in the existence of angels
But looking at you I wonder if that’s true
But if I did I would summon them together
And ask them to watch over you
To each burn a candle for you
To make bright and clear your path
And to walk, like Christ, in grace and love
And guide you into my arms

Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms

But I believe in Love
And I know that you do too
And I believe in some kind of path
That we can walk down, me and you
So keep your candles burning
And make her journey bright and pure
That she will keep returning
Always and evermore

Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms

c- 1997 Nick Cave

Me, again

I’ve kept a blog consistently since 1998.

Yes, that was actually years before they coined the word “blog.” I called it my online journal back then, or my way of touching base with my readers.

But in all these years, I have never posted twice in one day. Until today. I am just in such a state.  Watching my little guy die all afternoon. He’s still clinging. The process takes such a long time and at the same time, I don’t want it to end because I don’t want to say the final goodbye.

He’s aware of me, but he’s in his own world.  When I sing to him, his whole body relaxes.

For some reason, it makes me think of my childhood. I have so many memories – stretching back to when I was 6 months old. For some reason, I had many moments of lucidity when I was 6 months old. I can remember all sorts of things.

My earliest memory is of getting onto a plane in Cleveland. My mom holding me in her arms. And for some reason, I remember the stewardess really well. I thought she was so nice. I responded really strongly to her presence. Many years later, my mom could not believe I had that memory. She said, “You were 6 months old! You were screaming almost the whole trip!” Funny, I still don’t remember screaming. I told my mom that I didn’t recall screaming, but that I remembered the stewardess. And then my mom said, “Oh yeah, that’s right. She was able to get you to calm down.”

Anyway, this afternoon, as I laid on my family room floor, next to Daddycakes, I suddenly recalled my first day of kindergarten and how I wasn’t really all that scared of being away from my mom. I recall that I was kind of interested in everything that was going on around me. Which I thought – today – was kind of strange because I was so incredibly shy back then. But then I remembered that I had already been through 2 years of nursery school, and I was definitely not a big fan of that. That was when I was intensely shy.

I remembered that the nursery school sent around one of those VW buses. I remember an older, heavy-set, incredibly cheerful white-haired lady drove the VW. But I did not want to get in it. It pulled up in our driveway in Cleveland and I think I tried to run away. I know my mom had to force me to get into the little bus and go to nursery school. I was crying, I was just so shy and I did not want to be separated from my mom, even for a moment.

It did not go well for me, that first year. The teacher thought I was autistic. Apparently, she was not the first person to say this to my parents. I had a lot of the signs of autism. I don’t remember that they thought I was autistic back then, I only remember the teacher and my mom sitting me down in the empty classroom at the end of a school day, and they both talked to me in earnest about something. They were so terribly emotional about it. I remember honing in on their emotions. I remember them asking me if I understood what they were saying, and I remember saying yes. And I also remember, vividly, that I said yes specifically because I was keenly aware that they wanted me to say yes. I was trying to please them.

Many years later, when my mom was telling me that up until I was 3, they were all worried that I might be autistic, and then she told me about that afternoon in the classroom at the nursery school (which I remembered). Then she told me what she and the teacher were saying to me – about how I had to stop daydreaming all the time, and stop rocking in my seat and singing to myself, and that I had to talk to the teacher more, and to the other kids. Otherwise, I was going to have to leave the school. And then my mom said that I (at 3 years old) said, “okay,” that I would. And she said that the following day, I had completely changed. Overnight. And that from then on, nobody thought I was autistic.

So strange. Not only that I changed overnight, but that I can still remember being 3, and telling them “yes” only because I wanted to please them. And here, my saying yes, meant that I was suddenly never “autistic” again.

It’s funny the things you think about when you’re incredibly sad, trying so hard not to grieve. Grieving a little bit anyway. Thinking about life and what the heck it really is.

I worked quite a bit on the novel today – in between visiting the cat down on the floor.  I got some editing done on it but it’s been slow going. Then I read my online horoscope (Cainer.com, out of the UK — I’ve been reading that horoscope for about 20 years now), and he actually said that even while I have a 5-star Guardian Angel, my Guardian Angel is on a mini-vacation right now. He really said that! So I guess I shouldn’t be pushing too hard for inspiration today…

The only person I spoke to so far today was when I called a male friend of mine and asked him if I could borrow a shovel. Gonna have to bury a cat soon.

Just a sad little day.

Rainy April Sunday

That’s the view outside the window in my upstairs hall at the top of the stairs.

You can see that it is indeed a rainy Sunday morning in April, here in Crazysburg.

My cat, Daddycakes, is still alive.  He stays out in the open now, which is encouraging. He’s no longer hiding under the bed. And he sort of “engages” with us — meaning he stays around us, but he drifts away, eyes open.

His sisters, Tommy and Huckleberry, are kind of spooked by him. They’ll stare at him cautiously and won’t approach him. 2 of his daughters and his son don’t seem to really care too much, one way or the other, that he’s dying. They go about their business, as usual.

But his other 2 daughters, Doris and Lucy, who have been ridiculously attached to him their whole furry little lives, seem to be devastated by what is hanging on our horizon. They don’t show up for meals or treats, preferring to just hide away and occasionally eat the dry food set out for them upstairs.

So it’s sad. Every hour I give him a few drops of water from an eye-dropper type thing. And 3 times a day, I give him 5 drops of this other stuff.  Thank goodness, that’s down from having to give him 5 drops every 15 minutes, which is exhausting when you might prefer to sleep.  I don’t know that it will “save” him, and I do believe that if he’s choosing to go, he’s going to go; but you don’t want to just sit around and do absolutely nothing and simply watch your lovely creature die, do you?

The gestures are never meaningless even if they’re futile.

It’s all sad, sad, sad, and the rain is sort of doing all my crying for me. But oddly enough, I am able to focus on the novel. I guess because it’s my way of planting a sort of tree of life for the future.

Thanks for visiting, gang. Have a good Sunday – in fact, it’s Palm Sunday today, if you’re into that. I don’t like Palm Sunday, even though I’m a minister. To me, it’s just a reminder of how seriously the mob can turn on you within a handful of days and nail you to a cross. To me, I just want it to be a rainy Sunday in April.  I didn’t even take Communion today.

I leave you with what I’ve been listening to. Enjoy! (If that’s the right word for it.) I love you, gang. See ya.

Let us go now, my one true love
Call the gasman, cut the power out
We can set out, we can set out for the distant skies
Watch the sun, watch it rising in your eyes
Let us go now, my darling companion
Set out for the distant skies
See the sun, see it rising
See it rising, rising in your eyes
They told us our gods would outlive us
They told us our dreams would outlive us
They told us our gods would outlive us
But they lied
Let us go now, my only companion
Set out for the distant skies
Soon the children will be rising, will be rising
This is not for our eyes
 c- 2016 Warren Lee Ellis / Nicholas Edward Cave

I’m Afraid I’m Getting Ready

I’m afraid it’s getting to be time to say goodbye to Daddycakes (see post below about the ill health of my sweet cat).

It is always so sad when a creature you love must die. He’s only 7. He is so sick (kidneys) that I just don’t see how he is going to recover from this. So I’m trying to keep him comfortable and let him know that he has been a joy to me every moment that I have known him. Yes, even those times when I was sitting on my bed in my PJs and he came up unexpectedly and pissed on my back. I still loved the heck out of him.

All right.

I know to my American readers, it must seem like I’m on a mission to force you to love Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. I sort of am on a mission. However, I don’t want to force feed you or anything.

If you’re interested, though, you can go to the official Nick Cave web site right now and sign up to stream his upcoming film, Distant Sky, Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds Live in Copenhagen. The free streaming happens Easter weekend. And then the film will have its official launch next year. Go here to sign up.  You can also watch some of the official footage on Youtube. It’s really, really good.

Well, I have to say I am really happy with the feedback I keep getting from the editor of my new novel, Blessed By Light. It’s a bittersweet happiness because, of course, my cat is dying.  And I’m also falling out of love at the same time. (Not with the cat; with the man I’ve been in love with.) So it’s all bittersweet around here. But I keep finding reasons to keep going.

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

Nick Cave in earlier days. What’s not to love, gang??

All the World’s A Page!!

Yes, I completed the revisions for the staged reading version of my play, Tell My Bones, and sent them off to the director yesterday!

And right on the heels of that, the first round of edits for my new novel-in-progress, Blessed By Light, arrived in my inbox from the editor! And the comments are all positive.

Yay. So I’m finally going to be able to get back to work on the book, starting today. I’m excited. I really am not that far from completing it. I’ll work on it until the next round of re-writes are needed on the play.

In sadder news…

One of my little furry guys is not at all well. I’m not sure he’s going to make it. I am indeed very sad about that.

He’s the daddy of the colony of ferals I rescued 7 years ago. Well, I rescued 3 ferals – a brother and 2 sisters. But they were a super incestuous little bunch and the sisters had kittens in my basement after I trapped them. The 3 ferals were about 6 months old at that point.

Due to huge cutbacks in funding for the animal rescue shelters that particular spring, I wound up with a colony of cats that were absolutely feral and unadoptable and no one would take them. (2 of the male kittens were adoptable and found good homes.)

That’s the short version of why I have so many cats in my house that hate people. It has, at times, been difficult to live with a colony of feral cats. But they are beautiful, and usually quite healthy. And the all-powerful Cat God seems to think that these many scampering happy cats are indeed a blessing to me.

I constantly revise what I consider a blessing in this life. So that’s good. Anyway. Here’s Daddycakes in healthier times.

Daddycakes Lewis. King of the infamous Lewis Cat Colony!

Okay, gang! Off I go now to work on the novel.  Thanks for visiting. Have a terrific Friday, wherever you are in the world. I love you guys! See ya.

Joy at Every Possible Turn

Well, we are coming up on my 1-year anniversary of owning this 118 year-old house and moving here to this amazing little village tucked into some sort of valley in the gorgeous hills & farmlands of Muskingum County, Ohio.

The old train depot in my town from a hundred years ago

I have never been happier in my life.  This town is magical, on some deep level. And it is an open portal to the most accessible spirits I’ve ever encountered in my life.  It has not only changed the quality of my writing, but it has increased the seemingly unstoppable flow of inspiration.

When I first moved here, my life became so intensely magical that I began to wonder, in earnest, if I had actually died and gone to the afterlife and had not yet realized that fact.  Everything, absolutely everything in my life had finally gotten just so good. And how could that be? I wondered. My life had pretty much always sucked.

I was actually starting to be convinced of the fact that I had died. Loyal readers of this lofty blog will no doubt recall that in the space of about 18 months (shortly before moving here), I had 4 near-death experiences. I began to assume that the 4th one had perhaps been the final one and had been quite a success! That I was now dead and didn’t know it, and that this amazing town was just a sort of weigh-station for me until I figured out that I was actually dead and could then move on to some sort of full-blown heaven or something.

Well, I’m not actually dead. (Unless of course, we are all actually dead and this blogging stuff is all part of the pre-heaven experience for all of us!) Well, whatever.

I actually did begin writing a short story on that topic of my uncertain death, called “Camouflage,” wherein I could not safely determine if I was alive or not, and/or if my dear colleague, the writer Michael Hemmingson, was dead or not.

I had to stop writing it because I am incapable of processing the fact that most people do believe Michael Hemmingson is dead, and I cannot allow myself to believe it. Even though he has allegedly been dead now for 5 years or something like that, I just cannot bring myself to process it. So I had to stop writing the short story, since it pretty  much required that I come to some sort of decision about reality.

Even though I have had to accept and process the deaths of many dear loved ones throughout the course of my near-6 decades on Earth, for some reason, I cannot bring myself to accept Michael’s death, or Tom Petty’s for that matter.

Well,  I am willing to accept that the 66-year-old version of Tom Petty did, in fact, die. But the 29-year-old version of Tom Petty that I fell in love with when I was 19, right before I moved to NYC and became a professional singer-songwriter — I cannot process the fact that that version of him died, too. I absolutely refuse to accept it. It has something to do with that specific juncture, of how he intersected with my life at that particular point in time that I cannot process the overall death of.

However, I figure I’m not hurting anybody by refusing to accept these two deaths, so there is no real need for me to adjust to anything. I just move onward, thoroughly unprocessed, and my life still ends up being pretty magnificent.

I am, of course, referring specifically to the 2 plays finally barreling toward not only being produced, but being produced in 2 different countries, pretty much at once, and at 2 rather prestigious venues.

I began writing my first play when I was in my teens, in high school. And during what would have been a “study hall,” I was instead assigned to work privately with an English teacher who was helping me write my first play.

It was going swimmingly until I “accidentally” (or not so accidentally!) discovered quite eerie parallels between the play I was “making up in my imagination” at age 17 and the actual life story of the ballet dancer Nijinsky and his mentor Diaghilev — 2 men I had never heard of until I began writing my play.

I was so freaked out by the parallels that I had to stop writing the play, even though the English teacher assigned to me was disappointed because she thought I had talent.  But I felt like I was either crazy, or psychic, or being invaded by ghosts. Not sure what scared me most, but I was really spooked. I couldn’t tell anybody about it, I simply stopped writing the play.

In a related “freak-out,” several years after that, when I was living in NYC, a friend told me in earnest that she was reading Nijinsky’s infamous diaries and couldn’t believe how much the diaries made her think of me. I did not freak out because I thought I was Nijinsky in some previous life, but because when someone tells you Nijinsky’s diaries make them think of you, they are in fact saying that they think you cannot deal with your own sexuality and that you are out of your fucking mind.

I digress.

I’m really only wanting to write about how thrilling it feels to be this close to the fruition of 2 of my plays — one that I wrote in its entirety, the other I co-wrote, or contributed to, with Sandra Caldwell.

I’ve known Sandra since 1992; she was and is a really good friend of  one of my ex-husband’s. And he was the one who gave Sandra a copy of my screenplay, Tell My Bones, a couple years back and her response was extremely positive.

From there, she asked me to take a look at her one-woman musical, The Guide to Being Fabulous, and we’ve been collaborating since then.

But the highlight of all that, I think, was when I was visiting her in Rhinebeck a couple summers ago, to begin work on the stage adaptation of Tell My Bones. One morning, around  6am, I came down to her kitchen and discovered that she was awake, sitting alone, still in her nightgown, drinking coffee.

She said, “I’m glad you’re up. I’ve been wanting to talk to you alone.”

At that point, the adaptation wasn’t going so great; we’d locked horns on it several times over the course of the weekend, so I thought maybe she wanted to ask me to just leave and never come back.

instead, she said, “Marilyn, you write like a motherfucker. I’m starting my own theatrical production company and I want you to write plays for me.”

I was so excited, it was ridiculous. Not only was I going to get to stay the rest of the weekend, but she saw some sort of future in our locking of horns!

And now, here we are, with Tell My Bones finally completed, and  a director attached. And The Guide to Being Fabulous on its way, as well.

It’s just so cool to me.  Even though I abandoned the writing of my first play,  and then went on to write a ton of songs, then write and have published 5 novels, edit 7 anthologies of other people’s fiction, have about 60 short stories published in 5 languages, and then have my screenplays do well in contests and in film festivals — all of that was exciting; all of it. Still, nothing makes me more excited than the prospects of having my plays produced and watching Sandra knock them out of the park. Which she will.

I can definitely die happy now, gang. Assuming I’m not already dead, that is.

Related image

Excerpt from Blessed By Light

For today’s actual blog post, please scroll down!

Meanwhile, here is the latest excerpt from my new novel, Blessed By Light. Chapter 15 -17, approximately 10 pages. Contains sexually explicit material.


Selling the House of Love

WE LOOK GOOD TOGETHER, don’t you think? Me, so much older than I ever was but still seeming 30 in my mind; and you, timeless now. To me, anyway. From now on, for me, you will never age.

Yes, I said that. And I meant it. Too sentimental sometimes, I know. But don’t start doubting me again, honey. You’ve been doing so good. Just so good.

However, now it’s my turn.

Doubt. The Devil with that awful name.

I need to talk to you about this, honey, because there is no one else on Earth now who can really hear me. That second wife. How much I loved her. Love her still. But I am putting that house of love up for sale. That home she and I made so much love in.

I walked through those rooms today – empty, though still filled with all that furniture – and I could still feel her around the edges. Could feel her in every room.

She was so young when she came there to live with me, to be my wife at last, after I’d pursued her and pursued her and bought that whole house just for her. And then she was like that proverbial fine wine – she aged so gracefully. Just so gracefully, and I thought she was going to be mine forever; to outlive me – me; who was so much older than she was. But she died.

And now there is a house sitting there that is a ghost of a home. The echoes of love are contained within its walls; I can still feel her in there. I know she listens to me. I walked through all those rooms today, trying to find a way to tell her that I’m putting our home up for sale – our lives and all the things we were for each other while we were together.

Soon even the echoes will be gone, the walls will be owned by someone else, and there will be only memories left for me, with no anchor of “home” to know them in.

How will I stand that?

Will she feel betrayed?

I’m sure she knows already what I’ve decided to do, even though I couldn’t say it.

I feel desolation within her – if that’s possible. I don’t know if my conscience is playing tricks on me or what. But I feel a sorrow so much greater than anything my own heart could pour out on its own. It must be coming from her heart, as well.

This twin sorrow that weighs just so heavy on me. It’s hers, too. I’m sure of it.

Does she blame me? Is that what this heavy weight is all about?

Whatever it is, I just can’t carry it. I can’t. It’ll break me. Honey, I’m gonna break.


You’ve said that no one was ever there for you so you learned how to count on the angels to carry you.

But this is new to me. I don’t know how to do it, how to depend on them. But I need to be carried now. That’s for sure.


I called my oldest girl first. She’s easier to talk to. It took her by surprise – all this. I know it did.

I asked her not to call you, though. And not to blame you. To keep you out of this equation. That the house going up for sale has nothing to do with you.

Of course, it has everything to do with you. I just meant it was my decision. I’m not some old rich man being coerced by a stranger. No one’s inheritance is going out the window.

She called my younger daughter, of course, and now it’s devolved into her histrionics. Furious texting and then that angry face-time thing.

I’ve given them both so much of my money already. But this can’t be a discussion about my money. This is love I’m talking about.

I need them to see that. And if they can’t see it, I need everyone to just be quiet for now. Just shut up and be quiet.

Yes. I know it’s redundant.

But if I hear one more word about my money – well. Everyone’s too old to go across my knee anymore, so everyone’s just gonna go to their rooms. Including me. I’ve had it.


Yes, I know it’s your room.

You’re cute, honey. You make me smile even while I’m so angry with those two. Those girls. Those girls I gave so much life to – the girls I helped teach how to talk – which I regret now. And how to type. That younger one keeps texting me, even though I told her to let it rest for tonight.

I turned the sound off on my phone so that she wouldn’t keep pinging at me. But I keep seeing those little streams of text springing up, assaulting my eyes and then my intelligence.

When I married my second wife, I had to coax those girls into liking her; into coming around to meet her, into being polite. I don’t want to trivialize it now, because it meant so much to me that they all eventually got along. More than just “got along,” they acted warm together – like family, you know? Family on a real good day.

She was a wonderful woman and they loved her, and that meant the world to me. It gave me a second chance with those girls, you know? I could try to repair some stuff among us – make us sort of like a family again. A new family. They still had their mother, of course, but my second wife was there for them, emotionally. Without the baggage of real motherhood. It worked so well. Especially holidays – Christmas. It was always so nice. No screaming. No cocaine. No memories of cocaine, even. Just kindness and people being nice.

At moments like this it’s as if they’re forgetting that I’m the one whose life was blown open, whose heart was shattered most when she died. My conversations ended. My need to know what her plans were for the day; what were we having for dinner or did she want to go out? Did she want to make love, was she tired, did she feel good, did she sleep all right, who’s doing the laundry? Then: where the fuck did she keep everything that I couldn’t find anymore?

Fuck. My life ended when she died.

I bought that house for her to live in as my wife. What makes those girls think I could be so carefree or reckless about parting with it?

I love you. With you, I’m alive again. I got my life back. I might be dying, yes, thank you, girls; I know that. And I have to be more mindful. But I got my goddamn life back. Why do I have to justify that to two little girls who were so helpless without me? Whose mother was so strung out on drugs when they were barely adolescents that I had to try my best to be both a father and a mother to them when I wasn’t thousands of miles away from them, on the road, making that stupid crazy fortune that they’re freaking out about now.

It’s none of their business if I want to sell that fucking house. It wasn’t their home, it was mine. Mine and my wife’s. They were grown already. They had homes of their own – that I paid for. Christ.

And it’s not that house. It’s you. That’s what’s freaking them out. You. Where did you come from?

Of course I saw it coming. Of course, I did.

I know my girls.

They make it sound like they’re worried about my money. But it’s you.

They’re worried about having to be sectioned off inside my heart again. Me and one more woman, getting all my love. But it isn’t like that. There are permanent places inside my heart for each of my daughters. I’ll take those loving places with me to the grave and far beyond the grave. I’m gonna love them forever. I’m gonna be there for them in spirit, always – when it comes to that. I’m gonna watch out for them. Always. They’re my girls. They’re my great big grown up women who are still and who always will be my girls.

I wish they could see that.

I hope I don’t have to die for them to see that.


The Profane

THAT’S ALL I’M ASKING you. Just try to see this how I see it and it won’t scare you. George’ll be driving.

He’s a good driver. He can handle a fast car. The only thing we have to be careful about is the Highway Patrol. We don’t want to get caught going 200 mph in the middle of the night. Then everybody’s gonna know you’re name, honey, but only as the girl who was naked in the backseat of that speeding car with two fully-clothed famous guys.

And depending on which Statelines we’ve crossed, we might even be called fornicators. But that’ll just be the icing on our cake, won’t it?

No, we aren’t gonna cross any Statelines. I was just saying that to be funny. We’re not gonna go far. We’re just gonna go fast. In the dark. On the freeway. All that motion, those wheels taking us to the edge.

Everyone likes to have sex in a moving vehicle – once you’ve already had it, that is. There’s nothing else like it. I used to love making love with that first wife on my bus, when the girls were so little and sometimes they’d all come out with me on the road for a few shows out there in the middle of America. Summertime. School was out. All of us were happy.

There is something about those tires zooming, the road flying by underneath you. Streetlights, headlights, taillights. All of it cradled in darkness that expands into nowhere while you sail through it. And preferably with a naked girl under you. Or in your case, a man – me – on top of you; my cock taking you all the way home.

The road at night is the motion of sex. It is, honey. Even those little girls of mine – I knew what was going on with those two; in that bunk they shared on that bus. All that giggling under the sheets. All that summertime in their heads. I acted like I didn’t know what they were doing. Let them have their once-in-a-lifetime world together, you know? The childhood thrills of everything new. It all goes by so fast. Just so fast.

Even back then, I knew their worlds were flying away from me, seeking their own directions.

Somedays, though, it was all just too good. It was impossible to be melancholy. There were fireworks filling the sky at night, every night; falling in that cascade of diamonds and fire. Sometimes that feels like what America is in the summer: Fireworks at night. A boom of noise and the feeling like we’re poised on the edge of something breathless. Bodies alive with promise. With hope – and a little bit of that Eros. No matter how young you are or how old.

All of that is the motion of the road.

When you’re in love. And so happy.


Yeah, it’s called a Hellcat. Expect a fast ride, honey, but don’t expect it to be comfortable. And just hold on.

No, not to me. To the backseat here. Somehow. I don’t know how. Just somehow. Because we’re gonna go – zero to, whoa, sixty in, like, 3 seconds – shit.


I have no clue what prompted George to lower those windows but it sure is adding to the thrill of this thing. That rush of wind. That cold roar. That feeling like the stars must be exploding out there in that black sky over the freeway because in here, in this backseat with you, honey, the noise, the power, the speed, my cock inside you, and those sounds you’re making. Good lord. Can anything really be this fun? I feel like a goddamn kid again. Jesus.


When I was a little boy, for the most part the world was a quieter place. Not so much inside my house because you know my dad was a drunk, but the world, just in general. It felt so much more predictable. Even the thrills were quieter, more common place, but still such fun.

Just riding my bike. Or chasing my brother around the yard with that garden hose, spraying ice cold water on him on a hot summer day. Then learning how to play a guitar. Then playing it for people who liked to hear me play. Hell, even smoking a cigarette back then – it was a thrill, because I was just a kid, getting away with something I knew I wasn’t supposed to do.

Then standing back in all my shyness, watching the girls go by; that thrill turned into something mighty, I can tell you. It propelled me out into the world and gave me something to strive for. To leave home for. My girl and my guitar – out into the world we went.

It was almost all about the sex then. The music and the sex. Music first; sex a very, very close second. You almost couldn’t see the difference, some nights. We were just so young.


Look at me, honey. Just let me look into your eyes. Who knows when we might get a thrill like this again? So much of life is already behind us. In that rearview mirror, don’t you see? Images to remember now; not to be truly felt anymore. Let’s take this one moment. Let me see your face, alive with life, with lust, with urgency and grace. Your eyes that I will never forget; the beauty in them that I will take with me to that higher place.

What is it about making love with you – about fucking you so hard – that makes me want to carry your beauty inside me forever, sear the sight of your face into my memory for all time?

My cock going in you. You’re so hot, so wet – it takes over. It just takes over.

Hold tight to me, honey. This is a fast car. Such a fast car. We might even catch tomorrow at this speed and I don’t want to miss the thrill of you coming with me while I’ve got you in my arms.


You know what George said to me before – he’s such a tits guy. You know what he said? He always likes to fuck you missionary-style because those tits of yours bounce like crazy. He said that to me. Funny, isn’t it? That he trusts me enough to say a thing like that?

Like I won’t haul off and deck him for staring at my girl’s tits.

Like it’s okay to fuck you that hard.

To have a preference for how he likes to fuck you best.

And you’re my girl.

Oh god.

I love to fuck you. Jesus.

I love to fuck you.


Turn over.

I know. I know we’re going fast. Just try to.

I gotta have you that way, that’s all.

I gotta have you that way.

You’re my girl. You gotta let me fuck you like I say.

You’re my girl, honey. My girl.

Oh yeah. Oh man. Up a little. Lift up. Yeah.

That’s right. I wanna hear you say it. Tell me that you’re my girl; my dirty little soaking slutty girl. Say it. Say it just like that. Say it so I can hear you. No one else.

No, not with your face buried in the car seat. Turn this way a little, honey. I wanna hear you: You’re my soaking slutty dirty little girl.

And then I’m gonna fuck you so hard you’re gonna wish it was tomorrow already. But I won’t stop fucking you not even then. I won’t stop. I am just too goddamn hard. Jesus.

Not gonna let your pussy get away from me. Not now, not ever.

Your pussy is mine, hon. Don’t even try.


“Did you hear that, George? Can you hear me in all this – noise?

She’s mine – this conquered girl. Mine.”

Oh yeah.

This hot little pussy is all

All of it




You know what I like about fucking you, now that we’re old?

Okay – older.

I can come in you without worrying about having more mouths to feed.

You’re the best, honey. I love you. Thanks for that.

You’re so fun.


My second wife – she was so young. Not to make you feel old or anything. Because you’re perfect just at the age you are. But she was so young that we still had to worry about that.

Imagine me, at my age, with a brand new mouth to feed.

We just had to be careful. All the time.

Jesus, I cannot believe she’s gone.


I’m sorry I said that.

It just slipped out.

I didn’t mean to ruin your moment.

My moment.

My moment in your sun.

I’m so sorry I said it.


The Sacred

THIS IS WHAT GRIEF IS. AS SOON AS you think, I’m managing, I’m handling –bang – it’s right back. Loss, and all that it takes from you, robs you of.

Yes, loss is part of the flow of life. Nothing blooms all the time. Death comes. It’s just “transitioning” to something else. I know all this. I accept it and internalize it, and yet, grief still swoops down on me when I least expect it and commands my complete attention. Even when I’ve just been having the time of my life.

And still grief is sacred. Anything that pierces the heart has gotta be sacred, otherwise, how can you process such pain?

Let’s make it all sacred – all the things we can’t comprehend about being here. If it’s incomprehensible, let’s call it sacred, okay? That way, there’s less of a reason to shoot ourselves.

And you, being with you is sacred to me, too. Not because I find you incomprehensible. But because you give your love to me so readily, so easily. What other woman, of all the myriad women I have known, would agree to get into the backseat of some other guy’s car and take off all her clothes just because I wanted to go really fast while having sex with her on the freeway in the middle of the night?

It’s not just love, it’s your spirit. That’s what always calls me, frees me, keeps me wanting to be right here with you rather than anywhere else on Earth, even though everywhere else on Earth keeps calling to me, too, because the fans are everywhere now. Just everywhere.

And that’s sacred to me, too. Because that’s incomprehensible to me on so many levels – all those fans, some of whom don’t even speak my language but who understand the music – and music comes from the unknowable higher place, where language is not needed, and so this also tells me I’m blessed. Blessed down to my very soul.

Is this what it means to get old? I would not have expected to live this long in the first place. But now that I have, well, here it fucking is.

Crying one minute from so much loss.

Crying the next minute from too much joy.

Then lighting a cigarette, knowing that it’s killing me, but I have never been able to resist smoking a cigarette while sitting under a billion stars on a night so full of promise with a woman I so dearly love.

It took a lifetime to get just right here.

Let’s celebrate that, honey. You and me.

And George.

I forgot he was still here.


I think it’s cool that you wanna drive this thing. All this horsepower and just naked you, wrapped in your little blue trench coat. Not even any shoes on your feet.

Go for it, honey. It’s not called a Hellcat for nothing. And you sure know how to raise hell when you feel like it.

I think it’s cool that George is even letting you – he never lets me drive this thing.


Oh man, honey.

Something, it’s just not…


© 2018 Marilyn Jaye Lewis