Tag Archives: Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse by Marilyn Jaye Lewis

We Have Nothing To Wear But Fear Itself!!

This is, of course, a play on Roosevelt’s famous advice to Americans during WWII: “We have nothing to fear but fear itself.”

And Roosevelt’s advice is indeed quite timely today.

What we know about the v*rus is that there is no p*n d*m *c. It’s fake. It’s manufactured to scare people, to bankrupt them if at all possible, and to remove their constitutional rights.

And all of the scientists and researchers who write papers or give announcements about the proof that this virus p*n d*m *c is fake, get blocked and censored here in the US by social media and mainstream media.

(If you are new to the blog, you can scroll through the past couple of weeks and get links to all of those papers and videos  in places where they have not been blocked.)

Yes. There are indeed a bazillion more people allegedly testing positive, allegedly all over the world. Although more and more people have stories of testing false positive (meaning they immediately test negative) and then only the positive test is reported. Even nurses are seeing it. And saying — in utter exhaustion — “what the fuck is with these crazy tests?”

And most importantly, there are not tons of people dying from the virus. They are dying from other stuff, and sometimes the virus is part of it.

There are at least 4 therapeutics that will cure the average person of the virus. The virus is basically the flu.  And even the CDC’s statistics here in the US do not bear out that this is a p*n d*m *c. It is a flu, and people who would be compromised by the flu are in danger of getting really sick from C* VID. But if you’re an average person, you have a 99.997% survival rate, even without therapeutics.  It’s a flu.

And of course, we now have 2 very effective vaccines ready to hit the market. With a third (Oxford in the UK) gaining in effectiveness.

But there is, of course, a worldwide fear that, along with getting the vaccine, people will have a chip introduced into their bodies that will make them track-able by whoever it is out there that is seriously trying to control us through fear and by trying to violate our rights to free speech and to assemble (also known as m* sks and l* ck d* wns).

I personally do not take vaccines. A lot of people don’t because they have become deregulated (you can’t sue the kind folks who make them if something goes horribly wrong…). But a lot of people still believe in vaccines. It eases their fears. And so they have the right to have access to them.

However, yesterday, I heard two horrifying things. One was from the UK — that even with the 95% effective Pfizer vaccine that the UK has already approved, people in the UK should be prepared to continue wearing m* sks “for years.”

Okay. So. Rather than believe that insanity, that fear-mongering and that depression shit; instead, ask yourself whose payroll  that guy is actually on, and if he isn’t being bribed, is he being blackmailed?

Those are the only two questions we should all be asking now. The only two. Because everyone knows — the dictators and tyrants especially (here in the US, they are also called by titles such as “Governor” and “Mayor”) — that this is not a p*n d*m *c, it is fake, otherwise they would be too frightened to constantly break their own m* sk and l*ck d*wn rules.

A case in point — as always — is out in Los Angeles. This short video made me cry yesterday. This poor woman! It is similar to the video I posted yesterday about the restaurant owner in Michigan.

The virus is really, really smart. It knows to infect only small businesses and not huge movie studio companies.

People, this has got to STOP. Actual lives are at stake. And not from any virus.

And here’s a quick follow-up on the Staten Island protest, where it details how in  Airstrip One, if you voted for Tr**p, your establishment is in l*ck d* wn. If you didn’t, you get to  stay open (because that darn virus knows who votes for whom…).

The other thing that I found horrifying yesterday was that there is a new proposal here in the US from Federal Democrats re: that stimulus bill (which tyrants and dictators created the need for, since Tr**p left it up to the States to decide how to “manage” the virus), that if you are willing to take the vaccine, you could get a $1500 stimulus check.

Yes. They’re going to pay people — bribe them with maybe some money to buy food or pay some rent — if they will take the vaccine??!! Otherwise, you don’t get the money.

It made me truly fear, for the first time — what ARE they going to try to administer along with that vaccine???

Why do they want to pay desperate people to take it??

And the always charming, endearing, selfless Mayor of Ch* c*go is intimating that she wants to make the vaccine mandatory in Ch* c*go… (unconstitutional, btw).

TWO QUESTIONS, that’s all. Just two fucking questions:  Whose payroll is that woman actually on, and if she isn’t being bribed, is she being blackmailed?


Well, after I listened to the X*2 R* p*rt last night, and once I got to approximately the 33 minute point in the podcast (posted down below), the fake virus information got seriously alarming. So I did some research on which article he was talking about.

You can do it, too. The article is readily available but I strongly suggest using d* ck d* ck go.

The article is all about the 22 internationally-based scientists who are currently asserting that the R T * P C R test that was “developed” specifically to test for C* VID, was purposely developed to create an 80 -97% false positive:

[…]due to a non existent gold standard which would be the virus itself.

[…] At the heart of the controversy lies the fact that the creators of the most commonly used test, the R T-P C R, published instructions for how to test for S* RS C* V 2 “without having virus material available,” in their own words, relying instead on the Ch* n* se scientists’ genetic sequence published on the internet.

[…] Dr. C* rbett, a Ph.D., and retired RN elaborated: “There are 10 fatal errors in this Dr* sten test paper. Public Health England is a co-author on it. All the public health authorities across the EU have co-authored this paper. But here is the bottom line: There was no viral isolate to validate what they were doing. The P C R products of the amplification didn’t correspond to any viral isolate at that time. I call it ‘donut ring science.’ There is nothing at the center of it. It’s all about code, genetics, nothing to do with reality, or the actual person, the patient.

You have to read the article, gang. Please. It is not long. It is right here. And the scientific details of it will enrage you.

It also sites an article I posted a link to here several days ago, about the paper out of Wu h*n that studied over 9 million test cases and determined that:

Virus cultures were negative for all asymptomatic positive and repositive cases, indicating no “viable virus” in positive cases detected in this study.

If you live in Germany, you likely already know all about this fake P C R test that was created to generate false positives,  because there is a team of lawyers suing the Government there, as well as starting a Class-Action lawsuit here in the US and in Canada, and probably Australia, as well. But the German lawsuit maintains that 2 of the 3 main perpetrators of this fr*ud are from Germany. The 3rd perp being the head of the W H O…

(And Tr**p pulled the US out of the W H O. Go figure…)

Please make time to watch the video directly below. It has been around for a month already, but other videos that interview this lawyer have been blocked already on Y *u T * be.

He has successfully sued Deutschbank and VW  in the past , and won, so he is not just a small-time lawyer. He is working with three other lawyers — together they are suing Germany for perpetuating this fake p*n d* m*c.

He goes into details about the fake positive test, how it got started and by whom and why, and he identifies who the puppets are, but we still need law suits to find out who is really pulling the strings. Thankfully, lawyers all over the world are preparing lawsuits against their own governments now, as well, based on all this information that the mainstream media is trying hard to block from you.

And my guess is that, whoever is behind the virus fr*ud is also behind the US el*c t*on fr*ud.


Also: LISTEN!! He explains it all again here — there is NOTHING to be afraid of! Except the fucking vaccine!!!!


Nothing But Good News Around Here, Gang!!

Of course, that’s because I’m really good at finding the bright side to stuff when I really, really want to.

But, honestly, things in general seem to be getting more encouraging, in that more and more evidence of e*l*ction fr*ud is coming to light, along with the unbelievable amount of c*ns* rsh* p going on in this country; and more and more people are finding out that the virus is no longer a threat, and so more and more people are questioning what the actual reasoning could be behind forcing us to be muzzled (i.e., m* sks) and not gather in groups where we could easily share information and maybe get really, really angry

And so, in a sense, all of that is good.

And on the vaccine front — both the Pfizer and Moderna vaccines are on a fast track to getting approved and reaching the US public. And the Oxford vaccine has apparently reached a 90% effective rate in the UK.

The Oxford vaccine is the one funded by AstroZeneca, wherein a video went viral on F B re: the use of an aborted fetus in the vaccine.

This was a hoax, people — as I had tried to warn some of the women I knew who were falling for it.  I believe it was purposely aimed at Christians to keep them afraid of the vaccines, and therefore under the thumb of the powers that be who continue to want the masses to be controlled by the fake virus p*n d* m*c.

The Oxford vaccine is based on a chimpanzee adenovirus vaccine vector — an adenovirus that causes the common cold in chimpanzees…

So, um, that might not make you feel any happier. Still, we need to support these vaccines and get them to market as soon as they are deemed effective and safe. Having the vaccines is the only way to break the worldwide stranglehold they are placing on us with the fake p*n d* m*c.

And since there are now four therapeutics to cure the average person of the virus there’s no real need to take a vaccine unless you are still afraid of catching the virus.

Two videos below explain this very well. (X*2 R*p *rt and Tucker Carlson.)

And in v*t*r fr*ud-lated news, D*n B*ng*n*’s video goes into great detail about those urban v*te dumps that happened in the contested States.

So it won’t be much longer, gang, that the mainstream media will be able to keep insisting that it was a free and fair el*c t*on.

On other, sort of related fronts…

Nick Cave sent out a Red Hand Files yesterday addressing the BBC’s decision to censor words from the amazing Christmas song by The Pogues, “Fairytale of New York” (1987), on the radio.

A lot of non-Irish, non-NYC-Americans do not know this 33 year-old song, but it is a truly amazing song. And from Nick Cave’s response, I’m guessing the chief word the BBC wants to censor is the word “faggot.”

It’s kind of amazing to me to think that anyone, anywhere might accidentally hear that word in a legendary, 33-year-old song on the radio and have it completely destroy them, psychologically, for the rest of their lives. I mean, why else would you need to censor something?

In my experience, I’ve heard far worse things said about women in wildly popular rap songs and, rather than listen to them and have them scar me psychologically for the rest of my life, I simply turn them off.

You can read Nick Cave’s always eloquent response here, if you so choose. Among other things, he says:

“One of the many reasons this song is so loved is that, beyond almost any other song I can think of, it speaks with such profound compassion to the marginalised and the dispossessed.”

And Cave Things sent out a new item that would (seriously) make a great Christmas gift for me, so feel free to, you know, buy it and send it to me!!

It only costs £40 plus shipping!!!!! (I have been assured that in US dollars, this currently equals a mere $53.36, plus shipping….) (Yes, a book of Nick Cave quotes that you can also keep track of birthdays in. Yes, a sort of journal. Like the kind you can buy at the dollar store for, like, a dollar! But without any pre-printed Nick Cave quotes — you would have to add the quotes yourself to the dollar store version. So I think that a little over 50 x $1, plus shipping is a terrific price for a book with pre-printed NC quotes, which is allegedly handmade by monks in Denmark!!!!) (Honestly, buy it for me. I would love to have one!!)

Okay. So.

We did get snow during the night!!!! It looks kind of pretty!! It’s enough snow to be all over the lawns and the cars, but not enough to stay on the streets or sidewalks so there is no fear that I might have to break my “no-shoveling” rule!! Yay. So that’s pretty great.

And other than that, gang, there is just so much news going on right now that I have had little else on my mind. But I do have to start getting some more writing done here, because I have 3 short stories due in January, and I need to finish “Novitiate,” in order to turn in The Muse Revisited Vol. 4 to the publishers, and then get back to work on the new novel, Thug Luckless: Welcome to P-Town. (And then finish Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse and turn that in, and then finish In the Shadow of Narcissa and self-publish it….)

So, you know. Lots to do here.

Okay, I’m going to get moving here. Thanks for visiting, gang! I love you guys. See ya!

If you have school-aged children, this video will not make you happy but please watch it anyway, it’s only about 7 minutes:

Both of these were awesome. Try to listen to the whole thing:

Terrific, as always!!

Autumn Has So Totally Arrived!

48 degrees Fahrenheit; the sun didn’t come up until 7am; the leaves are changing all over the neighborhood; I did indeed prune the hydrangea yesterday morning…. The flowery  summer wreaths are off the doors — replaced with the ones for fall. I put away the porch furniture.

Now all I have left to do is wait for summer to get here…

All righty! I won’t get far with that attitude, will I? No.

So instead of wishing that life were totally different, I’m going to spend the day ignoring the world beyond Crazeysburg and just doing non-writing work today:

  1. finish formatting 1954 Powder Blue Pickup and send it off to the publisher today.
  2. fix the formatting on the print edition for The Guitar Hero Goes Home. And then upload it to Amazon and hopefully stop tinkering with it and keep it there once and for all.
  3. set up the web site for Marilyn’s Room Books and get that up and running.

Even though I will no longer be self-publishing any of my new erotica (which I am extremely happy about!), I will still put up the Marilyn’s Room Books site because I want all of my available titles to be in one place, regardless of who the publishers are.

Plus, I’m still planning to self-publish In the Shadow of Narcissa, since it’s not erotic. And also bring out a new print edition of Twilight of the Immortal.

If I’m not mistaken, gang, Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse is going to be brought out in print and eBooks by the new publisher. (So that means I will finish writing it before the end of the year.)

But before that, I’ll be sending them The Muse Revisited, Volume 4 — yay!! But instead of it being strictly a print edition of my selected erotica from 1994 -2012, it’s going to be print and digital, and focus on my previously published hardcore BDSM stories, along with a brand new one that I will write here at any moment!!

So all of it is really exciting to me, gang. It really, really is.

Meanwhile, though, I just now realized (because I’m not dressed yet) that I am still wearing my summer PJs to bed every night. I suppose I have to make an adjustment there. Drag out the fall PJs.

It’s funny, but for most of my adult life, I hated summer — because I lived in NYC and I have a very low tolerance for high humidity. It makes me super cranky and makes my brain feel like it’s going to explode. And NYC summers are usually just the worst.

But ever since I moved into this amazing old house in the middle of nowhere, all of that has changed (mostly because of that man I fell in love with that first summer I lived here who died; he changed summer for me forever) — honestly, honestly, honestly; I cannot emphasize how much in the middle of nowhere this house is, gang. When you get off the highway that leads to the 3-mile, winding back road that leads to my village, there is a really big freeway exit sign and it says “LOCAL ATTRACTIONS” and there is absolutely nothing written on that sign! I’m so serious. It’s just amazing. Nothing is on the sign. It’s just a big blank sign. NOTHING is here, folks!!

However, there used to be a famous homestead out here but it’s been closed down, so they removed the listing but left the huge sign. (In fact, if you were to google my village, you’d discover that it was once home to the world’s largest apple basket — but no more. I have yet to lay eyes on that basket (below) because that homestead was closed down! Yet google seems to think it’s emblematic of where I live!)

Worlds Largest Basket of Apples in Frazeysburg Ohio Stock Photo - Alamy

So I’m guessing that, once I’m dead, the one thing on that freeway exit sign will be my house that will, by then, be a famous museum… (Probably because I was insanely crazy, had a house full of dead spirits talking to me all the time and had too many undomesticated cats, but I would prefer it to be a standing homage to my splendid writing…)

Yeah, well…

Robert Jordan Quote: “If wishes were wings, pigs would fly.” (9 wallpapers) - Quotefancy

Okay, on that happy note… I refuse to talk about politics or the debate.  I refuse to even think about it. I will simply buy a gun, I mean, VOTE, and get on with my life.

And now I will even get dressed and get to work around here. (Just FYI, I never sit down at the desk to blog before getting dressed, so I’m not sure what’s up with me today.)


Have a nice Wednesday, wherever you are in the world, gang. Thanks for visiting. I leave you with probably my most favorite Buddy Holly song from my wee bonny girlhood (even though I pretty much liked all his songs), “Everyday”  (1958) — because I want to feel hopeful about love, like when I was young (yay!!), instead of depressed by its utter absence around here, now that I’m old (yay!!)! So enjoy. I love you guys. See ya!!!

Excerpt #8 — Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse

Okay, I will probably still keep tweaking this, gang, but here is Letter #8 ” The Choice to Kill,” from Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. Please excuse any typos!!

The following contains sexually graphic material and subject matter that might be objectionable to some readers. Please be advised! Thanks, gang!!


The Choice to Kill
© 2020 Marilyn Jaye Lewis

I was protecting you from all of them – you see? I thought you were coming back. I never dreamed I was killing you for good.

The streets became dirtier. Darker. Buildings so tall, the sun couldn’t shine.

I was 20. It was November.

He was 40, with curly black hair, peppered with grey.

Kisses on my face that lead us – to what? Conceiving endless children of joy. Entwined in lust, where a different sort of life is made.

We met in a laundromat on New York’s Upper East Side – a neighborhood where I’d lived for a handful of days; where he’d lived all his life. Where, in the late 1960s, his dad had been gunned down in the streets – not far from his apartment building’s front door. A Mob hit.

In New York, I let life happen. I needed to be released from what my life had already been back home – a prison. With very little love in it; almost no love at all.

When we’d both finished at the laundromat, he said, “Come on, let me buy you a drink.” So I went with him to a bar around the corner and my life changed. Forever.

*     *     *

Passion. Lust. The cock, the hole. Fucking, finally. Fucking turn over. (Come on.) Turn over. (For me – come on.) That union of both. It’s there before we meet. Though it swells when we make love; it aches, it drips, it yearns. But the need to commune – the lust; it’s there, in us, before we meet. And it remains long after we’ve left each other behind for good. It’s always “for good for good for good” – I can’t destroy myself just because you love me. (Of course, I can. Of course, I can.) 

His bedroom was lit by candlelight. It was soothing, and yet; it was hard for me to undress. So many eyes of his wife – looking right at me.

You paint sometimes, so maybe you know what it’s like – that need to get the image out; the same one, over and over, with only slight differences each time.

I don’t paint; I don’t really know how it feels. But it turned out Leo was a painter – oil paints. Portraits. His bedroom was full of portraits he’d painted of his late wife.

She’d been Irish. Pretty. With green eyes and very long, curly red hair. He painted her from memory, over and over. She was naked in every portrait – but whole, every delicate curve of her full; not crushed, not broken – with her long hair rolling down.

“You feel it, too?” he said.

“I do,” I said, and it was unnerving – between his elderly Catholic mother within earshot in the next bedroom, and his wife staring at me with so many green eyes. “It feels like she’s right here.”

“She is,” he said. “My wife haunts this fucking room, even though she never lived here. She makes me crazy sometimes. But let’s try this anyway, okay? I can’t let her make me a prisoner for the rest of my fucking life. Come on,” he urged me. “Come here; I’ll help you.”

When I was naked, he whispered: Look at you. I can’t even remember being 20.

He sat down on his bed, still in his clothes, and pulled me over to him. I sat on his lap and he held me, kissed me – on my neck, my nose, my cheek. I forgot all about his mother in the next room. Forgot about his dead wife’s green eyes.

“You should get out while you can, you know. New York, I mean,” he said quietly. “This city’ll ruin you. I see it happen every day. I don’t want to see it happen to you.” He stroked my hair and studied my face in the flickering dark. His finger touched the tip of my nipple. “I wanna make love to you so bad.”

“Then why don’t you?” I said – not understanding; getting aroused.  My naked bottom squirmed in his lap. I could feel for certain that he wanted to make love.

“I’m not sure I remember how,” he said.

*     *     *

Out there on E.66th Street, we’d crossed Second Avenue and headed towards First:

“I live back with my mother now,” he explained. “But don’t worry – she minds her own business. I’ve got my own room – although I’ve never tried to bring a girl up there before. I guess we’ll see how that goes. She’s very Old World, you know.”

I didn’t know. I didn’t have a clue. I was fresh from Ohio. We didn’t have Old World where I’d come from.

“Catholic,” he explained. “Born there – in Sicily, I mean.”


“I couldn’t be alone in the old place anymore,” he went on. “It was too depressing. So I moved back in with my mother. I was married – 15 years. Then my wife killed herself. Jumped from the balcony. Because we were getting a divorce. I didn’t want the divorce – she did. She filed for it. She finally called me to come back home to talk, so I thought I was going there to have it out with her. I didn’t want that fucking divorce. But you know what she did? She timed her leap so that I’d be turning on to the corner of our block and walk right smack into that crowd of people, that crowd standing over her, gawking down at her – slammed to pieces, naked – on the fucking sidewalk. My wife. Christ, I loved her – if you’ll excuse me saying a thing like that on our first date.”

“It’s okay.”

“She’s been dead now for four years,” he added. “You’re the first woman I’ve laid eyes on in four years that could make me stop thinking about her, even for a minute.”

*     *     *

His wife; his muse. 

Have you noticed how the muses always have children? As if they aren’t afraid of aging, when it’s been proven time and again that even a single child is what ages you quickest of all. 

Yet, over and over, the muse soars up and the children come – in a sort of blizzard of soft hair and small feet and tiny teeth and nails and flesh and bone and blood. Children – undeniably. 

But never duplicates of the muse; no – it’s more like the muse is leaking.

 *     *     *

Adoration – that’s what it was. The way he looked at me. From the moment he saw me in the laundromat. No man had ever looked at me in that way before. He didn’t seem in any hurry to jump my 20-year-old bones – to take whatever I had, whether I was offering it or not. It was more like he didn’t want to stop looking at me.

Everyone in the bar knew him by name. When we walked in, they said, “Leo, how’ya doin’?” The late-afternoon November light was still visible outside the plate glass windows that looked out onto Second Avenue.

They all said it just like that, too: “Leo, how’ya doin’?” Like some Scorsese movie.

And it didn’t stop there.

Most of the men in the bar wore tailored suits and had gleaming 24-kt. gold watches on their wrists. Some had religious medallions on gold chains around their necks, easy to see because their shirt collars were unbuttoned, three buttons down. Like Leo, all the men had dark hair and dark eyes. It was right out of the movies – movies about the Mob. And yet I didn’t pick up on it. I was still young and too naïve about New York.

And they were all so serious, those men. Even Leo. No one seemed to be there to have a good time.

And though everyone knew him, he introduced me to no one. “No one needs to know your name,” he told me. “You’re better than any of them. Why should they know who you are?” I had no reply. No one had ever said that to me before.

“Leo, how’ya doin’?”

This time it was a woman – a young and very pretty one. She came up to the bar where I was sitting, where Leo stood behind me, protectively, and she ordered herself a drink. Leo was friendly to her, but when he didn’t introduce me, she took my hand anyway and smiled and said, “I’m Mia. Nice to meet you.”

When she got her drink, she went her way. “Mia seemed nice,” I said to Leo.

“Of course, she did,” he said. “It’s her job – she’s a hooker. But do yourself a favor and don’t fall for her shit.”

As far as I knew, I’d never met a hooker before in my life.

The bartender seemed nice, too. “He’s a dirty cop,” Leo said, speaking low in my ear as I stared blankly at the bartender. “Got kicked off the force a few years ago. He owes something to everybody in this place. They saved his ass from going to prison and then they gave him this bar to run. It keeps him visible; keeps him on call, you know? I wouldn’t give you a nickel for his life now, though. Not for nothing.”

I had no idea what any of that meant but it was unsettling.

When I finished my drink and set my empty glass on the bar, the evening had officially started. He said, “You want another, or no? You wouldn’t wanna come home with me, would you? I live just up the block.”

*     *     *

His mouth on my nipple felt tender. As I sat in his lap, my arms just naturally went around him, now, too. Within moments, though, he abruptly stopped.

“I can’t do this,” he said. “Give me a minute.”

He urged me up off of his lap and then grabbed anything he could easily find – towels, shirts – and then draped them over all the portraits of his green-eyed wife.

*     *     *

Sweating, panting. We were fucking – finally. Fucking. I was flat on my back, my legs wrapped around him. His cock filling me. His mouth on my mouth. Flickering candlelight filling his room. Without the eyes of his wife anywhere.  

On your belly – he said softly. Come on, turn over. 

I was doing everything he asked. It was suddenly so effortless to be with a man. I wasn’t drunk. Wasn’t flying on speed, even though I had a plastic baggy back at the apartment filled with pharmaceutical-grade black beauties. I usually never had sex without them. But I wasn’t even thinking about black beauties now. 

Lift up – he said. 

I lifted my ass, expecting his cock to slide back into my pussy. I felt his mouth down there, instead. His tongue landing right on my clit. 

Oh god – I said. Breathless, because my clit was already stiff, already completely aroused. God. His tongue was all over it. And I forgot all about his mother in the next room. I did not even know I was making so much noise. Every place he had touched me, and in each way that he had touched me – his fingers, his cock, and now his mouth – it had felt like I was meant to be touched there just by him.  

Shameless, I lifted my ass up higher. Steadied my knees wide apart. Burying my face in his bed pillows, hugging them to me, trying to be quiet, I pushed my pussy open for that tongue that was making such love to my clit. That’s how it felt – like he was making love to it. He sucked it, licked it, caressed it, chewed it; then poked his tongue up under its stiff little hood, exposing the clit itself – that vulnerable tiny dot of flesh that was now my entire world; his tongue pressed right into it and was mercilessly licking it. 

And right at the moment when I knew I was going to come he slid a finger up my ass.

It went up easily and went in deep because I was not expecting it. 

Oh god. I loved the pressure. His finger was way up there. Oh god! I was really loud that time and I came in his face, right on his mouth. My legs trembling, my whole body shaking. 

Before I could finish coming, the finger slid out of my ass and he mounted my pussy again. It was soaking, swollen; still shuddering in my orgasm. He grabbed hold of my waist and pulled my pussy all the way on to him; my cunt flush against his belly – his cock getting in deep, fucking me hard.


And I kept coming. It felt so good. To be fucked so hard and to be held by him. I cried out in a sort of pained delirium each time he slammed it into me – over and over, he went in too deep. Leo – god. God.


Then the side of his face was against the side of my face, and his mouth was right at my ear: God your pussy’s hot. God. Then I felt him jerking deep into me, thrusting in so hard I was almost crying – his cock pushed all the way up, going deeper than I could usually stand it, until I was all the way on that cock, my pussy lips spreading too wide, the base of my hole stretching impossibly open and planted right up against his pubic hair – Leo, god! – I squealed. I felt my cervix actually open and it was now impaled on the head of his cock. His cock jerked hard against me up there and I tried to cry out but barely any sound came out of me – just the tiniest stunned squeak – having never felt anything move past my cervix before. He gripped my hips tight, forcing my cervix to remain impaled; the full length and width of my cunt stuffed so completely with his cock that now my clit was rubbing up against his balls. It feels so good, it feels so good – I squeaked out, as his cockhead squeezed up past my cervix, then pulled down out of it, then squeezed right back up – as if massaging it to open even wider for his oncoming assault. And he came, as I squealed out from all that pressure up there inside me. And his tight grip on me was not letting me budge an inch; his cockhead stayed wedged up there in the opening of my cervix, jerking the jism endlessly into me – completely unloading his balls after four lonely years of having no woman at all – until my whole soaking pussy was filled with it.

 Then he pulled out of me, and as his full weight collapsed down on top of me, pushing me flat down to the bed beneath him, he said in my ear: “God that was noisy. My mother is gonna kill me.”

*     *     *

For three days, I did not go back to my own apartment.

For three days, we stayed naked in his bed and made rambunctious love.

When I needed to use the toilet or the shower, he’d check first that the coast was clear. “My mother is gonna tear your hair out,” he said. “It’s a sin to be doing this if we’re not married, you know. So she informs me.”

If he went into the kitchen to forage for food, I could easily hear the two of them shouting. I didn’t know what was said – they argued in Sicilian – but I had an idea: I was a whore. And under her roof – in her apartment. Where she’d raised her sons in wedlock, until the fated day that the Mob, for whatever reason, gunned down her husband in broad daylight.

Eventually, I had to go home. Still we saw each other every single day. He took me to museums and taught me about painting, about art. We ate in diners and gave his mother a break whenever we could. Each evening, though, we were back in his room, his bed, and we made that noisy love.

For fourteen uninterrupted nights.

And then I noticed his calendar. Shit. I’d lost track of my cycle. For the first time in my life.

*     *     *

Come on; come back to bed. 

Don’t worry – so what if you might get pregnant? I want to marry you. I’m so serious. Just say the word, and I will marry you. We’ll raise a family. It’s okay. Nothing would make me happier than to have a kid with you.

*     *     *

Over she went. Down down down. Slamming into the pavement. Naked. Her broken body waiting for no one but him.

“If she wanted the divorce,” I finally asked him one night, as I lay naked in his bed and watched him – naked, too – standing at the dresser, lighting a cigarette. “Then why did she kill herself? I mean, I know you weren’t happy about it, but you were going to give her the divorce, right?”

He sat down on the edge of the bed, smoked his cigarette, and got quiet. No more did we need to drape all her portraits with shirts and towels; her presence in the room had become part of our lovemaking, too. Those beautiful paintings of her always-naked, perfect form. It was the three of us now. Always the three of us in the bed. And now, she joined us in that moment of bated silence. I could feel her.

“She lost her mind,” he finally said. “I mean – literally. We’d been trying so hard to have a baby and she had five miscarriages in a row. Her body just couldn’t do it; her uterus always eventually rejected them. After the fifth miscarriage, she lost her mind. Started seeing blood everywhere. Couldn’t stop crying, screaming. I had to put her in Bellevue for a while, it got that bad. She decided that the divorce would be her gift to me – so that I could find another woman who could give me a kid.”

“Oh no, Leo. That’s so sad.”

“The divorce had actually become final that day. But I was just going to ignore it. She was still my wife; I still considered us married. And if I had to remarry her, legally, I was gonna do it. That fucking divorce – it was all her idea. But it turned out, she didn’t fucking want it, either. Didn’t want me with some other woman – raising a family without her. So she killed herself. Her big gift to me.”

*     *     *

I want to marry you. Come on. Think about it. Let’s get married.

He was saying it all the time now.

Out on the street, standing in front of an antique store, looking at our own reflections in the plate glass window. “You are gonna have such beautiful babies,” he said. “You know that? Come on; marry me. I’m fucking 40 already. I’m in love with you. Don’t make me wait.”

I was 20. I had come to NYC to be a singer, a songwriter. I had escaped from so many things back home in Ohio, one of which was a boy I loved who wouldn’t stop talking about getting married. Having a kid. I wanted a kid – I wanted lots of kids – but I wasn’t ready. Not then. Not yet.

*     *     *

“How can you do that? Oh my god – how can you do that?!” I was hysterical. “You actually kill people?”

Jesus. Keep your fucking voice down. Come on!” His eyes rapidly searched the diner for our waitress. “Check please, miss! We gotta leave. Now.”

He threw the money on the table. “Come on,” he said to me. “We’re going back to the apartment. You’re getting hysterical.”

It was no better in the apartment, in the privacy of his room. I was still hysterical. Until, from out of nowhere, a revolver was in my face. Its nose to my nose. It stopped me cold.

“Just shut up,” he said quietly. “My mother is in the next room. She can hear everything you’re saying. She and I – we don’t talk about this shit. About what I do. You are gonna have to calm down.”

“How am I supposed to calm down?” I whispered, verging on tears. “I’m going to have a baby.”

His expression softened at the news but the gun stayed in my face. “We’re getting married, right?” he said calmly. “You said so at brunch. So what’s the problem?”

What’s the problem?” I cried.

*     *     *

His mouth – it always felt so good on me down there. His tongue on my clit – it made anything I worried about disappear. 

He spread my long legs apart and did it again – his mouth rained slow, wet kisses all over my pussy, and then his tongue came out to play with my clit. 

I can’t – I persisted, a little breathlessly now. It’s a bad time. I could get pregnant. 

His lips were so gentle, so soft; his tongue so deliberate and thorough. It found its way into every hidden fold of my pussy, dipped into my soaking hole. It doesn’t matter – he said, pausing only long enough for me to want his mouth back on me again. We’ll get married. Right? We’re gonna get married as soon as you say yes.

Oh, Leo. He pushed my thighs wider apart, then held open my lips, exposing my vulnerable clit to his now determined tongue. 

Oh god – I moaned. This isn’t fair. It feels so good. So good.

Each time I felt my clit about to trigger an orgasm, his tongue seemed to sense it and would stop licking it – abandoning my clit then and dipping down into my hole instead. Licking right down there at the base of it, where the hole was always pouting eagerly open for him, and starting to drip now, needing to be entered at just that moment. Even by a gently licking tongue. 

Back and forth his mouth went – from my clit to my hole – my tenderest places; keeping me fully aroused, on the verge of ecstasy. And without letting me come, he kissed his way up my belly, my ribs, until his mouth latched on to first one soft nipple, then the other – making them swell. And while he sucked on them, tugging them into the gentle pressure of his mouth, then teasing the very tips of them – first one, then the other, held captive between his teeth; until each nipple was also stiff and too tender, just like my clit, his cock slid up my vagina and we began to fuck. 

It felt so good – the ways he liked to fuck; when he had each of my knees hooked over his arms, guiding them until my legs were up over his shoulders; until my hole – primed and ready to play; the lips engorged and slick – became like a bullseye, pierced, and stretching now around his incoming cock. I loved it; all the ways he liked to fuck. He was so grown up. And in that position – my legs up over his shoulders – my thighs were trapped beneath the weight of his chest; the position forced my hole to lift up and spread open, stretch open, then stretch even more; to take what was coming. Trapped there beneath him, my face buried in his chest until I needed to come up for air; my arms wrapped around his neck, holding him tight, I became my hole; my only focus was my hole – a hole surrendering to a cock on a mission, only able now to accept the thick intrusion all the way in. 

His mouth on my mouth, then; his tongue swirling with mine, kissing me into a trance. The scent of my pussy all over his lips now. Going right up my nose. That smell of pussy. Of my own aroused cunt – the taste of it mashing into my mouth, as we kissed with passion, with lust. And his wife’s Irish blessings from a world beyond – they were all over us in that bed. In that candlelit room of love. 

His cock eased its way up me slowly. Pushing in. Pushing while he kissed me. Then his cock went in too deep, as it always did, and I cried out into his kiss, his mouth – his pussy-tasting mouth. His cock pulled out just enough to push right back in – going even deeper this time, pushing pushing into my proffered hole, my ankles over his shoulders – finding that my cervix is opening around the thick probing head, now, too; unable to expel the intrusion either, forced as always to take the cockhead in. 

And that’s how he fucked me that night. My knees to my ears. My hole offered up beneath him, slick and helpless, all of me opening around that incoming cock; that probing, pounding, merciless cock. I couldn’t help but cry out in his ear as he picked up speed and picked up speed. My cunt felt split open with him. Too filled up. He was in too deep. Up into my cervix again and my pitiful hole was trapped and stuffed and opening opening opening for him. Betraying me with all its soaking lust; its need to feel the cock up in there. All the way, then pounding hard. I was addicted to it now – the feel of his cock plowing up where it shouldn’t be. He had to stop. He had to stop. I wasn’t ready to make a baby. It feels so good. It feels so good – I cried over and over, right in his ear; overwhelmed by my own need to get fucked by him again, throwing all calendars to the wind.  

His cock didn’t let up. The pounding became ferocious until my hole was thoroughly opened, the whole length of it. And the thick blanket of love his wife draped over us from some world beyond kept me battened down, kept me entwined with him, my ankles now wrapped around his neck, forcing me to offer my hole upwards even more, to open my cunt for his cock to pound into deeper. Oh god Oh god. Leo, no – I cried. My hole sore now yet still stretching open, pussy skin spreading tight tight tight like elastic that might snap it’s so stretched open that his balls almost squeeze up in there, too; into the vortex of the sloppy-sucking pussyhole pulling it in, wanting it in, wanting those balls to stretch me open and pop up into me, too; and maybe rip me open, that’s right, rip me open even more, pound me right open, baby, maybe turn me into a gaping hole, a slobbery soaking gaping hole – while I beg for the intrusion to continue, at a fevered pace; and so it does, as he pushes my knees down to the pillows now, all his weight on my knees then, keeping me spread and pinned, my sore and hopelessly stretching hole way up high now and his cock slaps into it, over and over down into me it goes. Oh shit! Oh shit! Leo, shit! I’m babbling, crying, taking it and unable to do anything at all to fend off his final unbearable burst up past my now forcibly dilated cervix, the gateway to my womb.  

Oh Jesus – he cried. 

His body went rigid, his balls tightened as I cried out now, too, and his orgasm jerked into me several punishing times; spurting his lust out through the tiny slit of his urethral hole, his shaft pumping into my vaginal tunnel that pulsing muscle of welcoming love, the fat head of the cock honing in on its new home, that opened cervix that recognizes its beautiful pain now; the pain of the fat cockhead pushing in; where there is nowhere for the sperm to go but deeper in; and in it goes, heat-seeking the real target: that dancing, quivering, naughty-with-her-knickers-down, come and get me, spank me, fuck me, ovulated, fallopian-ejected, quite fertile, 20-year-old, unmarried white girl fresh from Ohio egg. 

*     *     *

We uncoupled and spooned together in the tangled blankets and both fell right to sleep, the candlelight still flickering in the room.

“Help me!” I gasped, snapping awake moments later. “I’m choking. I can’t breathe!”

I could barely talk. Something had me by the throat, sucking in my air for its own.

“Shit!” he said, waking immediately. “Breathe. Try to breathe. It’s my wife. I know it is. Just breathe. Try to calm down and just breathe.”

*     *     *

His wife, his muse. Tormented, childless. She was seeking a way back home; climbing into me through my very breath, infusing her soul with my egg, his sperm; becoming the conception. 

If she couldn’t give Leo the child he’d wanted; she would become his child for him, instead. 

*     *     * 

I did not need a test to know I was pregnant; didn’t need to miss a period. I knew within a few days that we had conceived. I could feel it in me – the other; the part of me that wasn’t me. I was scared but mostly I was happy. Filled with joy, to be exact. A secret joy that, for a little while, was just my own.

*     *     *

I didn’t tell Leo right away that I was pregnant. Didn’t explain why I was suddenly so ravenous in bed, so filled with passion, lust, and life – even more so than before.

I loved what had happened to my body, basically overnight. But the decision to marry – I had trouble with that.

Then, just as easily as I had conceived, my decision to marry Leo came to me suddenly.

On Sunday morning, we slept in, then headed out to the diner for brunch. Thanksgiving had come and gone. It was now a beautiful morning in early December. We walked along E. 66th Street, then turned north onto First Avenue.

“You look so fucking pretty this morning,” he said. “You know that? I wish you would just fucking marry me already. I’m not getting any younger here, you know – and you’re getting prettier.”

“Okay,” I said.


“Okay,” I said again. “I’ll marry you. Let’s get married and have a kid.”

“You mean that? You’re serious?”

By the time we got to the diner, I’d convinced him that I was serious, but I hadn’t mentioned the pregnancy, yet. I wanted to wait until we were sitting down.

We scooted into a booth, facing each other. He looked so happy. As happy as he’d probably been when his wife had been alive. I’d never seen him look so happy.

“Listen,” he said. “I gotta tell you something – you’re sure you want to get married?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay, then.”

The waitress came over for our order and we ordered the same things we always did, every other time we’d been in that diner together. And then the waitress went away.

Leo leaned closer to me, he got quiet. “I need to tell you a little bit about me, since you’re gonna be my wife.”


“Like – what it is I do.”

“Okay.” I was thinking about his fingers up me, his tongue on my clit, his kisses. I wanted to leave the diner and go straight back to bed. Make more love.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m listening.”

“You know I’m in the Family, right?” he said quietly. When I looked at him blankly, he said, “The Mafia – right?”


“You’ve been in my home – seen all the photos – my dad.”

It was just barely connecting. “What does that mean?”

“I’m in the Mafia – that’s what it means. My brothers are, my uncles are; my dad was, my grandfathers were. And every so often, I get on a boat, and take a little trip. Fulfill a contract and then I come right back home. Now, listen. You’re way too pretty. I won’t want too many of them knowing when you’re home alone. They might get ideas, okay? They just might. Contracts can become funny issues. Look what happened to my dad. Too many Family problems, and you never know when it could blow up. So I’m gonna get you a gun and teach you how to use it, okay?”

“What are you talking about? Why do I need a gun?” None of it was making sense to me, and yet all of it was.

“You’re gonna be my wife. I don’t want anybody hurting you. You need to know how to protect yourself.”

The waitress brought us our food and we fell silent. I didn’t want to see food; suddenly I couldn’t eat.

“Are you understanding me? This is serious.”

“No, I don’t understand,” I said. “Why do you have to go away?”

“Contracts,” he said quietly. Then very quietly, he said it again: “Contracts.”

Our eyes locked and held. Then very quietly again, he made it plain, this time leaving NYC for a moment, and speaking to a 20-year-old white girl, fresh from Ohio: “They call me. I kill someone. Are you understanding now?”

*     *     *

By mid-December, my period did not come and I went to the clinic, just to know for sure.

I’d left the Upper East Side and was hiding out in a brownstone in Brooklyn – in a building that, by back-home-Ohio standards, would have been condemned. But I was learning to live in New York now. By New York standards of what was an acceptable existence.

I had Leo’s phone number. I called him every few days, not knowing if I was going to change my mind.

“It’s our baby,” he’d shout at me over the phone. “Don’t do this. Don’t fucking do this. Just tell me where you are. My brother’s got a big fucking Cadillac. We’ll come get you, load up your stuff in the car, and you’ll move in here with me. I’ll marry you – come on. I fucking love you, can’t you get that?”

I gave myself two more weeks to hide out alone with my baby – the baby that was still a shifting, constantly-combining ball of microscopic cells inside me. I talked to it constantly, explaining myself.

I love you, okay? I love you so much. But I’m poor. I won’t even be able to feed you. But things will change, and you’ll come back, okay? You’ll come back to me and it’ll be different. And your dad will be different – a different man altogether. He won’t be a killer. It’ll all be different. We’ll have a pretty apartment and plenty of food. You’ll come back – when my life has changed.

*     *     *

My legs spread open in the stainless-steel stirrups. I wore the blue paper disposable gown. The doctor was from Pakistan; the nurse, a young black man from Harlem. He was readying the IV for my arm, until he saw the look on my face and then he quickly reached for my hand. He gently stroked it.

“You’ll be all right,” he said softly.

He alerted the doctor, who came and stood at the other side of me. I had seen the doctor once before. He was the one who had examined me and had confirmed that I was pregnant. He said, “It’ll be over quickly. You’re going to be just fine.”

The three of us alone in a bleak room that looked more like the storage room of the clinic than anything else. A man from Pakistan, a man from Harlem. A lost girl from Ohio, spread out, naked under a blue paper gown, wanting so much to be a mother – wanting so much to not be poor.

They were both so kind to me, I cried.

*     *     *

His muse, his wife – I released them back into their own world, out of mine. Then I grew to understand just how deeply a muse can haunt you. How many people, alone, in how many rooms across the world, are haunted by muses? Who can say?

And killers. Who are they, really? You know – there are so many ways you can choose to kill.

You can love. And you can kill.

I see that now.

Excerpted from Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse
© 2020 Marilyn Jaye Lewis

Enjoy the 4th, Everybody!!

I can’t tarry on the blog today because I am almost finished with Letter #8 for Girl in the Night: Erotic love Letters to the Muse.

I got so much done on it yesterday, gang. I was at my desk for 11 hours — in 90 Fahrenheit degree heat, so it was a bit exhausting. But I’m happy with how it’s going. It’s going to be one of the longer chapters.

In the middle of all my progress yesterday, I got a text from Peitor wanting to know if I was available for a “quick” conference call with the line producer (they are both in LA).

ME: I'm in the middle of another project right now -- how long will it take?

HIM: 10, 15 minutes the most.

ME: OK. but no Zoom, I don't want to be on camera

Well, an hour and fifteen minutes later… it actually was a great conference call, though, and I’m so happy we had it. I just keep getting more and more excited about Abstract Absurdity Productions, gang. Even though it’s still going to take a while to get things up and running and filming. Just some really talented and enthusiastic people are getting on board and they are being so helpful. We are so blessed.


Loyal readers of this lofty blog will no doubt recall the 4th of July coffee mug!! It comes out once a year. (It doesn’t look it here, but it’s way too small; instead of 3 refills of morning coffee,  I get about 17!!) (Which also means going up & down the stairs 17 times…).

But there you have it — my first cup of 4th of July coffee out on my kitchen porch at 6am this morning. It’s yet another gorgeous (hot) day here in Crazeysburg.

All right. I’m gonna close now. I want to get back to work on Letter #8.

If you live Stateside, and still like being an American, I hope you enjoy the 4th.

If you live elsewhere, have a great Saturday!! And thanks for visiting!!

Since so many Americans seem to hate America right now, I will forego anything patriotic and leave you, instead, with “La Marseillaise”. Who can find fault with that, right?! (Especially that final verse!! Yay!! Just an all-out testament to tolerance.) (If you don’t know “La Marseillaise,” it’s the French national anthem. They actually taught us this in elementary school in Cleveland. Nowadays, I don’t think they even teach our own national anthem in our elementary schools, let alone the national anthem of any other country’s…)

Well, all righty!! Enough!!. I love you guys!! See ya!

Thank Goodness for Small Towns

And I really mean that, gang.

Last night was the night that Crazeysburg did our fireworks in honor of the upcoming July 4th weekend. And living here, I have to say, you’d never know there was any unrest in the world in any way at all.

I’m guessing that over at the ballpark, where they set off the fireworks, they asked people to at least observe social distancing. I didn’t need to go over there because I could see everything from my kitchen porch. So I don’t know for sure. But everywhere else, it just felt like a regular, low key and wonderful, small town 4th of July holiday getting underway.

And I have to say that the full moon that’s getting underway now, too, was so beautiful last night that it was hard for me to focus on the fireworks! The moon was peaking through the really tall,  100-yr old pine tree in my neighbor’s backyard. And gently rolling clouds were setting off the moon like some sort of painting. It was just lovely. (And down on the ground, the fireflies were once again putting on an amazing display of their own.)

The little kids across the street — and they are really little — would scream every time a firework boomed really loud. It was so cute. (Not so cute for my poor cats, though. When I came inside, all 7 of them were hiding in my bedroom closet! It was so funny to see them all come spilling out of there about an hour after the noise was finally all over.) (The door to my bedroom closet doesn’t close all the way, so that’s their favorite place to hide. It’s a good-sized closet and easily fits 7 cats.)

Anyway. I’m gonna scoot for now because I made really great progress on Letter #8 for Girl in the Night yesterday and I want to continue the momentum. I might stop back and post again later.

Enjoy your Friday, wherever you are in the world!! Paul Weller’s new album, On Sunset,  finally dropped today, after many delays due to the virus causing shortages in the stuff they use to press vinyl records. But it’s out now and it is a really lovely album, gang. I leave you with the song “Village,” which actually dropped back in May, but I still really love it. Especially the way my life feels these days.

Okay, thanks for visiting!! I love you guys. See ya!


Here I am, ten stories high
Not a single cloud in my eye
Not a thing I’d change if I could
I’m happy here in my neighborhood

And all the things I’ve never been, I’ve
Never seen, I don’t care much
And all the things I’ve never done, I’ve
Never won, I don’t care much

I never knew what a world this was
‘Til I looked in my heart
And saw myself for what I am
Found a whole world in my hands

And all the things I’m supposed to be
And all the things that you want from me
I don’t know why, I don’t know why
I don’t know why, I don’t know why

I don’t need all the things you got
I just wanna be who I want
I don’t need all the things you hold
In high regard, they mean nothing at all

And all the things I’ve never been, I’ve
Never seen, I don’t care much
And all the things I’ve never done, I’ve
Never won, I don’t care much

This village is where I’m from
It’s one place that I call home
You wanna show me another side
But I’ve got heaven in my sights

I never knew what a world this was
‘Til I looked in my heart
And saw myself for what I am
Found a whole world in my hands

And all the things I’ve never been, I’ve
Never seen, I don’t care much
And all the things I’ve never done, I’ve
Never won, I don’t

©  2020 Paul Weller, Jan Kybert

Yes, It’s That Kind of Wonderful Morning!!

Here in Crazeysburg, the cocks — excuse me — the roosters are out and about, which is always exciting, and it is yet another incredibly beautiful day!!

(I’m kidding about the roosters, gang. They don’t actually allow you to keep chickens and such here in the Village of Crazeysburg itself. You have to take 14 steps out of the village if you want to do that.) (And I’m not kidding about that part.)

But that reminds me:  A million years ago, Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers did a live radio broadcast out of Chicago, where they did just a killer (sexy) version of Howlin’ Wolf’s “Little Red Rooster”!

(This whole broadcast is actually really great.  It totally kicks A. I don’t think it’s on an actual album or CD, but there is an MP3 download of it that you can get everywhere.)

Okay!! So!!

Today’s kind of a big day for me. Today is my big foray into Granville, Ohio, to have dinner with Kevin (Director of Tell My Bones) (in some future make-believe land, that is. All theater in NYC is shut down until 2021. I’m guessing NYC will never get back to normal, at this rate.)

Anyway. Kevin and I are having dinner at the Granville Inn and I have not done anything social, let alone been to the inn, since March 14th. I’m not entirely sure that I remember how to behave in public, but we’ll find out. Plus, this will be the first time I will put on my eye make-up in 3 and 1/2 months. So weird.

But I’m excited!! And also nervous. Because life is just plain different now. I’m guessing that if I let go of believing in anything I ever knew before, I should do all right.

Yesterday, I was working on Girl in the Night, and I guess I’ve just been doing too much typing these last few days, because the bones in the tops of my hands started to really hurt. So I took one extra-strength Tylenol and within minutes, my hands felt great but I was so sleepy I couldn’t even sit at my desk anymore! I had forgotten that those darn pills make me sleepy.

So the bulk of the day was not entirely productive, although I did have a nice day, regardless. And the lawn guy came to cut the grass, so the weedsyard — is looking really spiffy.

And of course, by 9pm, I was quite perky and wide awake. And remained that way for a few hours, but I didn’t really feel like working at that point. So, after streaming another episode of Professor T., I just laid around on my bed in the dark — well, with the lights out. My bedroom is never actually dark because of the streetlights outside my window.

But I laid around on my bed in the dark, stared out the window at the truly beautiful night, watching the blinks of the fireflies wane, and I listened to Phoebe Bridgers’ new album, Punisher.

I Know the End Lyrics Phoebe Bridgers | Punisher - Genius-Lyrics

It’s kind of a depressing album, but it’s still beautiful and the lyrics are great. If I were closer to her age and not old enough to be her grandmother, I would likely relate to it a bit more, but I still really love her way with words. (Although the entire album makes me think of the song “Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol. So I ended up playing that beautiful, non-depressing song over & over, and then finally fell to sleep.)

But back to listening to Phoebe Bridgers — I was thinking, once again, how incredible it is for young women nowadays to be able to make any kind of music they want to; to write any kind of songs they want to and have them sound however they want them to sound.  Because it definitely didn’t used  to be that way.

Plus there’s room now for so many more women musicians and songwriters and performers. They used to sign about one or two per genre, and then get behind them for about 2 albums, as long as they proved to be massive hits.  Of course, back then, there was so much more money at stake for the various music industry gatekeepers, and all that’s been thoroughly “disrupted” now by everyone wanting so much music for free (and I won’t get political today, I’ll just say, that Socialist tendencies are so great, gang; it helps make everybody equally poor).


I do genuinely think it’s so great that women in music nowadays have so much more freedom to express what they want to express, however they want to express it. And I think that’s just so beautiful.

And something else that is amazingly beautiful, is the Red Hand Files thing that Nick Cave sent out today. You don’t even have to know his music, or know the album Ghosteen, to be able to appreciate what he has to say about love today. You can read it here if you are so inclined.

On that note, gang, I’m going to get started here.  I’ll leave you with both the beautiful song “Punisher,” by Phoebe Bridgers, and the equally beautiful though very different song “Chasing Cars,” by Snow Patrol. Relax and enjoy!! (Or float off into the stratosphere is probably more like it!!) But either way, thanks for visiting! I love you guys! See ya!


When the speed kicks in
I go to the store for nothing
And walk right by
The house where you lived with Snow White
I wonder if she ever thought
The storybook tiles on the roof were too much
But from the window, it’s not a bad show
If your favorite thing’s Dianetics or stucco

The drugstores are open all night
The only real reason I moved to the east side
I love a good place to hide in plain sight

What if I told you I feel like I know you
But we never met?

And here everyone knows you’re the way to my heart
Hear so many stories of you at the bar
Most times alone and some looking your worst
But never not sweet to the trust funds and punishers

Man, I wish that I could say the same
I swear I’m not angry, that’s just my face
A copycat killer with a chemical cut
Either I’m careless or I wanna get caught
Ooh, I’m not

What if I told you I feel like I know you
But we never met?
It’s for the best

I can’t open my mouth and forget how to talk
‘Cause even if I could, wouldn’t know where to start
Wouldn’t know when to stop

© 2020  Phoebe Bridgers

Another Delightful Morning in Crazeysburg!!

So far, it’s been just an amazing summer.  The weather, I mean. And today is going to be yet another gorgeous day!

Before I forget, I did post another chapter yesterday on the In the Shadow of Narcissa website. This one is titled “I See God Everywhere.”

Also, yesterday — remember, a few days ago, I posted that photo of my new Val Kilmer coffee mug, with the Doc Holliday movie quote? I had also posted that photo on my Instagram feed and apparently Val Kilmer saw it, because he sent it out on his own Instagram feed yesterday. (The limited edition mugs are only available until tomorrow — July 1st.)

Well, that was a totally unexpected little thrill, however, it sent quite a number of scammers to my Instagram feed yesterday. Now that I’ve made my account public, anyone can follow me. But I patiently go through every single follower and block anyone that seems like a scammer, and they were coming all day yesterday.

And it was fun to have my picture posted there, too — the cup is sitting on the cafe table out on my kitchen porch:





My trip to town yesterday was splendid! I have never seen the Honda dealership so empty. I think there were maybe 5 people sitting in the waiting room (myself, included).  Most people wearing masks, but not everybody. But the seats were all placed 6-feet apart.

I kind of liked it, actually. Usually, it’s a mob scene in the Honda waiting room! And it can take forever for them to finish your car. I was there less than 30 minutes, and they had changed the oil, topped the fluids, rotated the tires, and even washed the car.  So, you know, one of the sort of “nice” things about the virus, I guess.

Tomorrow evening, Kevin (the director of my play) and I are finally going to go have dinner at the Granville Inn. I have missed that place so much, but I’ve had my trepidations about going there while it was easing out of lockdown because everyone has to wear masks. And I’m sort of afraid to see it like that.

Sunday Brunch - Review of The Granville Inn, Granville, OH ...
Those non-mask days of yesteryear…

But, tomorrow, we’re going! I’ve been hearing that it’s crazy busy there — meaning, busy while remaining at 50% capacity. So we’ll see. I haven’t been there since St. Patrick’s weekend.

Then on Thursday, I have a phone conference with my accountant in NYC, because Peitor and I have to formally set up Abstract Absurdity Productions. I always love talking to my accountant because he is always a straight shooter and I get off the phone sort of in renewed & devastating shock over just how fucking much every single fucking business-related thing costs.

Still. It’s better to know than to be surprised when you can least afford it.

And then sometime later this week, Peitor and I have a conference call with the line producer in LA to see just how we might be able to come up with a budget that doesn’t undersell our film but that doesn’t make all of us fall out of our chairs, either!!

Other than that, life is pretty much quiet around here. I’m going to be tackling Letter #8 again for Girl in the Night. I’m hoping that the unexpected detour into In the Shadow of Narcissa will help Letter #8 seem fresh & brand new today!! I do love the 3 and 1/2 pages I’ve written (and re-written and re-written) so far, but I really, really would like it to finally finish itself, you know? It’s dragging on forever.

So, on that note, I will take my leave, gang! I hope you have a terrific Tuesday, wherever you are in the world!! Thanks for visiting.  I leave you with one of my favorite songs from my wee bonny girlhood (mentioned in my new chapter for In the Shadow of Narcissa — I absolutely loved this song when I was little, gang, although a bunch of children were singing the version I knew back then): “This Land is Your Land” by the late, great Woody Guthrie.

All righty!! Enjoy. I love you guys. Have a great day. See ya!!

Gotta Love Summer, Gang!!

It’s not terribly hot here today, but we’re going to have nothing but high humidity and rain and thunderstorms all day and on into the night.

The good news (although I actually like rain and thunderstorms), but the true good news is that the problem I was having with my lungs after the virus — catching my breath during days of high humidity — that residual effect from the virus is almost completely gone.

So, apparently, I won’t have that problem for the rest of my life, as I was starting to fear. So that is some truly good news.

I don’t actually have a  whole lot to blog about today, mostly I am focused on my writing projects and the (ever-shrinking!!) To-Do list for Abstract Absurdity Productions.

I might actually try my hand at another chapter for In the Shadow of Narcissa. However, as I’ve stated here on the blog before, I’m not sure if I will keep posting the new chapters to the website or not. I am seeing sings (also signs!!) that it is being downloaded in foreign lands, probably by someone gearing up to pirate it.  In fact, they are probably annoyed that it’s taking me so long to finish the darn book!!!

I do apologize — my brain has not been working properly since something like early March…


I checked out the new Tom Petty video yesterday — the one that is a sample of the upcoming Wildflowers Pt. 2 collection that is at long last in the works. (It’s called something else, though, that’s not the official title.) As I said yesterday, the “new song” that dropped yesterday, is a homemade demo he made of the song “You Don’t Know How it Feels” — a hit from his Wildflower solo album (1994).

I have to say that Tom Petty’s homemade 8-track demos (made when he was extremely famous and very rich) sound remarkably better than any 8-track homemade demos I ever made!!

The demo is okay, but the video, gang — I thought it was GREAT. It was created and directed by Ben “Blaze” Brooks and Aaron Hymes. And I just loved it. And I think that Tom Petty himself would have loved it. It’s posted below for today’s listening music!!

BTW, if you weren’t aware — Tom Petty was also an artist. In fact, he went to art school after high school but was quickly expelled for not attending classes because (according to his biography) he was too busy doing a bunch of, well,  sort of intimate stuff with some girl!!  Anyway — he drew, he painted. He was very talented in that way, too. So I think he would have loved the video these guys made because it relies on some of the iconic artwork Tom Petty did during his career.

Okay, on that note, I really gotta scoot!! But thanks for visiting, gang. I hope you enjoy your Saturday, wherever you are in the world!! I love you guys. See ya!

Almost Time to Harvest those Peaches!!

Can you believe it’s already late June?? Peaches are beginning to get ripe?  A moment ago, it was February…

I have, like, a hard time getting my mind around that. And even though we’re mostly out of lock down around here, and Kevin (the director of my play, Tell My Bones — whenever that manages to get off the ground again, sometime in 2021); well, he and I keep saying we’re going to meet for dinner at the Granville Inn — I keep sort of dragging my feet because I’m not sure I want to see that beloved place with everyone wearing masks.

But of course, if everyone thinks that way, then nothing will get back to normal.

Anyway. It’s late June and I still halfway feel like I’m still in lockdown mode. But part of that is okay because the evenings around here have just been splendid.

By late afternoon, I finally was able to pull myself out of what was happening to me yesterday, gang, but it got really really bad before I was able to do that.

I don’t know why, but sometimes, my triggers get hit so hard (by key people in my life) that the spiraling down just takes over and happens so fast. I get like a zombie; it’s so awful. At its worst point, I went out and took a walk, but I had to absolutely force myself.

I walked into the dollar store and bought vitamins that I didn’t even really need — clearly not someone hell bent on self-destruction, right?  Just trying to interact with reality. And with the nice lady behind the checkout counter. She smiled and said, “How are you today?” And I was forced to be fake and say, “I’m good. How are you?” But it helps. It really does — hearing my voice say that. It’s at least something that’s not telling me to die.

Then on my way back home, I ran into two older men (strangers) from the senior living complex, who were sitting on the bench in the town square (that’s really a triangle). One of them was old enough to need a walker, but both of them were just so friendly and so nice. They forced me to remember for a few moments that life is beautiful. That I have every right to live.

Just two of the angels who came to my assistance yesterday. (I rely on some truly beautiful unknown angels; I really do.)

This thing that happens in my brain has nothing to do with how I actually feel about myself here & now. It’s an old program, an old voice, that gets triggered. Usually, I can override it all by myself. But yesterday was one of the scarier days.

You know, back when Tom Petty managed to become a heroin addict at age 50, it dawned on me that it was never too late to become a heroin addict. Or when all those famous movie stars who became alcoholics in their later years,  wound up drinking themselves to death, it served to remind me that it was never too late to become an incurable alcoholic. And then, when one of my colleagues — a very well-known erotic photographer — jumped to his death from his balcony in San Francisco a couple years ago, when he was in his late 70s… It’s just that horrible reminder that I never know what my brain is likely to start telling me if I’m not incredibly vigilant.

I did manage to get some work done — focusing on “tasks” kept my mind from doing that horrible shit. At one point, though, I was on Instagram, looking up the suicide hashtag and interestingly enough, when you enter that hashtag, a little gatekeeper comes up with a link to “Get Help.”

That was actually enough to shake me out of my tunnel vision — should I get help? — but I proceeded to the hashtag anyway. To see what people who think about suicide had posted there. But then it actually led me to some Anne Sexton poems, so I decided to follow the Anne Sexton hashtag instead, and that got me to a much better place. And eventually, it got me right back to my desk.

So, I was able to get some work done on Girl in the Night , and also tackle a lot of the stuff on my To-Do list for Abstract Absurdity Productions. That kind of focusing helped turned down the voice in my head a lot.

And then somebody I care about so much came through so unexpectedly, in spades, yesterday, and I was able to completely break the spiral.

Speaking of Tom Petty — the battling Petty clan seems to be coming to some sort of agreement to move forward on those early Wildflower tracks that were never released. And today, at TomPetty.com, the first song from that batch will be debuted. An 8-track version of his song “You Don’t Know How It Feels.”

I’m not sure I need to hear an 8-track version of that specific song, but I am really eager to hear that Wildflowers Part 2 collection, whenever it comes out. (Plenty of unreleased songs that he actually wanted released are supposed to be on it.)

I don’t know if you tuned into the NASA YouTube channel to watch the guys go off on their space walk this morning — at one point, nearly 77,000 viewers were streaming it. Wow, they have to wear so much stuff to go out for a walk in space. But it was still nice to see that Russians and Americans can thrive together way the heck out in outer space!! (If you’re too young to remember the original “space race” — the USA and the USSR couldn’t have been less accommodating of each other back then. To put it extremely mildly.)

Well, all righty. I guess I will get to work here on this beautiful day. Today, I know it’s Friday!! I have all my faculties in working order here today. So I hope you are gearing up for a nice weekend, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting, gang.

Today, I will leave you with Neil Diamond yet again, but a much more uplifting song than yesterday’s (which was also a favorite of mine, even though it was sad). This one today is one that I post here a lot. But it is such a great song! “Sweet Caroline.” Who can ever get tired of it?? And this is such a great version of it. Okay. Enjoy, gang. I love you guys. See ya!