Tag Archives: In the Shadow of Narcissa

I Guess That’s Just the Kind of Mood I’m in Today!

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Some days you just wake up like this, right? Wondering about all that Action for Men!

(And I sure as heck want to know the “10 Ways to Spot a No Limit Girl,” don’t you?) (I’m guessing, the first way to spot her is that she has to live in Crazeysburg; as for the 9 other ways, I just can’t even imagine…)

I am, of course, just kidding. I have limits. (I have two, actually.)

Okay, truth be told — I did absolutely no writing yesterday!! I just didn’t feel like it. For most of the day, my laptop was actually even closed. And I spent a great big bunch of time getting back into bed. It was really fun. I was reading and stuff.  Things I haven’t had the brain-space to do in a couple months.

Today, though, I woke up back in writing mode. Still not sure if it will be the new segment of In the Shadow of Narcissa, or Letter #5 for Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. (Titled “Hymn to the Dark” — I get the impression, that one’s going to be sort of intense and take a lot out of me. Not sure yet why.) And I also still have Thug Luckless hanging out, waiting for more adventures. But that also takes a lot out of me, even though it’s pure porn. For those of you who think (or perhaps know first hand) that writing pure porn is easy — I beg to differ! Writing bad porn is easy; writing porn that people are willing to pay money for in this day & age of nonstop free porn, is a whole other story (pun intended, I guess). It’s just as time-consuming as writing anything else.

Well, my stupid bathroom scale claims I put on 2 more pounds during the night. Apparently, lying around and reading is really fattening. I seriously have to break down and buy another new scale — one that actually works this time. I would hate to develop some sort of weird eating disorder, all because of a diabolically Sadistic bathroom scale… (It is starting to fuck with my head a little bit. I got out of the shower and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror: have I actually put on 9.3 pounds in the past 3 days? It doesn’t look like it, and yet, my scale says otherwise. I guess those 7 almonds have to go. And the 4 ounces of organic cranberry juice; I don’t suppose I really need that…) It’s just ridiculous.

I actually do need the almonds and the cranberry juice! I am a woman of a certain age!!! Every single thing I fucking eat every single day is expertly calculated for aging as seamlessly as possible around here. You would be bored to tears (yes, you would literally cry) if I told you the really boring — and pathetically short — list of indescribably healthy things I eat around here every single day.  I really need to get rid of the stupid scale.

Okay, then. Onward!!

My progress with the cats has been sort of a little miracle around here. After 7 years. I don’t know what’s causing it, but it makes me really happy. Now, when I first sit up in bed in the morning (in the dark — it always has to still be dark out), Huckleberry and Doris now come scampering into the bedroom and then follow me into the bathroom to be petted! I can pet them kind of a lot now, and Huckleberry always purrs. And now 2 other cats are starting to join us in there — Lucie and Weenie. Although, they stay out of petting reach, but they are definitely in there now, too. They are trying to figure out what’s going on, because Huckleberry and Doris do seem to be really, really happy while they’re getting petted. (Weenie lets me pet him once a day,  as I put his bowl of food in front of him down in the kitchen, so he might actually get brave. Lucie used to let me pet her like crazy when Daddycakes was still alive, but only if I was petting him at the same time. Since he died, she has steered clear of letting me touch her.)

Huckleberry, Weenie and Lucie, back when we lived briefly at the rental house and I used to force them to work really, really hard!

I try to just be so patient with them, and go at whatever pace they’re comfortable with, because, sweet as they look, they are still wild animals and the bottom line is that they will attack — become all claws and teeth and draw blood and break skin and such.  But I can’t tell you how badly I want to just scoop them up and hug them and cuddle them, tote them with me in my arms from room to room and happily babble at them… I think they’d rather die than endure that, at this point, anyway. And perhaps even forever. We’ll see.

Okay, well. I’m gonna  get started here.  Figure out what I’m going to work on today. (Next week, I’m back on schedule with Peitor again with the micro-short script, too, so I do have to get back on track here today.)

I’m still in Ghosteen mode around here, and still listening to “Night Raid” over and over, trying to figure it out. Although, at the In Conversation at Town Hall in NYC, someone asked Nick Cave what the song “Girl in Amber” was about and he said that he didn’t know. So, you know, I could be on a fool’s errand here. Who knows. And I do know there is a fine line between pondering and fixating — it’s actually a fine line that I’m quite familiar with! In fact, I guess you could say I call that space between pondering and fixating my home away from home!

But anyway, since I am still focused on “Night Raid,” I will instead leave you with the song that was not only in my head when I awoke this morning at 5:30am, but I actually found myself singing it — which is sort of a tall order at 5:30 in the morning because it’s super passionate. It’s another song from my wee bonny girlhood. It was a hit the year I was born (1960), but I had the record as a little girl, and passionate little girl that I was, I used to love this song.  (And I think, now more than ever, for various reasons that I’m not going to blog about, it resonates with me.)

Okey-dokey! Have a wonderful Friday! Wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys. See ya.

“Where The Boys Are”

Where the boys are, someone waits for me
A smilin’ face, a warm embrace, two arms to hold me tenderly

Where the boys are, my true love will be
He’s walkin’ down some street in town and I know he’s lookin’ there for me

In the crowd of a million people I’ll find my valentine
And then I’ll climb to the highest steeple and tell the world he’s mine

‘Til he holds me I’ll wait impatiently
Where the boys are, where the boys are
Where the boys are, someone waits for me

‘Til he holds me I’ll wait impatiently
Where the boys are, where the boys are
Where the boys are, someone waits for me

c – 1960 Greenfield Howard, Sedaka Neil

C’è una festa qui!

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Yes! There’s a party going on here today, gang! Finally – a day wherein my mind doesn’t have to do anything!

I’m still going to do something — not sure what. Either work on the new segment of In the Shadow of Narcissa, or Letter #5 for Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. Both of them have already begun inching into my brain. But knowing that I don’t actually have to work on that play today is like having a mini brain-vacation.

I honestly don’t know if the director will sign off on those revisions. But at least I got to the point where I felt that I had done what I was trying to do, and I liked it. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that I nailed it theatrically. We’ll see.

But meanwhile, it feels good. And I’m taking a break from working on the micro-short script with Peitor until next week. I just need to feel, you know — “not blocked in,” time-wise.

I’m no longer on speaking terms with my insane bathroom scale. For the last few days, it has been assuring me that I’ve gained between 5 to 8 pounds. Even though my measurements are exactly the same and my clothes fit the way they should and I eat the same damn thing every single darn day — and, on Monday, I was at my goal weight and had been for a couple of weeks.

I know the scale is fucked up and has been since I bought it. I should just stop this masochistic torture and go buy another fucking scale. The Dollar Store has the old-fashioned kind for $9. I should just go get it. But for some reason, my mind is kind of fascinated by this scale — its unpredictability.  It’s sadistic approach to punishment & reward — you know, in the true BDSM sense of that concept; where the Top makes sure that the rules remain in flux, constantly changing, so that the bottom never knows whether s/he will be rewarded or punished.  It’s fun if you’re having sex, but not so fun if you’re intensely vain, like me, and want to begin each morning knowing that absolutely everything is perfect with your meticulously tended to body.

But the new scale is so sleek and modern looking! The old-fashioned scales are not… Clearly I’m putting too much emphasis on appearances here, all the way around.

Okay! That’s my worst problem of the day, so you can see that things are pretty good here. And I found the best birthday present for Kara, so I’m super excited about that. She’s not easy to shop for because she will never ever tell you what she wants or needs, or even likes. Last year, I bought her candy — in a plastic champagne bottle. At least it was celebratory-looking. But I gave it to her, feeling like: well, here, at least I’m giving you something. But then it turned out that she actually really liked it. She texted me at 3 in the morning; she was outside on her back steps in the freezing cold, drinking an espresso, looking at the moon, eating her chocolates alone and smoking a cigarette — and was apparently in heaven.

So you never know what makes someone happy. But I did indeed find something this year that I know she will like — because it will remind her, in a comforting way, of her mom who passed away unexpectedly last fall.

Loyal readers of this lofty blog no doubt recall that Kara is my only real friend out here in the Hinterlands, although I do have acquaintances. But Kara is so good at buying gifts! And she’ll just suddenly turn up with, like, a pair of earrings and say, “I saw these and they really looked like something you’d like so I bought them.” And then it will turn out that I love them. She’s done that a couple of times — bought me these amazing earrings that really bring out the hippy-chick in me, and then also bought me these really pretty fake pearls that are just so elegant, even though they’re fake. (I still remember how to look elegant, even though I don’t do it very often anymore.) They actually look more elegant than the real pearls I own. It’s funny.

Anyway. It’s been frustrating to not be able to do the same for her — except by accident.

All righty! I’m gonna get more coffee and think about the freedom of this day, and decide what it is that’s calling to me loudest and work on that for awhile. I hope you have a splendid little day, wherever you are in the world.

I’m still in Ghosteen mode around here in the mornings; still listening to “Night Raid” on repeat, trying to figure out that song. That line “annexed your insides in a late night raid” and then they go get something to eat. What the heck does that mean? Has she gotten pregnant or something? What is it? It seems so specific.

Anyway, I’m still pondering over that song, so I’ll leave you with a song that sprang into my head the moment I awoke at 5:30am this morning.  A super-fun song from my wee bonny girlhood! (It’s a song written by Neil Diamond, but this is the version I grew up with.) All righty! Thanks for visiting! I love you guys. See ya!

“I’m A Believer”

I thought love was only true in fairy tales
Meant for someone else but not for me.
Love was out to get me
That’s the way it seemed.
Disappointment haunted all my dreams.

Then I saw her face, now I’m a believer
Not a trace of doubt in my mind.
I’m in love, I’m a believer!
I couldn’t leave her if I tried.

I thought love was more or less a givin’ thing,
Seems the more I gave the less I got.
What’s the use in tryin’?
All you get is pain.
When I needed sunshine I got rain.

Then I saw her face, now I’m a believer
Not a trace of doubt in my mind.
I’m in love, I’m a believer!
I couldn’t leave her if I tried.

Love was out to get me
Now, that’s the way it seemed
Disappointment haunted all my dreams

Oh, then I saw her face, now I’m a believer
Not a trace of doubt in my mind.
I’m in love, I’m a believer!
I couldn’t leave her if I tried.

Yes, I saw her face, now I’m a believer
And not a trace of doubt in my mind.
Said I’m a believer
I’m a believer
I’m a believer
Said I’m a believer
I’m a believer
I said I’m a believer
I’m a believer

c – 1967 Neil Diamond

Yeah, I Know. I’m Immature…

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Sometimes I just can’t resist, gang.

“Playtime in Pussyland!!” I just wish. But no, this pussy always has to work.

Okay.

Today has all the earmarks of being annoying. I’m already doing the laundry. I have to wash my hideous hair, then shave my legs, all that. Be indescribably presentable, even though I am always here by myself. Then I have to VOTE because it’s election day here in these fine United States. Then I have to drive 25 miles to the Honda Dealership to get my permanent plates, because my temporary tags expired two weeks ago and they neglected to tell me.  After that, I have to drive another 10 miles in a different direction and buy groceries because I’m down to one tomato, some arugula, a protein bar, and a bunch of dark chocolate-covered espresso beans. I have to do yoga, of course. And I have to vacuum — in the colder months, I have to vacuum all the time because the windows are no longer open and the accumulation of cat hair gets unbearable and I am actually allergic to cats (hence my dependency on Flonase for all my breathing needs).

And already, I can feel a new segment for In the Shadow of Narcissa creeping in at the edges of my brain, and daily, I get more and more intimations for Letter #5 (“Hymn to the Dark”) for Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse (the section I began writing last week or something like that and then deleted because it felt too plebeian.) Neither of these can I pay attention to right now because I must complete the revised ending for Tell My Bones.

I hate when I have all these niggly little things to do in one day because it keeps me from being able to sit at my desk and focus for uninterrupted chunks of time. The actual “writing” might take only 2 or 3 hours, but there’s tons of hours before that where the words are trying to fall into place. So when I’m running hither & yon, my brain gets jumbled and time gets wasted.

Oh, and here at 9:30am, one of my ex-husbands is calling to chat. He lives in Seattle now and always gets up in time for the stock market to open on the East Coast. Today, he’s calling for our annual “Thanksgiving” chat. (We always chat around every imaginable holiday — yes, even the Chinese New Year because he happens to be Chinese. From Singapore, originally.) Well, I love chatting with him, so that’s not annoying or anything. He always makes me laugh. And we never chat for long because I guess the stock market needs a constant sort of “looking at”. But it’s just, you know. Another thing going on today.

Well, on another note.

Apparently Helen LaFrance’s 100th birthday was a huge & happy success. Wanda is going to be sending me photos from the celebration, which I will then have posted to the Tell My Bones web site. Plus, there are also some large Helen LaFrance murals in several of the churches in Mayfield, Kentucky, that people there are restoring. So donations can be made to that (in the event you would want to contribute) and I will try to have some sort of link for that on the TMB web site, too. Although, for tax reasons, I’m not entirely sure how to do that. But anyway. It’s a project that is underway. I believe the murals are 40 or 50 years old now.

Well, the remaining leaves on my maple tree are turning that golden-yellow color. It’s usually December before the leaves really fall off the tree — in one big sort of swoop, down they all go.  Some day, I’ll have to remember to take a photo of how huge this tree is. It is easily twice as tall as my house. It’s just huge and has, as you can imagine, tons of leaves.

I just love this tree, though. It means so much to me. And early this morning, as I sat on the side of the bed, with my cup of coffee, looking out the window, I noticed the leaves were truly changing now and it made me wistful. (All the other trees in town change their leaves long before my silver maple does.) But it also made me excited for spring to come again. And for the leaves to return.

I will only say, briefly — because I do not like to dwell — but when “the man” was still alive and we would lie on my bed in the dark. Well. It was the height of summer and so all the windows and the blinds were open. And the tree shielded us from everything. It was just beautiful. We could do whatever we wanted and it wasn’t as if anyone could see in. The tree is just massive. All those leaves made everything so private. That summer was just so lovely.

One night, in particular, will stay with me forever — and I try not to cry when I think about it, yet I do think about it because it was so monumental to me. It was like one of those moments in time that you feel  as if it’s all you will ever really need — you know? You can die after you have that moment. But of course, you don’t die. Life goes on, which is why you remember it and try not to cry.  But we were lying across my bed, naked, staring out the window at the night. He was lying on top of me, we weren’t doing anything, just sort of lying there, looking out. The night was so still & beautiful & quiet. The streetlight was coming in the through the leaves on the tree. It was dark in my room. We were listening to the live version of “Mary Jane’s Last Dance” by Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers — the best summer song they ever did, ever. And suddenly here comes the freight train. Just barreling through.

It was the most amazing moment. I begged him at that moment to never, ever leave me. And I meant it with all my heart, even though we already knew he was going to die. (Plus, he was married, for god’s sake. Happily married. If he weren’t dying, he wouldn’t have even been there to begin with.)

However. It was too poignant for words. And he did die. At home with his wife — in their bed, whatever that looked like. And a whole other summer came and went since then.

But my tree — you know, it shares my memories. It truly does.

And for some reason, I’ve stopped wearing my summer PJs, and instead of moving on to my winter PJs, I’ve gone in the other direction and started wearing a little black chemise to bed. I’m not sure what’s come over me. It means I have to crank up the heat! Because it really is getting cold at night out there — down into the 30s and even into the 20s Fahrenheit.  A chemise is not the thing to be wearing right now. Apparently, on some level, I still cannot let the summer go.

So, sitting there early this morning, on the side of the bed, with my cup of coffee, looking out the window and wearing a little black chemise… I did indeed see that the leaves were truly changing and that winter is going to be right around the corner here, any day. And I’m gonna have to get into those winter PJs or my heating bill will be a fortune!

I’m hoping my birth mom will come back in early December and help me decorate the house for Christmas. Last year was supposed to be my first “happy Christmas” in my new house, but I was grieving. This year, should be lots better.

Okay!! Gotta go. Phone will be ringing here soon. Thanks for visiting, gang. Have a terrific Tuesday wherever you are in the world. I leave you with the obvious, even though I haven’t played it in a while. (This is the best version of the song, ever. And now has more memories than my heart can contain.) I love you guys. See ya!

“Mary Jane’s Last Dance”

She grew up in an Indiana town
Had a good-lookin’ mama who never was around
But she grew up tall and she grew up right
With them Indiana boys on them Indiana nights

Well, she moved down here at the age of eighteen
She blew the boys away, was more than they’d seen
I was introduced and we both started groovin’
She said, “I dig you baby, but I got to keep movin’ on
Keep movin’ on”

Last dance with Mary Jane, one more time to kill the pain
I feel summer creepin’ in and I’m tired of this town again

Well, I don’t know, but I’ve been told
You never slow down, you never grow old
I’m tired of screwin’ up, tired of going down
Tired of myself, tired of this town

Oh, my my, oh, hell yes
Honey, put on that party dress
Buy me a drink, sing me a song
Take me as I come ’cause I can’t stay long

Last dance with Mary Jane, one more time to kill the pain
I feel summer creepin’ in and I’m tired of this town again

There’s pigeons down on Market Square
She’s standin’ in her underwear
Lookin’ down from a hotel room
Nightfall will be comin’ soon

Oh, my my, oh, hell yes.
You got to put on that party dress
It was too cold to cry when I woke up alone
I hit my last number and walked to the road

Last dance with Mary Jane, one more time to kill the pain
I feel summer creepin’ in and I’m tired of this town again

c – 1993 Tom Petty

Three! No, Four (!!) No, FIVE!!! No, SIX!!! Cars Coming Right At You!

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Yes, that is currently me, in the happy intersection of life.

I have three projects, front and center on my plate. All of which call out for my attention; all of which engage and delight me: Tell My Bones rewrites;  Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse (erotic memoir letters);  and In the Shadow of Narcissa (memoir of childhood).

Then I added Thug Luckless to the stack of projects — a porn thing I’m writing that I really, really love but I’m basically writing it just to sell it.

Then, of course, Peitor and I got back on our writing schedule for Abstract Absurdity Productions.

And then I heard from Sandra last night that our other theatrical project, The Guide to Being Fabulous, is once again moving to the forefront in Toronto. (Translation: TONS of rewrites needed there, plus a trip to Toronto for an initial roundtable with the director and the producers at the theater.)

It’s like standing in an intersection and having 6 projects coming right at you, all of which make you really happy, and all of which require 100% focus, attention, concentration. But if you don’t make a decision immediately about which one to focus on, they are all going to run you over.

I think this is why I’ve been staying in bed a little later every morning, even though I’m still awake every day at 5:30 am.  Still going down to feed the cats, eat breakfast, listen to music at the kitchen table — in short, enjoying my peaceful little early morning solitude time. I then go back upstairs to meditate and then center myself by writing in my Inner Being journal thingie. And THEN — I go right back to bed and stare out the window.

Because, by then, it’s still only about 6:30 in the morning; it’s still dark out. There’s no imperative reason to get dressed while it’s still dark out and sit down at the desk and try to tackle that now daily question: which project am I going to focus on first? That daily question that is starting to make me insane. (In a good way, but nevertheless, insane.)

And undeniable proof that I’m staying in bed too long in the mornings is that this morning, I ran out of milk for my coffee!!!! I cannot drink black coffee, and so I never run out of milk. To me, that ranks as a terrible (albeit, First World) catastrophe: Snuggly fall morning in October, still in my PJs, still in my quiet pre-dawn place and suddenly out of milk for my coffee.

Fuck.

I only drive into town once a week to buy groceries. It’s 25 miles each way, so that’s an hour of driving. I drink organic milk, too, so that’s why I buy my milk in town. There is of course milk readily available at the gas station. Two minutes from here.  And even though it’s actual milk, you know; it works. It makes my coffee not-black. But still. Come on. I’m surrounded by farms here for miles and miles and miles. I want my organic milk. But the gas station is not going to carry that and yet only the gas station is open at that lowly hour of the morning… (Which reminds me, yesterday, I was out on the main road that heads out of town, where all the farms begin, and I actually saw a bull trying really hard to mount a cow who kept  sort of scurrying away from him — if cows can be referred to as “scurrying.” It was funny.)

But I digress. My point is that I did indeed run out of milk, which never happens, which tells me that I’ve been hanging out in bed too long, drinking way too much coffee…

But how do you prioritize projects when every single project you’re working on is something that makes you really inspired? Or feel fulfilled, or what have you. My brain gets sort of jumbled. And when that happens, stress sets in.

(I think I will blame my Muse, for being too intensely and wonderfully muse-like. But I’m not gonna shut off that valve, no matter what.)

So, here I sit. At my desk. Dressed. Black coffee in my enormous autumnal coffee mug. I have no clue what I’m going to work on first today. And the morning is already half-gone. (And I need to get my ass to the gas station and buy some fucking milk. Because black coffee sucks!!)

But I’m happy! So that’s cool.

And while I try to figure out what the heck I’m doing today, I leave you with my breakfast-listening music from this morning! I just love this song: “Crow Jane” from Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds’ Murder Ballads, from something like a million years ago (or 1996 — something like that).

Thanks for visiting, gang. I hope Monday is just a really great day for you, wherever you are in the world!! I love you guys. See ya!!

“Crow Jane”

Crow Jane Crow Jane
Crow Jane
Horrors in her head
That her tongue dare not name
She lives alone by the river
The rolling rivers of pain
Crow Jane Crow Jane
Crow Jane Ah hah huh
There is one shining eye on a hard-hat
The company closed down the mine
Winking on waters they came
Twenty hard-hats, twenty eyes
In her clapboard shack
Only six foot by five
They killed all her whiskey
And poured their pistols dry
Crow Jane Crow Jane
Crow Jane Ah hah huh
Seems you’ve remembered
How to sleep, how to sleep
The house dogs are in your turnips
And your yard dogs are running all over the street
Crow Jane Crow Jane
Crow Jane Ah hah huh
“O Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson
Why you close up shop so late?”
“Just fitted out a girl who looked like a bird
Measured .32, .44, .38
I asked that girl which road she was taking
Said she was walking the road of hate
But she stopped on a coal-trolley up to New Haven
Population: 48”
Crow Jane Crow Jane
Crow Jane Ah hah huh
Your guns are drunk and smoking
They’ve followed you right back to your gate
Laughing all the way back from the new town
Population, now, 28
Crow Jane Crow Jane
Crow Jane Ah hah huh

c – 1996 Nick Cave, Martyn Casey

Here Comes Thug Luckless!!

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I don’t know about you, but whenever I need a new pen name, I go to the Wu Tang Clan name generator. I love that fucking thing. Usually I find it sort of cosmically brilliant — the names it comes up with for me. They’re usually oddly spiritual and intense (just like me!!).

Today, though, it christened me Thug Luckless. It’s a funny name but I don’t think I can really write under the umbrella of that. I mean, I could, but what sort of stories does Thug Luckless tell? Probably stories that would sell millions of copies, especially if he’s an X-rated ghetto cat and it’s a graphic novel…  Perhaps I’ll give Thug Luckless some deeper consideration.

Meanwhile, I’ll try my luck, spin the proverbial wheel again, and hopefully land on a pen name that’s a little easier for a gal like me to wear.

Okay, thank you to the new visitors here to Marilyn’s Room by way of the Edge of Humanity Magazine. My new segment of In the Shadow of Narcissa was published there yesterday as: Intimate Passages of My Mother’s Turmoil. I do really appreciate it.

It’s another beautiful morning here in Crazeysburg! I once again slept great. Today, though, I forced myself to get out of bed at 5:30 a.m., and not revel in all that soft cozy snuggly-ness of the flannel sheets, letting another whole morning drift away… Okay, well, perhaps it wasn’t the whole morning that drifted away yesterday; it was an hour and a half. Perhaps I need to re-examine the extreme writing regimen I keep.  I don’t know. I’ve been like this since 1994, so I’m guessing I’m probably just going to be like this. (Or maybe get even worse!)

This morning,in those 2 seconds before I forced myself to get out of bed, I was thinking about a new series of stories that I wanted to write. But I wanted to write them from the POV of one of those expensive sex robots — sort of like a “Marjorie Prime” thing, but with a sex robot that’s perhaps somehow AI, as well. (Hence, wanting a specific sort of pen name.) (Thug Luckless just doesn’t seem like a sex robot/AI kind of persona. Although, if I were to somehow acquire — through some indescribable blessing from Heaven — an expensive sex robot and his name was Thug Luckless — I don’t know. I might actually like him a whole big bunch. You know what? I think I really need to ponder Thug Luckless some more! Not be so hasty to cast him aside.) (You know, I was getting ready to join yet another extreme dating site, under the grand delusion that somehow I would find a non-drinking, non-smoking, non-weed-smoking, super kinky vegetarian, male or female, within 10 miles from me who only wanted to get together once every 3 weeks… I mean, if you focus only on the super kinky part, they are all over Muskingum County. There is kink everywhere. It’s the other stuff that’s so difficult to find. Anyway. Rather than go through all the trouble of once again setting up my complicated profile, I should just spend time writing about Thug Luckless instead.)

(You know, nothing makes me happier than sitting at my desk, writing weird shit. And I’m now feeling like I’m gonna have a really good time with Thug Luckless. But I also like to have actual dates that involve really weird shit sometimes, too. With, you know, people who aren’t young enough to be my children — that part of “weird shit” is not what I’m aiming for. I just sometimes feel like I’m destined to write my whole fucking life away at this point. Pun intended, I guess.)

But onward….

Almost nothing out of Nick Cave’s Conversation last night. At least, not yet. I think maybe 2 photos, in neither of which was he actually on the stage.  Apparently, in British Columbia, they also follow rules.  It’s kind of interesting to see in which areas of the world people tend to follow rules, and in which areas of the world people are generally mavericks with little to no regard for anyone else besides themselves. It’s just interesting. And you know, I don’t actually need Instagram to tell me that he showed up, everyone loved it, and he wore a suit…

I was thinking this morning how it would be so cool if he released a video of one of these Conversations. Although, I don’t know how he could do that without violating the privacy of the question-askers, unless they agreed to it beforehand (not agreed to be violated, just to be videotaped). I just love listening to Nick Cave talk. I love to listen to him sing, too, but I love to listen to him talk. There are about a bazillion interviews with him on YouTube that I watch over and over just because I love listening to him talk, even though I already know now what he’s going to say because I’ve watched them so many times. And the interviews range from the 1980s up until about 2016.  So, you know — quite the Nick Cave panoply there on YouTube.

All righty. I actually have to get started here today. I have a scheduled phone chat with the director on Monday, so I want to have some considerable stuff mapped out before then. Have a really nice Friday, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting. I sat at the kitchen table in utter silence this morning, so I’m gonna leave you with nothing!! But I love you guys. See ya!

Life On Earth, As We Once Knew It

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Okay, gang. Just a quick hello today.

If you’re keeping up with my memoir-in-progress about my childhood — In the Shadow of Narcissa has updated. You can read it here, or at the permanent link at the bottom of the side bar.

In the memoir, we’re in the second house in Cleveland, where my mom started to do her weird punishment stuff. But she was also still able to be this really beautiful mom most of the time. She didn’t start to get seriously awful until the third house.

The second house was actually an interesting time in my personal life, although that stuff isn’t in the memoir — or at least, not yet. Not in the online version, anyway. Maybe when I’m actually writing it as a complete book, more of my internal stuff will come into it.  I’m not really sure.

Even though, within about 10 years of the time period I’m currently writing about, my adoptive dad would do a complete about-face and become this truly nasty individual who only cared about money, in these early years, he was incredibly kind to me. Just so nice. And he was the sole thing keeping our little house sane. In those years, my adoptive mom really tried very hard to please him. And I think that’s what kept her struggling so hard to keep her mind on an even keel back then.

All righty. So.

It got pretty chilly around here — true October weather now. I’ve turned on the furnace and put the flannel sheets on the bed. Next, I’m gonna have to break down and trim back my hydrangea. Even though it’s been officially dead for a number of weeks, I haven’t had the heart to officially tell it goodbye. It looked so amazingly pretty this summer. And probably by the weekend, I’ll have to bring the potted plants indoors, too — which is never fun, because then I have to do constant battle with the cats to keep them from eating the plants. Especially the palm tree, which I raised from a wee bonny twig (it’s now about 4 feet tall).

As soon as that tree comes indoors, I think the cats literally wait for me to be asleep, and then they go after that poor palm tree, which always looks so glorious when it comes inside from having been on the porch all summer. And then, in the space of one single night, the cats do their best to get at as many of the palm fronds as possible, chew them, and then throw them back up all over the carpeting.

It’s the one time of year when I really just scream my head off at those darn cats. The things they put that poor tree through every fall, even when I try to barricade the tree beyond belief. They still manage to get at it and usually turn the whole tree over in the process. Soil everywhere. The tree flopped on its side, most of its leaves, gone.

It is so darn frustrating. The joys of living with feral cats.

All right, I gotta scoot here. Sorry this is so brief. I’m gonna tackle the rewrites on the play now. Hope your Wednesday’s been good! Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys. See ya.

Hmmm. What Fucking Planet is She On…

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Yeah, well, I guess it would have been nice to have been alerted that a little PR blast about “me, the playwright” was going out yesterday. I probably wouldn’t have chosen yesterday to blog about being suicidal and going off to a convent…

Crap. You know?

This is why blogging is always so dicey for me. I actually blog about not only my real life, but also the constant insanity that is really in my head. And as pretty as I am on the outside, well you know, the Portrait of Dorian Gray is often in full bloom on the inside.

So there we have it. My experience of yesterday. All kinds of new traffic coming in through my (outdated, inaccurate) Wikipedia page because of a new crop of strangers googling me; and then finding out about all the joys of being moi.

Okay. We’re just going to move on. But I’m also going to bring this up again, as I so often do around here: When you’re a woman and you’re a writer, nothing will likely speak more to the heart of you than Virginia Woolfe’s A Room of One’s Own. If for some inexcusable reason, you don’t know the book; her overall premise:

“In referencing the tale of a woman who rejected motherhood and lived outside marriage, a woman about to be hanged, the narrator identifies women writers such as herself as outsiders who exist in a potentially dangerous space.”

And once having read it, nothing will feel so horrific as knowing that, even while Virginia Woolfe understood all of it,  she ultimately walked off to the river with rocks in her pocket. She should not have ended that way. I am not going to end that way, I just refuse; even if sometimes the only thing that will help me is taking cover amid a bunch of Carmelite nuns — women who also reject motherhood and live outside marriage but inside the auspices of the Patriarchy. (Wouldn’t that be cool? To just go off and let some guy take care of you? Jesus Christ, right? And no pun intended there… But the minute you let some guy take care of you, he gets to tell you what to do. And loyal readers of this lofty blog no doubt recall that I will always, without fail, say “NO!” even before I hear what the guy is even trying to say!!! AAAAAaaaarrrrgh!!!!)

But, Jesus. Come on. Even in a First World country, in the 21st Century, it is fucking hard to be a woman, be a writer, and live on a single, wildly fluctuating income — and afford a room of your own that’s quiet so that you can focus and write.

The pressure in my life sometimes feels insurmountable. I am someone who pulls miracle after miracle after miracle out of her hat. But it gets not only exhausting but also daunting: looking into that hat and wondering if another miracle is gonna manage to come out of there one more time.

And in this instance, unfortunately, I am talking about a situation involving other, private people that I cannot blog about. But it’s making me feel undermined and sniped at. And it hurts.

So — on to more beautiful things.

Nick Cave sent out a Red Hand Files newsletter yesterday that was just beautiful.  You can read it here. You know, is it wrong & selfish  to say that it’s too bad men like him (meaning, “rock stars”) weren’t around when I was growing up in the 1970s, or do you just feel appreciative that he’s alive right now?

Oh, and also, during one of Nick Cave’s Conversations in Austin the other night, a woman was sitting next to him on his piano bench while he sang “Shivers.” I ask you, just what kind of hat do you have to have in order to pull that kind of miracle out of it???!!! I thought my Miracle Hat was pretty cool but au contraire! It pales in comparison.

(The people in Austin eventually put a whole bunch of cool stuff on Instagram.) (I believe he’s going to be in Portland tonight. We’ll see what kinds of magical hats the people possess in Portland…)

Well, this week, when I’m not gently tearing my hair out over rewrites of Tell My Bones, I intend to write another short segment of In the Shadow of Narcissa. It’s a difficult one because it goes deeper into the abuse my brother suffered at the hands of our adoptive mother when he was just a little boy.  And to write it from the perspective of a 4-year-old girl. And not through the lens of my own fear of our mother, but from that desperate feeling of wanting to help my brother but being given the constant mandate from her that I was not allowed to care about what happened to him.

Not being permitted to feel things was probably the hardest part of living with her.

The fucked-up-ness was simply manifold.

But I’m also going to take a look at the 4th segment of Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. It’s going to be that “Litany” segment. It should just be very interesting. I’m very eager to write that because I can’t imagine how it’s going to hit the page.

Meanwhile, I’m going to get laundry started here. And at some point, I have to go back into town and buy groceries. I’m gonna wait until the fog lifts, though.  We’ve had an amazingly dense fog here since late last evening.

The fog as seen from my kitchen window just now. The same Carl Sandburg fog that “crept in on little cat feet.” Oh no!! Not more cats!!

Okay, gang. I’m gonna scoot.

Have a terrific Tuesday wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting. I leave you with two options, both equally from my own perception of life. The first is one I really enjoy believing in. I really, honestly do. Someday, I’ll meet my soulmate and we’ll go off to the Chapel of Love.

The second is more like how I experience love, for real. You know, intensely deeply, but no chapel anywhere on the horizon. (This song was actually playing on the record player when I lost — or got rid of — my virginity. Go figure. The gods are funny, for sure.)

All righty. I love you guys. See ya.

“Piece of My Heart”
Oh, come on, come on, come on, come on!
Didn’t I make you feel like you were the only man -yeah!
Didn’t I give you nearly everything that a woman possibly can?
Honey, you know I did!
And each time I tell myself that I, well I think I’ve had enough,
But I’m gonna show you, baby, that a woman can be tough.
I want you to come on, come on, come on, come on and take it,
Take it!
Take another little piece of my heart now, baby!
Oh, oh, break it!
Break another little bit of my heart now, darling, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Oh, oh, have a!
Have another little piece of my heart now, baby,
You know you got it if it makes you feel good,
Oh, yes indeed.
You’re out on the streets looking good,
And baby deep down in your heart I guess you know that it ain’t right,
Never, never, never, never, never, never hear me when I cry at night,
Babe, I cry all the time!
And each time I tell myself that I, well I can’t stand the pain,
But when you hold me in your arms, I’ll sing it once again.
I’ll say come on, come on, come on, come on and take it!
Take it!
Take another little piece of my heart now, baby.
Oh, oh, break it!
Break another little bit of my heart now, darling, yeah,
Oh, oh, have a!
Have another little piece of my heart now, baby,
You know you got it, child, if it makes you feel good.
I need you to come on, come on, come on, come on and take it,
Take it!
Take another little piece of my heart now, baby!
oh, oh, break it!
Break another little bit of my heart, now darling, yeah, c’mon now.
oh, oh, have a
Have another little piece of my heart now, baby.
You know you got it -whoahhhhh!!
Take it!
Take it! Take another little piece of my heart now, baby,
Oh, oh, break it!
Break another little bit of my heart, now darling, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah,
Oh, oh, have a
Have another little piece of my heart now, baby, hey,
You know you got it, child, if it makes you feel good.
c –  1967 JERRY RAGOVOY / BERT BERNS

To sleep, perchance to dream! Yes, indeedy!

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I got everything off to the director that he needed from me, except a current professional photo. Not sure what to do about that since I’ve only used selfies for the last several years.

But anyway. Off it all went.

For some reason, I started yet another segment of Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse today. It is not Letter #4 because, for some reason,  it came to me that between every few Letters, there will be a sort of Litany (definition here if you’re not Christian).  Only it will be erotic, not liturgical. Although it will follow a liturgical format. And only be about one page long.

Litany (One) is titled: “For His Mercy Endures Forever.” It seems like it is going to have something to do with fellatio but I’m not really sure about that…. Anyway. So I began working on that out of the blue today.

And thank you to everyone who is going over to read the new segment of In the Shadow of Narcissa, over at Edge of Humanity Magazine. I appreciate it. (Over there, the segment is titled “It’s for the Mice”/Memories of My Grandmother)

And here are some old photos that are kind of related to that whole thing, if you’re keeping up on it.

My grandmother took this photo of me and my adoptive brother outside the Cleveland Art Museum in 1963. (In front of Rodin’s The Thinker. I always loved that sculpture.) We look so formal, don’t we?
Me, very soon after I was adopted in 1960. My adoptive mother is 28 years old here.

Okay, gang. I’m just beat.  I’ve actually had a cold for the last couple days and I am seriously tired of coughing my head off. I think I’m gonna go to bed now.

Sweet dreams, gang!! See ya.

See, This is Why It’s So Darn Difficult!!

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[UPDATE: My new segment of In the Shadow of Narcissa is now available on Edge of Humanity Magazine. You can read it here  if you’d like!! Thanks!]

The photos on Instagram from Nick Cave’s Conversation last night in Cambridge  — photos that, indeed, you’re not supposed to take — look like the show was fantastic. So, like, how am I supposed to not click the “like” button??!! Damn it.

When you’re sitting there, in the audience, and people have their phone’s out and are doing that, taking those pictures or making those little videos, it is beyond annoying. It truly is. It is absolutely distracting and maddening to have that going on around you — privacy issues not withstanding. And yet!! My god, it looks like it was such a great show last night!! (How would I ever know this if they didn’t do that??) (Do I actually need to know this, though? I guess not. I mean, God knows, life would go on. But I sure do love knowing this.)

What’s interesting about the comments from the American shows so far, is that a number of people seem to be going into it with a lot of skepticism. And then, literally, coming away from it saying how incredible it was and how blessed they were to be able to see it, and that they will never forget the experience for the rest of their lives.

I’m not being sarcastic here, either. A lot of people are saying that in their Instagram posts. So interesting — the American skepticism. And then it gives way to this sort of ethereal astonishment.

Well, I think it’s so cool!!

Okay!

I’m back here in Crazeysburg, in my own little world. And I have acquiesced, finally, to this fact that it is indeed fall. Yesterday, in Rhinebeck, as I stepped out onto the front porch with Kenn (Sandra’s husband – Sandra was sound asleep in the boudoir, so I didn’t see her when I was leaving). But he and I stepped out onto the porch at around 7am and, man, it was totally fall. You know that feeling? It’s really crisp outside, there’s that chill in the air. The leaves are turning. Some leaves have already fallen. There’s dew on everything. The sun is just barely spilling into the sky and all the colors in everything all around you seem sort of saturated with autumnal light.  That’s how it felt yesterday morning. Fall had arrived.

And then during the drive, the leaves everywhere were changing. And as much as I wanted to still believe it was the height of summer, I was forced to face the facts of nature that were staring at me for 500 miles.

So, rather than resist the beauty that was all around me by insisting it was still summer, I relented and looked at all the beautiful trees and had to admit to myself: okay, Marilyn; it’s fall.

And now, here at home this morning, my new fall coffee cup! (This was the cup my mom chose from the cupboard, like, the moment she arrived last week. I thought that was so cool! That she chose the cup that I knew I was going to use the minute I was willing to believe that it was actually fall.)  (Apparently, she figured out that it was fall an entire week before I did.)

First cup of coffee back home! How autumnal!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You will notice that things are actually reflecting on the kitchen counter top. This means that it is clean. I did not do this! My mom is the best!! My entire kitchen is so fucking clean. My whole darn house is so fucking clean.

My room (which I posted a photo of last evening) is so amazingly dust free that I can’t get over it.  What I also noticed, and I don’t mind it, is that it’s evident that my mom read the manuscripts that were in a stack on my desk. I can tell because they are slightly different than how I left them and they smell a little bit of cigarette smoke.

I absolutely don’t mind that my mom reads my stuff.  She’s incredibly supportive of me. She still keeps the original typewritten manuscript for Neptune & Surf in her night table drawer next to her bed. (That’s more than 20 years, gang, because I sent her that manuscript long before it got published.) She’s really proud of that book, and really, everything I write, even though her only comments are always: “You’re just like me.” (Although she’s not bisexual, which is interesting because she has one bisexual daughter, one bisexual son, and one lesbian daughter.)

Anyway. I’m happy that she’s interested in reading my stuff, but then I realized that the three “Letters” from Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse were in that stack and I could tell she’d read them — in particular, “A Beach to His Waves,” because the top page was crinkly, and that really made me kind of sad.

I’m pretty sure I’ve told her that I was raped when I was growing up, but I’m not positive. I might never have told her. And I don’t think I ever would have told her that my adoptive mom’s boyfriend raped me. Any of the things that went so horribly wrong between me and my adoptive mother are very hard for my birth mom to hear. (She never actually “gave me up” for adoption; I was taken away from her by her dad, and she never forgave him for that, for the rest of his life, even though he remained alive for well over 30 years after I came back.)

It’s just doubly hard on her to think that it was supposed to be better for me to be raised by other people — total strangers up north, in the city; educated, married people, who could provide me with all kinds of better things. Aside from the relentless abuse from my adoptive mom specifically, my adoptive parents became extremely affluent as time went on. By the time I was disowned, I was being disinherited from, literally, millions of dollars. I was left with nothing. Zero. Just a ton of really difficult memories and an endless supply of words.

This kind of stuff is very hard on my birth mom. She feels that having me taken from her, and all of her heartache over it, was all in vain. So, when I realized what she read about in “A Beach to His Waves,” I sort of cringed a little. Shit, you know?

I love my mom so much. She’s really quiet; introverted. She’s had a very hard life.  Back when I first found her, I wrote her a pleading  letter, asking if I could meet her. And when my letter arrived, she had just gotten out of jail that day — six weeks in jail for too many DUI’s and driving with a suspended license. And she gets out of jail, comes home to the farm in the Appalachian foothills, and my letter from NYC is waiting for her on the kitchen counter. She read the letter and allegedly threw it down on the counter and said to everyone present in the kitchen, “Well, I need this like a fucking hole in the head.”

So when she does say something it’s usually something like that.

Anyway. I love her. And the simple fact that she even knows my name means everything to me. When she left that letter for me on my kitchen table yesterday, it meant the world to me. Even though she’s not saying anything poetic or anything, she’s just talking about laundry and watering the flowers and borrowing my sweatshirt, and my gardening gloves. But it still meant everything to me.

The fact that she was willing to look after my crazy cats for a week — and then bonded with them? Cleaned my house? Weeded my garden? It means so much to me to just be loved. Really, it felt like it took me a life time to get her back. (I was 25 when I finally found out who she was and where she lived.)

Here’s the note she left for me yesterday. Her handwriting is so incredibly tiny and perfect, isn’t it? And I love how she dots the “i” in my name with a little circle like she isn’t 72 years old now!! So sweet. But I look at this letter and it just fills me with love.

Note left on the kitchen table from my mom — yes, we live in America! In case we are ever in doubt, it is embossed on our notepaper…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Don’t read the letter! It will mean nothing to you! Just look at her handwriting…)

Okay, gang. I have a ton of Helen LaFrance stuff to gather up from storage and ship out to the director in NYC, overnight express — insured to high heaven because it’s all one of kind, irreplaceable stuff. And then I need to hunker down and get to work on the rewrites of the play.

I hope you have a wonderful, wonder-filled, Thursday, wherever you are in the world!! Thanks for visiting!! I will cease posting here 4 times a day because now I will just be at my desk writing and that looks the same, 24/7. I leave you with this because I just can’t stop playing it! Okay. I love you guys. So much. See ya.

“Shivers”

I’ve been contemplating suicide,
But it really doesn’t suit my style,
So I think I’ll just act bored instead
And contain the blood I would’ve shed
She makes me feel so ill at ease
My heart is really on it’s knees
But I keep a poker face so well
That even mother couldn’t tell
But my baby’s so vain
She is almost a mirror
And the sound of her name
Sends a permanent shiver down my
Spine
I keep her photograph against my heart
For in my life she plays a starring part
All alcohol and cigarettes
There is no room for cheap regrets
But my baby’s so vain
She is almost a mirror
And the sound of her name
Sends a permanent shiver down my
Spine
She makes me feel so ill at ease
My heart is really on it’s knees
But I keep a poker face so well
That even mother couldn’t tell
But my baby’s so vain
She is almost a mirror
And the sound of her name
Sends a permanent shiver down my
Spiii-yi-yiiii-yi-yiiii-yi-yiyiyi-ine
c – 1976 Rowland S. Howard