Tag Archives: Ken Burns’ Jazz PBS

You’d think she’d just dig the fuck outta this…

This idea that the entire Universe is forcing me to stay home and write, you know? You’d think I’d just fucking love that.

And in a way, I do. Because, thankfully, I’m really healthy. Although yesterday, when we had that brief burst of mild Spring weather and I was able to open a couple of windows — man, that fresh air felt so incredible. I really, really miss the fresh air.

But I do really enjoy being alone. And writing. (Although, I would of course prefer being with that guy I’m totally trying not to love, but since that’s utterly impossible — just more impossible than you can possibly imagine — I just enjoy the fuck out of being alone…) (grumble grumble grumble)

But the sameness of the days is getting sort of weird. A little too “Groundhog Day”-ish, you know? Except for the fraction of a second that I interacted with the gals at the pizzeria, and the few moments standing 6 feet away from the guys at the Granville Inn — aside from that, I’ve been alone in here for 168 hours.

Thankfully, I talk to Peitor a lot. Or we text (constantly). We get a lot of creative stuff accomplished, which feels so great.  Other than that, though, I don’t really interact with anyone. I call my dad every day because he’s getting depressed. Not only is he on lockdown, too, but he doesn’t actually enjoy being alone, and, it’s been raining a lot where he lives so he can’t even get outdoors and take a walk.

Aside from that, he’s still grieving the death of his wife of 35 years. She’s only been gone 2 months now. And even though my dad and I have not had the best relationship during my adulthood, by any stretch of the imagination, even I knew that he had a really happy 3rd marriage. My stepmom was just the best.  They loved each other so much. And she was the easiest person to be around. One of those rare women that you just enjoy being in the same room with — and you really noticed it when she left a room. She had such uplifting, delighted, joyful energy all the time.

So with or without the quarantine, my dad no longer has that wonderful energy in his life. Now all he has is the TV.  And it’s on constantly — always on the news. Every time I call him, I have to say, “Dad, turn off the news. It’s depressing you.” Of course, he doesn’t do it, but I still feel it’s my sworn duty, you know, to tell him to do that every single darn day.

(I’m guessing that the minute we hang up the phone, he’s saying “You’re not the boss of me.” And he’s turning the volume on the news right back up!!)

But anyway. That’s my day. Peitor and/or my dad. Then I eat endless vegetables — so boring. I’ve already “ice-creamed” myself out — totally not interested in the ice cream anymore. So it’s back to eating really healthy stuff. Doing my yoga and my Booty Core, so that I can feel and look great during my endless days of living in captivity all by myself. And I still meditate and keep my endless little journals, so that my mind doesn’t completely unravel.

And then, you know, I sit down at my desk and write. In so many ways, that seems like heaven — so how come it doesn’t feel like heaven? Hmmm……

Oh — I did want to thank you guys for buying my books yesterday and during the night.  Seriously. I actually do appreciate it, even though you steadfastly refused to be led in the direction of my more literary pursuits — i.e. Twilight of the Immortal. I still really do appreciate that the old erotica still sells. (It will remain on sale for the next 4 weeks on Smashwords only.) (See yesterday morning’s post.)

But I do want to point out something, and I have no qualms whatsoever comparing that specific novel (Twilight of the Immortal) to F. Scott Fitzgerald. I honestly don’t. I know it’s a really well written book (that a lot of publishers also loved but they did not love the fact that there were so many lesbians in it & I was not willing to delete them from history). Still, I’ll point out that when F. Scott Fitzgerald died, you could not buy a copy of The Great Gatsby in any bookstore. Nobody wanted to read it.  (And, frankly, it is my favorite novel of all time.) And now, almost 100 years after it was written, it is not only considered a masterpiece of 20th Century American literature, but right now, today, it is ranked at #5 on Amazon’s Classic Literature list, and ranked #131 in all books.

All books. Do you know what that means? Can you even estimate how many books are being sold on Amazon right now — and that nearly 100-year-old book, which at one point, while he was still alive, nobody wanted to buy, is ranked at #131 amid those millions of titles?

Image result for the great gatsby cover art

I’m just saying. Your great-grandchildren will be more than happy to buy my lonely little book, let alone get it for free! Even though it doesn’t have a ton of sex in it… (And you’ll be stuck up there in Heaven — with any luck, that is, because it’s getting dicier with all that porn you’re reading — but anyway, you’ll be stuck up there just listening to harps and stuff!)

All righty!!!!

So here’s good news. The numbers, while increasing for now, are still encouraging. Close to 94,000 recoveries from the virus as of today (3/21/2020). About 179,000 known cases worldwide, and about 171,000 of those cases are considered mild.

And some other good news — because of all this quarantine stuff, that portion of my bathroom ceiling that collapsed yesterday because of all that sudden rain? I get to just ignore it for now because no way on Earth is anyone going to be able to come out here and fix it yet.

I love, love, love ignoring needed home repairs!! It is one of my very favorite things to do! And usually it bothers my conscience when I’m doing it, but not this time!! Yay!







Okay, guys. I guess that’s it for today.  I’m guessing that Nick Cave is out there, quarantined somewhere, too, and yet still wearing a suit and having some sort of a conversation!!! Alas, we don’t know for sure. It’s just an educated guess. (Yes, life’s getting a little boring here in my room.) Oh, I’ve started streaming re-runs of the British Crime Drama, DCI Banks in the evening. So that’s fun. And I did eventually finish watching Ken Burns’ Jazz documentary — man, was that good. If you like jazz and you haven’t seen that show, it’s totally something to watch. It’s about 20 hours, but still worth every moment.

All righty. Thanks for visiting! Wash your hands and stop touching your face already. Life is good. The world is beautiful. I love you and I feel certain that a whole lot of other people do, too! See ya, gang!!

“In My Room”

There’s a world where I can go and tell my secrets to
In my room, in my room
In this world I lock out all my worries and my fears
In my room, in my room

Do my dreaming and my scheming
Lie awake and pray
Do my crying and my sighing
Laugh at yesterday

Now it’s dark and I’m alone
But I won’t be afraid
In my room, in my room
In my room, in my room
In my room, in my room

© – 1963 Brian Wilson, Gary Usher

Me, As Usual — Getting My Ducks In A Row!

I’ll tell you, it is really starting to feel like Spring, gang!

The starlings arrived, en masse, this morning. They are out there flying about, everywhere. The cats are very excited! I’m not sure how long it will take the birds to move in under the soffit outside my backdoor and start building nests again and then really making my cats crazy, but I tell you — they are everywhere this morning!

I love that they have arrived. But it also makes me feel a little anxious, because Spring means I need to get to NYC to begin the table reads for Tell My Bones at the Dramatist Guild. And even though I know that is going to go great — I just know it; I feel it in my own bones. It also means that then Summer will be right around the corner and you know that summers are so tricky for me.

I don’t want to set myself up to fail, or anything. But once Summer arrives, it is so emotionally hard for me to let it go. Once Summer leaves, it means I am one summer farther from the man who died. And even though I know for certain that life is meant to be that way — the cycles of the seasons, of life/love/death — it’s still a heartbreaking specter, always in the background for me. I’m never 100% sure how I’m going to handle that kind of stuff until it’s upon me, you know?

I try not to use all this as a reason to throw myself into my work. However, I’m doing it anyway.

Well, yesterdays’ script-writing session with Peitor was actually incredibly productive. We completed Scene 5, the scene of primary importance in the whole (very short) film. I was impressed with us, because we achieved this 2-page scene in 3 sessions, instead of our usual 20 and a half.

And when I re-read what we had managed to capture in the script (4 lines of very brief dialogue and then the shots, the blocking, camera angles, and lenses), I was really pleased with it.

That said, though, wow. Yesterday. I had a wee bit of a bad attitude. And I guarantee you, I was trying really really really hard to keep a lid on it.  First, he showed up late for the call. Not something I actually mind, because I can usually just lie around on my bed, and scroll through an unending cavalcade of Nick Cave photos on Instagram. Not the worst torture ever.

ME (scrolling on Instagram): like, like, like, save, like, save, save, ooh — really like, save, oh my god— like like like [ad infinitum].

Still, it was getting kind of really late and then I remembered that I had yet to figure out how to edit the video that he had sent me on Saturday — a thing we need for the web site. So I got off the bed and sat down at my desk and proceeded to drive myself completely insane because I couldn’t get the program on my desk top to do what I needed it to do.

When he finally called, I was really pissed off at my computer and trying not to transfer my pissed-off-ness to his now being really late for the call. But when I’m in that state , I really need to use the “f” word a lot.  The “f” word is my escape valve and helps me get back to normal. However, Peitor is not really keen on my use of the “f” word — at all. He has this weird reasoning that I have developed an impressive and wide-ranging vocabulary for a reason and that I should use it as a way of communicating without the “f” word.

So I tried to just sort of not be pissed-off and not use the “f” word and not have a bad attitude but I was struggling miserably with all 3.

And as we worked on the script — both of us on speaker, and me getting monosyllabic because I was perched so  precariously on needing to bleat out a long and sputtering “f” word stream — I suddenly hear him moving around his apartment, doing a ton of stuff while we were working. It was distracting, but I was trying to let everything go because I really hate having a bad attitude. I really do.

But then I finally said, “Peitor, what are you doing? It sounds like you’re outside.”

HIM: “I’m driving. I need to get to a lunch engagement.”

Oh my god. A lunch engagement. Tootling around West Hollywood  in his vintage convertible coupe, heading out to lunch. And I’m stuck at my mini-desk, typing away.  I’m not sure yet what I will say in my acceptance speech when I get my Academy Award but I know I’m going to get one because I managed to sound like a reasonable human being for the remainder of that call.

It was not easy. At all.

Because what I really, really wanted to say were things like: “Glad you could fit me in, between the Tibetan singing bowls and a lunch date,” and “So what am I now — the typist?” or get really churlish with: “Does it really matter what my opinion is on this shot? We’re just going to do what you want anyway. We always do” (which is not true, btw).  And then a whole lot of  FUCKS thrown in, too.

I did none of that. Thank god. Because he is one of my best friend’s, and now a business partner, and I seriously do not want to fuck that up. But, wow. Did I struggle with that.

Luckily, directly after that call, I spoke for over an hour with Val in Brooklyn. And we laughed a lot and got caught up on stuff and I got over the Abstract Absurdity Productions call.

And then when I re-read Scene 5 in the script, as I was readying it to send over to Peitor, I saw that we had done a really good job, regardless. The scene was amazing. And I was able to text him during his lunch engagement to say: “Scene 5 is AMAZING.” And he texted back: “Great!!”

So that was yesterday. And I am hoping that today is all about Thug Luckless: Welcome to P-Town. Because I really, really want to just get lost in my work. We shall see.

Well, late last evening, while sitting at my desk and staring, I made the mistake of listening to Amy Winehouse’s “Back to Black,” a song I really, really love — I love the whole album, actually. But I have always just loved that song. And because I identify perhaps too much with that song — meaning, that if I’d been able to sustain any sort of meaningful relationship with anyone ever, I wouldn’t be the gal that I am.

Anyway, I began to get super depressed. Real quick.

So I closed up shop, went downstairs and watched a little more of the final episode of Ken Burns’ Jazz documentary. (This final episode is primarily covering Sonny Rollins and Miles Davis.) And I actually learned stuff about Miles Davis’s music from the mid-1950s, post-heroin addiction, that I never knew before.  And it was really beautiful. Very romantic — in that big city/cocktails/cigarettes/little-black-dress-on-and-then-off kind of way. Just lovely stuff.

So I managed to survive yesterday. And I am back at it today.

I am going to get started with Thug now. I hope you have a really good Wednesday, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting, gang. I’ll leave you with both my breakfast-listening music from this morning — “When I Fall in Love,” by Miles Davis, which brought more than a couple of wistful tears to eyes, as I sat at the kitchen table and watched the cats and drank my coffee — and Amy’s “Back to Black” because it really is just a great song. Enjoy — or just think about life if “enjoy” is asking too much of you right now. I love you guys. See ya.

“Back To Black”

He left no time to regret
Kept his dick wet
With his same old safe bet
Me and my head high
And my tears dry
Get on without my guy

You went back to what you knew
So far removed from all that we went through
And I tread a troubled track
My odds are stacked
I’ll go back to black

We only said goodbye with words
I died a hundred times
You go back to her
And I go back to…

I go back to us

I love you much
It’s not enough
You love blow and I love puff
And life is like a pipe
And I’m a tiny penny rolling up the walls inside

We only said goodbye with words
I died a hundred times
You go back to her
And I go back to…

We only said goodbye with words
I died a hundred times
You go back to her
And I go back to…

Black, black, black, black, black, black, black
I go back to…
I go back to…

We only said goodbye with words
I died a hundred times
You go back to her
And I go back to…

We only said goodbye with words
I died a hundred times
You go back to her
And I go back to black

c – 2007 Amy Winehouse, Mark Ronson

Yay! More Snow!!

It’s not really snowing that much here today, but it is snowing, and mostly I just love that Louis Wain illustration. It just cracks me up. So there we go!


Yes, it’s another one of those mornings. Taking me forever to plant myself in front of the computer and get started.

Before I forget, there was another one of those really funny, extremely short promotional clips on Instagram today to promote Nick Cave’s upcoming art exhibition in Copenhagen. God, I wish I could go! I was on the Black Diamond site, reading about it last evening and it sounded just so cool. (Actually, I think the link I have there to the Nick Cave website has the same information that’s on the Black Diamond site. But for some reason, reading it on my phone, late in the evening, on another site, made it seem like I hadn’t read it before.)

Anyway. It sounds so cool. And even with my unfortunate marital-memories of Copenhagen (meaning my decision to get a divorce), I do love Copenhagen.

Actually, Wayne & I had a nice time in Copenhagen, all things considered. I had gotten a really nice book advance from a publisher in London and so I was able to surprise Wayne with that entire trip at the last minute — it was my gift to him for Valentine’s Day that year. We always traveled really well together because we were always good friends. We didn’t work well together as married people, but we were always good friends.

And at that specific juncture in my life, I felt like I had totally lost my mojo, you know? It’s a distinct feeling — when the magic is just gone. And I don’t mean from the marriage, I mean the magic was gone from myself. I couldn’t function as a married person. I couldn’t figure out who the fuck I was. My career had taken over everything.

Of course, now I have swung my pendulum in the other direction and my career is all that there is. I’ve been extremely careful to weed out as many actual people from my life as I possibly could.  I’m only being partially sarcastic, really. I mean, I did it for a reason. I had just so much toxic stuff going on in my life because of things I was refusing to look at  involving my adoptive family. And when my adoptive mother finally disowned me, I had no choice but to finally look at it.

And then, of course, you see the patterns — the other toxic relationships you’ve maybe created because it seems to be the only thing you know how to do. Narcissistic mothers are a real trip — the damage they do to your ability to know how to be loved.

I was lucky in that I conveniently had this other mother — my birth mom; who doesn’t have a narcissistic bone in her body, and just loves me no matter what. Like, all I have to do is wake up in the morning and she loves me. However, unfortunately, that doesn’t mean I actually know how to be loved yet. I’m working on it, though. It’s taking me a while.

I don’t actually define myself through my work, my writing. But I do love doing it and it’s the only thing I will leave behind, since I have no kids or anything.

This morning, I was lying in bed in the dark, thinking about marriage — what it means, technically. How it went from a strictly legal arrangement — to join property, and to create heirs to the property, to whatever wealth might have been involved.  And then it morphed slightly when the church got involved. And the church only got involved because the priest in any given town was usually the most educated person around, often the only person who could even read, or help anyone navigate the legal documents. The legal arrangements of marriage were overseen by the priest in the church’s front portico — a structural part of churches that was meant specifically for doing business in.

(And churches aside, it used to be that part of the wedding ceremony, after the legal documents were signed, was that the wedding guests accompanied the bride and groom to the conjugal bed, to witness if the bride was actually a virgin, and to witness the loss of virginity thing that sealed the whole deal.) (I’m really glad we don’t do that anymore. I didn’t even know half the people at my wedding to Wayne.) (Not that I was anything close to a virgin at either of my weddings. But I’m just saying.)

It wasn’t until the Romantic era came in, in the late 1700s, that people got that notion that they wanted to be married in the eyes of God, and to even include love in a marriage. At that point, marriages took on a separate non-legal ceremony, deeper inside the actual church. And to have a church wedding became a really big deal. And to marry for love became a very popular idea.

So there you have it. Marriage. But I was thinking of it specifically because the part of Ken Burns’ Jazz documentary that I watched last night was just so sad — about Charlie Parker’s little 2-year-old daughter, dying suddenly from pneumonia in NYC while he was away doing some gigs in LA. His wife was alone when their little girl died. He got back to NY as quickly as he could but the whole thing just devastated him. And he, himself, died soon after that. He couldn’t cope with his grief. His body just gave out. The coroner thought he was examining the corpse of a 50 year-old,  but Charlie Parker was only 34 when he died. A lifetime of heroin addiction and serious alcohol abuse.

This morning, I was thinking about his poor wife — they had a little boy, too, that she had to raise alone. But to survive the death of her little girl, and then the death of her husband? How did she do that? (They interviewed her in the documentary.)  And he didn’t have any money, ever.  Because of the heroin addiction — it took everything. (Like that old John Prine song, “Sam Stone” — There’s a hole in daddy’s arm/ where all the money goes…)

Anyway. I was thinking about marriage this morning and trying to understand why I have always just been so opposed to it, you know? Because I’m not opposed to loving someone until the cows come home or to fidelity or to romance or to the idea that I could, seriously, love a man for a lifetime. It’s just the marriage idea itself that confounds me. (And also, even though a lot of men asked me to marry them in my lifetime, the two proposals I accepted were the weirdest ones, ever. In entirely different ways. I guess that because I was so taken aback, I decided to say yes because it seemed really interesting — like, the marriage was going to be interesting. Who the fuck knows what I was thinking because I was wrong both times. That much I do know. They were “interesting” in just really bad ways.)

I know that part of my inability to know how to be loved has been really damaging to me, and I’ve been working on trying to fix that for a couple of years now. But in the whole act of trying to process it, I’ve shifted almost my entire focus into my work. And this morning, I was just wondering there in the dark: is this really all I’m going to do with my life? Just work, and never trust anybody to love me at all?

I like to think “no” but I just don’t really understand anything, when you get right down to it. Nothing at all.

But on that note — guess what I’m gonna do??? I’m gonna get to work over here!!

I hope you have a really great Thursday, wherever you are in the world! Thanks for visiting, gang. I leave you with my breakfast-listening music from this morning — a record that was definitely part of my wee bonny girlhood! (I don’t think my parents ever took me to see Dave Brubeck, but I do remember that a couple of times, when I was a really little girl, they took me and my brother with them to see Stan Getz and Chet Baker.) Anyway, I leave you with “Take Five” from their seminal album from 1959, Time Out. Enjoy. I love you guys. See ya!

She’s Sort of A Great Big Blank Today!

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

Anyway. Got it done.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just a big sad mess.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

We’ll find a new way of living

We’ll find a way of forgiving

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

c – 1957 Leonard Bernstein

What the Heck Happened to All the Good Taste Around Here?

Okay, gang. Today I’m going to try to move forward joyfully!!

None of this “shooting her” business! We will deal with fucking movie budgets if we have to deal with fucking movie budgets.  God knows, I’ve dealt with worse things in my life. I’ll just buy MovieMagic budgeting software, like everybody else, and see if it will “magically” just do everything… (Loyal readers of this lofty blog perhaps recall that I am not super good at math. I am good at algebra. But, oddly, algebra does not feature hugely in movie budgeting.) (Not yet, anyway.)

Even though I really want to get back to some new chapters for In the Shadow of Narcissa, I’m thinking that some new pages for Thug Luckless: Welcome to P-Town will win out today. I’m sort of in a Thug Luckless kind of mood. (I always like to use the image below for quick reference — are we in a Thug mood today, or not?)

Yep, he’s resonating, gang…It’s officially a Thug Luckless kind of day








I’m not sure what happened yesterday — why it was that, midday, my energy completely turned around and became so stressed. It actually never got better.

(I think part of it is that I don’t see any reasonable way for me to attend any of the Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds concerts this time. I have too much to do with my various far flung projects and I will have to travel for all of those already. So Nick Cave just doesn’t seem like a reasonable expectation. Yeah, I know — I’m the one who decided it was going to be great to live alone in the middle of fucking nowhere so that traveling becomes such a fucking ordeal. And I am not a person who accepts “having to be reasonable” with any sort of grace or anything like that. I get pouty and frustrated, because I feel like I should just be able to do anything I want, right? And not have to fuck around with intensely complicated movie production budgets and playwright contracts that look suspiciously like the playwright always gets screwed, etc., etc. I think my barely suppressed attitude was fucking up my whole day yesterday and on into the night.)

Well, I did do Booty Core after I posted so angst-ily to the blog last evening, but the final ten minutes were so intense on my knees, that I just gave up on that, too.

I did watch a really cool episode of Ken Burns’ Jazz, though. We are now in the post-WWII era. Dave Brubeck is putting in an appearance now, along with Miles Davis. So we are inching into contemporary jazz, which is not my favorite.  But it is still just a really great documentary. I am almost done with all 10 episodes.  How many months has it taken me to watch this thing? But I have just really, really loved it and I’ve learned a whole lot about various jazz musicians that I just grew up taking for granted.

Even though I’m not a Charlie Parker fan, or even much of a Miles Davis fan, either (although I did meet Cicely Tyson back in the mid-1980s and she was really, really cool and just so sweet), (Miles Davis and Cicely Tyson were married at that time, in case you’re wondering what the fuck I’m suddenly talking about). Anyway.  In the documentary, they were saying that Charlie Parker’s impact on music fans was just as startling as Louis Armstrong’s had been on people in the 1920s.

I found that perspective really sort of jolting. It gave me something to think about, because of course I grew up in an era where Louis Armstrong was a household name, there was nothing at all startling or emotionally arresting about his sound. As far as I was concerned, he’d simply always been there. (I’ve learned a ton of cool stuff about him in this documentary, as well.) But it gave me a different perspective on Charlie Parker, too.

Anyway. I’m learning a lot. I still don’t understand what it means to actually be a human being — you know, why we exist and what we actually are (although I’m leaning toward believing that we are just vibrating energy that gets filtered through our senses, only appearing as something physical on the surface). But in the meantime, music is fucking cool.

In fact, on Instagram last evening, I was exposed to Miyavi for the first time.  @alysoncamus, who writes for RockNYC, always posts really cool photos and videos of bands playing in smaller clubs (in LA, I’m pretty sure). It’s almost always bands I’ve never heard of before because it’s not usually the kind of music I listen to. Still, I always find it really interesting. So many, many talented musicians out there in the world, making so many different kinds of music, and it is just so hard to earn a living at it nowadays.

However, Miyavi (from Japan) has been around a long time now and seems to be doing just fine. Although I had never heard of him until last night. I’m going to quote what Alyson Camus wrote about him on RockNYC because it seems extremely accurate: “Miyavi is a born rock star, electrifying the air with his powerful stage presence and his incredible energy, he is a blue-haired silver bullet with a theatrical style and a guitar on fire.”

I always love that feeling when you encounter a musician for the first time and your jaw sort of drops and you feel that kinetic energy just rush through you. Even on a tiny little screen like Instagram. (And it’s exactly things like that, which make me wonder what exactly human beings are, you know? What are we, when I can feel something like that through a tiny little screen on my fucking phone? And it wasn’t even live — the show happened Monday night. But anyway.)

So that was cool. And I had a wonderful exchange with a reader last evening, too. About an older story of mine that appeared in Italian translation a long time ago.

It’s really nice to finally be getting such life-affirming feedback on my writing, as opposed to the amount of letters I’ve gotten over the years from men in prison. I don’t judge people in prison, even though the people who have written to me have tended to be convicted murderers and pedophiles. I honestly don’t judge that. I still believe that the human experience is really just a transference of energy — choices that are constantly being made.  For whatever reasons. You know — if you choose to murder somebody, you’re making a choice about the energy you’re putting out and then you have to receive the energy that comes back from that.

So I don’t judge that. It comes down to choices. And I know the choices that I prefer to make in my own life; choices about who I want to be in the world. But it did feel incredibly great to hear from somebody who seems to have lived a really great life — free of prison and murder and pedophilia — and something I wrote got to be part of that. That really made me feel good.

So all is not lost!!

And who knows; maybe for some inexplicable reason, I’ll have to be in, like, Nashville on October 4th and, just like Charlie of “Chocolate Factory” fame, I’ll buy some sort of candy bar and inside of it will be a coveted  golden ticket to see Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds at the Grand Ole Opry! (I mean, how fucking mind-bending would that be? As much as I’d like to see, maybe, Ernest Tubb at the Grand Ole Opry (he’s quite dead, btw, in case you don’t know his music, plus, he would have played at the Ryman, not at the new one), still, it would just be too fucking amazing to see Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds at a venue like that.)

But anyway. Life goes on.

And on that note, I’m gonna get to work here on Thug Luckless! Pour a little bit of my frustrating angst into him!! Thanks for visiting, gang. You probably have a sneaking suspicion about what I’m leaving you with today — from the RockNYC YouTube channel! Miyavi. The full version of what I was watching on Instagram last night! Have a good Wednesday, wherever you are in the world! I love you guys. See ya.

That Dash of Chaos!

I’m not a big fan of chaos. In any form. Which doesn’t mean everything has to be easy for me to understand as quickly as possible. And it doesn’t mean that there has to be an easily perceived order to everything. But it does mean that I really like the silences in between.

In between what, can be an unknown variable. I’m comfortable with not knowing things. But I do like to be able to find the rhythms of life, the patterns. The cadences. It’s how I actually prefer to live my life.

So I’m not a fan of chaos.

In the Ken Burns Jazz documentary, which I’m almost done watching, we are up to Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker, and Thelonious Monk. It’s interesting to me how they heard the music and how they were able to see it in this sort of un-anchored stream. That is interesting to me, maybe on an esoteric level. But listening to it — it’s that intersection where jazz becomes something that doesn’t resonate with me anymore. I can only listen to it in small doses before it starts to create some sort of disconnect in my brain.

But I do still like learning about it — what each human being’s individual story brings to an over-arching story. Because what I do really love is the human story. So I’m going to keep watching the documentary until the end, but it has really shifted now.

But, you know, I think that understanding why you don’t like something is just as edifying as understanding why you do like something.

It’s similar to why I went to Divinity School, actually — even though I’ve always felt called to follow Christ and I still feel that; and I felt called enough to finally invest all that time and money into Divinity School and do the best job I possibly could (and I graduated magna cum laude, which I’m really proud of); still, I undertook all that because I wanted to make absolutely certain of the reasons why I didn’t believe in Christianity, per se.

Studying the traditions of Christianity and where they come from and how they got to  be the rigid structures that they are,  it actually made my faith in the reality of Christ’s presence that much stronger, but my understanding of him doesn’t resemble anything structured or formulaic or traditional. (Even though a lot of the traditions of Christianity — or perhaps the pageantry of the traditions — are comforting to me, but only in a cursory way.)

So, I really do like understanding what Charlie Parker was able to perceive about musical chords and what they were at their roots, and how the structure or labeling or rigid patterns of music are also myths, in a way. Myths that he took apart and got in between, in terms of improvising from note to note.  I really appreciate knowing that, because it helps me think differently about music and about a lot of things that seem fixed but aren’t, really. But I don’t like listening to that style of jazz. Or I like it only in small doses.

Yesterday was actually a very interesting day. Got the taxes done, and it became really clear that I will need an accountant again. So I have an appointment to speak with him this morning. Get that on track now, because the year is going to start sweeping past.

And I finally made a clear decision about Italian: I’ve stopped studying it. It absolutely does not resonate with me. I gave it 9 months. And I’m basically only able to say what I could say before I started the lessons, unless it’s all right in front of me and I’m taking a quiz. When it’s not in front of me, I can’t remember any of it.  I still have 3 months of pre-paid language lessons left, so I decided to just switch to French, which I enjoy and understand reasonably well.

I spent a couple hours on it last evening, just because it was fun. But because I already understand French, I could now see how they structure the lessons, and I can also see that there is no way on Earth I would have ever truly learned Italian from that type of lesson structuring.  And why? Because it’s too chaotic for me.


But it was also interesting to me, as I spent all that time studying French last evening, how all the times in my life where I’d studied French in the past, were coming back to me. I’ve been studying French since I was 9. So that means over 50 years now. Isn’t that fucking bizarre? That I call it “studying French” instead of saying that I speak it?

At what point do I think I will be done studying it and that I will actually speak it? I guess at some point, we’ll find out.

The last time I was in Paris, I was in a tea shoppe, buying some bulk tea, and I was talking to the proprietor, in French, and apologizing for my French the entire time, and he finally looked at me, sort of bewildered, and said, “You’re speaking very good French.” And it really shocked me. I think it was because I felt really comfortable with him, that my brain just switched over to French without my even realizing it. Because, normally, in France, I don’t speak at all unless I absolutely have to. And I mean, like, at dinner parties — attending hours-long dinner parties with French writers where I’ve said absolutely nothing at all. Nothing. Because I’m only just now learning  French — I only started studying it 50 years ago.

Jesus. I’m so fucking nuts. Basically, I have no confidence that I will be understood. (I guess I feel that way about all of life, really, and so that must be why I live alone with cats and just write. No one’s gonna understand me anyway, so why bother?)

Well, I think today is going to be about doing more paperwork. I have a lot of spreadsheet type stuff that I need to do for Abstract Absurdity Productions, so I might do that today. I had a long phone chat with Peitor in LA last evening, so it seems like now is as good a time as any to get that tedious stuff done. Move the company forward.

I guess I sort of need this down time from all the projects. Actually, what I think I need is a little space from the play so that when I read it again, I will be able to hear it in a fresh way and figure out if anything is still missing. (I think something is still missing, but I don’t know what yet, but I don’t think it’s anything huge.)

Around 4am, I was sound asleep and this sort of distant bell began calling me. And then as I awoke, I realized it was that clanging bell outside my window, that alerts you that the train is coming.  And even though its a freight train, it immediately brought to mind “Chattanooga Choo-choo”, which, coincidentally, couldn’t be further from Charlie Parker-type jazz.

But it is what I’m going to leave you with, for now. Because I have to go make that phone call to NYC and speak to the accountant.

I might post again later, though. Meanwhile, have a good Wednesday, wherever it leads you. I love you guys. See ya.

Such Intense Decisions!

Do I want to post to the blog, or keep doing the paperwork for my taxes?

I’ll tell you this much — I am astounded by all my business-related expenses from last year.  I am hoping the IRS will not feel similarly. They get sort of funny when your business expenses seem a little disproportionate to your business’s income…

However. I feel confident they will have plenty of reasons to tax me a whole lot more in 2020, so onward, gang!!

And in the middle of “crunching the numbers,” I got the much-anticipated text from the director of Tell My Bones. He loved the new character arc. He is going to try to pin down Sandra’s schedule (she starts rehearsals in Stratford, Canada in 5 days), and he wants to pin down the other actors and finally get the first table-read at the Dramatists Guild in NYC underway.

Which means, coincidentally, more intense contracts that I have to sign.

Which means also another business-related trip to NYC, almost immediately. (I just went through all my receipts from this past trip to NYC, for gas stations, restaurants, the Airbnb, Amtrak trains, many many many Lyft cabs — I got kind of exhausted, looking at all that stuff. And now I’m going to do it all over again. Although I think I will fly there… Right.)

I’m just getting so accustomed to being squirreled away in the peace & quiet of my sanctuary in the middle of nowhere…

Plus — did you know I maintain five websites now?? Well, I do. Funny how that happened. It seems like it was only yesterday when I sort of lost my mind and dismantled a ton of websites, stepped down from my many Executive Director positions, yadda, yadda, yadda, and maintained a single blog. And that was it.

And now it is, once again, five websites later. (Of course, none of them are anywhere near as time consuming as the old ones were. Just nowhere close to it.) (Which is why I’m not on prescription meds, I guess! Yay!) (And I sleep through the night now. Like a baby. Only occasionally waking up to wonder what Nick Cave might be wearing, but other than that, I sleep!)

Well, the Booty Core class went up a notch yesterday. Wow, did I feel the burn. But it’s okay. It’s still fun. I’m really liking it a lot. But it is definitely intense now. To the point that, late last evening, I realized I had burned through more calories than I usually do and my tummy was empty. And wanting ice cream, of all things. So off to the dollar store I went!!

And, boy, did I stand there and ponder.  Because, you know, I don’t want to bombard myself with junk. But I really, really wanted ice cream. It’s great that they put the calorie count right on the front of the tubs now. So I went for the lowest-calorie one with the least amount of bad stuff in it that would still be considered delicious ice cream.

And as I was getting ready to pay for it, a wee tiny voice in the far back of my brain cried out plaintively: buy milk! buy milk!

But for some fucking reason, I did not buy milk!! And now I am out again! But I still have coffee to drink!!

Aaaarrrgggh… Back to the dollar store I shall have to go.

A few days ago, at the store in town, I bought a really cool looking jar of instant coffee. I never drink instant coffee. But this jar had the coolest shape to it, and it was actually made of glass. And it didn’t cost much. I was just so attracted to the jar itself. And the instant coffee made me think of my friend/colleague in Exeter, England — the musician/artist who is a Croatian war exile. (I’ve blogged about him before.) But when I stayed with him in his place in Exeter, we always drank instant coffee and had very long, wonderful conversations. So it made me think very fondly of him.

So I bought the instant coffee, and I’m actually drinking it now in the afternoons, which means I’m going through way more milk than usual. (Because instant coffee tastes terrible, so you have to put a lot of milk in it.)

I’m guessing you think I’m insane, but my point here is that it’s an hour there & back, to the fucking market, because I live in the fucking middle of nowhere. I’d really rather not buy milk from the dollar store or the gas station, unless it’s, like, right now, and I fucking have to because I’m out of it. Again.

Which sort of reminds me (only because my Croatian friend in Exeter is gay)… if loyal readers of this lofty blog recall that, early last summer, a deaf guy made me that guitar-pick necklace? Well, he is also mentally handicapped. He can speak, but he’s loaded with stuff to enable him to hear.

I saw him the other day. He said, “Do you still have that necklace I made for you?”

And of course, I do. I just treasure that thing. So much. I was astounded when he gave it to me.  Out of the clear blue sky. That he even thought of me at all.

Well, he looked depressed. I mean, he actually looked on the verge of tears. I said, “What’s wrong?” And he was very angry at his girl friend because she had called him a homosexual. And then he said, “But I’m bisexual. I’m not homosexual. It’s not the same thing. I like boys and girls.”

I was just astounded that he was telling me this. (But I blogged about this recently — how young guys have always seemed to feel very comfortable telling me about their sexuality.) I was very supportive of him, you know. Obviously.  And it sounds like his girlfriend is a bitch. I didn’t tell him that, but I did tell him that his girlfriend sounded ignorant and he might want to break up with her. But I thought to myself: wow, this is so amazing; he’s deaf and mentally handicapped and yet in touch with bisexuality.

Just kind of awesome, right? (Oh, plus, I’m old enough to be his grandmother.) Anyway, I told him that I understood what he was saying about himself because I was bisexual, too. That I like both guys and gals but that I’m not a lesbian.

And he said, “You’re bisexual?!”

I said, “Yes.”

And then he hugged me and he said, “I will keep this to myself.”

Oh my god. It was just too precious. Just so sweet. It made my day.

Okay, well. I’m gonna grab lunch. Finish the taxes. (I think. Maybe.) (In fact, Wayne, my ex-husband in NYC, just now texted me my old accountant’s current phone number in NYC because, clearly, this is the last time I should attempt to do my own taxes!) And then I’m gonna feel a little bit more of the Booty Core burn!!

Oh, and last night, as Kansas City was winning the Superbowl, oddly enough, I was watching the episode of Ken Burns’ Jazz that’s all about Count Basie and the Kansas City stomp/jazz/blues/swing era. Another really great episode!! So much stuff that I didn’t know about Kansas City. So I’m gonna leave you today with “One O’clock Jump”! By Count Basie and his Orchestra, from 1937. Enjoy, gang. It really swings.

Okay, thanks for visiting. Have a terrific Monday, okay? I love you guys. See ya!

With or Without the Cigarettes

Sort of an intense little morning here.

Some sad and very stressful stuff going on with my stepmom (she’s been immobilized in a nursing home for 11 years due to MS). And my friend who works for NASA who is dealing with advanced cancer finished his chemo and radiation treatments yesterday, so now we wait to find out if it was effective or not. I also have personal things on my mind that I don’t want to blog about (if you can even imagine me not wanting to blog about something personal).

Anyway. It’s getting me off to a slow crawl around here today, even though I’ve been awake for hours already.

Yesterday, though, I took another stab at some of those TV shows that I wish I could learn to like — Mrs. Maisel and Good Omens, specifically. But I’m still not connecting. However, I jumped in at Season 2 of Fleabag and I loved it. So I’m just going to bypass the rest of Season 1 because, for whatever reason, I wasn’t connecting to it, even though I really wanted to. But I’ve already watched most of Season 2 already — it’s just great.

I also bought a copy of Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens because everyone in America seems to have read it or is currently reading it and saying it is the best book they’ve read, ever, and that it is painfully beautiful. (God knows, I need a whole lot more beautiful pain in my life, but anyway.) So that arrived and I read the first page, but am not connecting yet because I have the revisions of Tell My Bones at the forefront of my brain right now. Plus, I’m still in the middle of reading my friend’s travel book about the Netherlands.

The new book has come to rest on my kitchen table for now. But this morning, as I was passing through the family room with my cup of coffee, one of the bookshelves in there caught my attention. And like a little light leaping out from a familiar dimension far, far away, Thoughts Without Cigarettes caught my eye.

Thoughts Without Cigarettes is the 3rd book from the left there. The red and black one.

I’ve read all the books in this particular row except that one. It is Oscar Hijuelos’ memoir. I have all of his books. I adore his writing style, his eye for passion and detail. (He died rather suddenly in 2013 at the age of 62.)

When I bought Thoughts Without Cigarettes, I was in Divinity School and could not make any headway in the book because I had to write so many papers every week for school. I usually had to write 4 or 5 intense academic papers a week, literally. Every week. Except for when I was taking that dreadful math class that I barely managed to get a low “B” grade in. During that class, I would spend each week trying not to shoot myself. Otherwise, though, Divinity School was all about writing papers (and reading a ton of academic books about the Old and New Testaments, Christian ethics, faith, devotion, Discipleship, etc., in order to write the papers). And I wanted to really just take my time and enjoy Oscar’s memoir, so I set it aside, waiting for the perfect time.

I have always had this dream that one day, I would have the perfect reclining chair, and the best reading lamp known to man, and I would have time to just sit there and read. Maybe even have a working fireplace, but that’s low down on the list.

For whatever reason, though, I have terrible lighting in this house. And no comfortable chairs at all. I either read at the kitchen table or  upstairs on my bed, because both rooms have a lot of windows so there’s plenty of natural light — which also means that reading at night is really hard on my eyes.

So, even though I love books and I love to read — this dream of me and simple, joyful reading becomes so elusive. Also, when you factor in my dysfunctional relationship with Time itself…

Well, as I was passing through the family room before, I stopped and stared at the spine of Thoughts Without Cigarettes and I remembered how much I wanted to read that memoir. And yet here it is, years later, plus I’ve also gone and bought yet another book.

Plus, I had made this weird sort of sudden and inexplicable vow to myself that during the holidays, I was going to finally read Bertram Cope’s Year. (Published in 1919 and written by Henry Blake Fuller. A hundred years seems long enough to wait to read a book…)

I shouldn’t make these weird vows to myself, though. It just adds more pressure, right? Of course I did not read it. I seem to recall being very busy angsting all through the holidays, or something like that. I don’t know. (And, yes, “angst” is an active verb for me.)

But me and books. Aaaarrrrgh.

And now I have this vow for 2020 wherein I’m trying to have at least some sort of new inflow of ideas into my brain. Or perhaps “culturally current” is more the idea I’m aiming at. So here I am again, with limited time and at the crossroads of new vs. not-so-new: Thoughts without Cigarettes (2011); Bertram Cope’s Year (1919) — vs. the Crawdad one, which has already been out since 2018 but counts as culturally current because everyone is still reading it.

Well, I don’t know. I guess we’ll just be like Enya and see what Time eventually tells us about where we’re going and everything else under the sun. (Actually, I can remember clearly, walking home along Broadway on the Upper West Side of Manhattan one chilly & grey afternoon, back when that Enya song was popular, and it was going over and over in my head, and I was thinking how much I really wanted a divorce and I didn’t know what I was going to do about that. Well, Time has indeed told us what I did about that, now that it’s 20 years later…)

But on that note, let me add — I am really loving Ken Burns’ Jazz documentary. (2008).  But each episode is nearly 2 hours long, so I can’t exactly binge watch it. It’s going to take me a while to get through it. But it’s so interesting.

Okay. I’m gonna scoot and get this day underway over here. Have a great Wednesday, wherever you are in the world and to wherever the day takes you. It’s a strange sort of foggy, chilly day here. A good day for feeling moody and  creative. (But keep in mind that it’s “Only Time” and it sure does gallop away.) Thanks for visiting, gang! I love you guys. See ya.

“Only Time”

Who can say where the road goes?
Where the day flows?
Only time.
And who can say if your love grows
As your heart chose?
Only time.

Who can say why your heart sighs
As your love flies?
Only time.
And who can say why your heart cries
When your love lies?
Only time.

Who can say when the roads meet
That love might be in your heart?
And who can say when the day sleeps
If the night keeps all your heart,
Night keeps all your heart?

Who can say if your love grows
As your heart chose?
Only time.
And who can say where the road goes?
Where the day flows?
Only time.

Who knows? Only time.
Who knows? Only time.

c – 2000 Enya

It Would Seem That All You Need Is Love

Once again, I can’t tarry too long on the blog.

Getting ready here to watch Doubt because there’s a character arc I want to pay attention to. I think it’s going to help me find my way with the character in Tell My Bones who needs a better arc. I have a vague feeling what’s motivating her (the character) but it hasn’t solidified yet for me.

So I’m gonna watch that movie here, momentarily.

I slept great. Although I woke up feeling a  tiny little bit depressed. So I’m battling that. Well, not really “battling,” but trying to focus instead on things that won’t let the depression gain any traction, any momentum.

The first line of action was to listen to a bunch of songs by George Harrison, of all people. Not that there is anything at all wrong with George Harrison, he’s just never been my “go to” for anything, really. Even though I have some of his records and know a ton of his songs…

Anyway. I’m all about allowing the impulses to flow. So I flowed George and it actually really helped me direct my thoughts into a different space. So the impetus of George was a success.

On a sad note… I have watched all the episodes of Black Books that there were to watch.  Darn it. That was a fun show, which required absolutely nothing from me except mindless watching and quite a bit of laughing.

Even though I’m sort of interested in watching Modern Love, mostly (well, only) because I love John Slattery, I’ve decided instead to watch Ken Burns’ Jazz on PBS first.  Because just the opening credits, you know — they completely pulled me in.

Image result for ken burns' jazz
“Gumbo” season 1, episode 1; New Orleans Jazz

But first, Doubt. Then a bunch of episodes of Jazz. Then write a bunch of masterpieces. Then have lunch…

Well, perhaps I expect too much, too soon. But that’s the overall game plan for maybe the upcoming week? (Well, assuming your week begins on Thursday, as mine apparently does.)

I don’t know about your zodiacal forecast, but the Lunar Eclipse we are about to embark upon is going to highlight my relationships — in a liberating way. So that’s exciting. But it’s not just a Lunar Eclipse, it’s a “Stellium.” Meaning that the Sun and Mercury are also converging and Saturn and Pluto are aligning with each other. This is supposed to trigger a new cycle for the whole world — which it would seem like we need.

So I’m psyched about that. (I actually am.)

This morning, while listening to George Harrison’s much-lesser-known song “I’d Have You Anytime,” I experienced a sort of spiritual visitation from the man who came into my life so beautifully and so briefly and then died — he visited me this morning. I know it was real. It was so strong, it brought intense tears to my eyes. I haven’t felt his spirit in a few months, it seems. So it was unexpected and so beautiful. So maybe that was part of me and my “liberating relationships” during the Lunar Eclipse-Stellium thing. It would seem like it, right? Especially since he put in his appearance during such an obscure song that imparts an idea of so much love.

Well, it made me intensely happy — but deep down at that level where beauty and tears completely intertwine with happiness.

Oddly, on that note, I’m gonna go watch Doubt. I hope you enjoy Thursday, wherever it leads you and wherever you are in the world. I love you guys so much. In fact, “I’d Have You Anytime.” Thanks for visiting. See ya.

“I’d Have You Anytime”

Let me in here, I know I’ve been here
Let me into your heart
Let me know you, let me show you
Let me roll it to you

All I have is yours
All you see is mine
And I’m glad to hold you in my arms
I’d have you anytime

Let me say it, let me play it
Let me lay it on you
Let me know you, let me show you
Let me grow upon you

All I have is yours
All you see is mine
And I’m glad to hold you in my arms
I’d have you anytime

Let me in here, I know I’ve been here
Let me into your heart

c – 1970 George Harrison, Dylan Robert