Well, this is just weird and I feel terribly guilty about it. But it was just too weird.
I wanted to see how that Town Hall theater in Dusseldorf was spelled, so I went to the LIVE section of the Nick Cave web site but the Dusseldorf event was gone, and then I saw, by chance or whatever you call it, that another show had been added in NYC, at Lincoln Center, for Saturday 9/21, when I will already be there in town.
So I clicked on it and saw that tickets were going to go on sale in 3 minutes. So for some reason, I clicked on the “tickets” button anyway, and the tickets were already on sale. And there before me was a little link that said: Get the best seat available, and so, out of curiosity, I thought, well, what is the best seat available? And so I clicked that link, too.
And it was like the best fucking seat. And it was available. And it was just so weird. No feeding frenzy. No nothing. Just an amazing seat in the 4th row of the Orchestra, sort of to the side. And I thought, what the fuck is this? A moment before this, I didn’t even know the concert was even happening.
So I bought the ticket. I clicked the link and they basically said, Here you go! Here’s your ticket.
And it just didn’t seem real.
And now I feel terrible, because some person out there is going to want at least one ticket for either show, and I now have 2 good tickets for both shows.
And I don’t really even understand how that happened.
I booked a suite at the Algonquin Hotel in New York for the night of September 23rd. I love that hotel. For its literary history, mostly, but it’s also just a really pretty, historic hotel that I have always loved.
I’m very happy. And I don’t care that I’ll be all by myself in way too many rooms. Nick Cave is having a Conversation that night in New York City, around the corner at Town Hall. Yay!
So now all I have to do is persuade everybody involved with my play (starting with Sandra, tomorrow morning) that the New York rehearsals for the staged reading (with all the musicians and tech people) have to take place right around that date because I really, really, REALLY don’t want to have to make three trips to NYC in the fall.
But I’m so excited. I love New York in late September. I love the Algonquin, and obviously I love Nick Cave. I even love Town Hall – I’ve seen some really amazing people there over the years.
I also decided this past fall, when I was last in New York, that I don’t do the ex-husband thing anymore.
I used to always, always, always, without fail, let my ex know when I would be in the city and we’d always get together and have dinner, walk around together, like old times, but you know what? I just suddenly came to a decision before that last trip that I couldn’t keep doing it. We still talk on the phone occasionally and email each other (I’m like that with both my ex’s). And they both buy me gifts for my birthday, for Christmas. Which is really nice and I’m grateful that they can each find it in themselves to think so kindly of me after marriages that were so incendiary.
But I finally realized, I left that second marriage because I was really, really, really unhappy. And even though I still interact with my second husband professionally (he was a professional theater actor for a really long time and he’s very good friends with Sandra), I would rather just be by myself in New York then pretend I wasn’t really unhappy in that marriage, which I tend to do when we go out to dinner together.
You know: Don’t say one fucking thing about how it really was; let’s just be nice and be friends. Pretend all that heartbreaking stuff didn’t happen. And then he’ll pick up the tab, which makes me feel like a child.
And I don’t want him to tell me anymore that he hopes my writing is going really well, as he’s helping me into a cab. And I don’t want to hear him say, ever again, anymore, ever: I hope you find yourself, Marilyn. I hope you’re happy.
Because the undertone is, well, you know.
(FYI: We spent our first anniversary at the Algonquin, so, for me, this will be, like, huge. To be there by myself. Just me. Happy little me.)
Another really interesting thing happened to me today. This guy I only know casually begged me to give him piano lessons.
He bought a piano. A really nice one. Really. And I said, “Wow, this is a nice piano.” And he said that he didn’t play and wanted to learn. And I said that it’s easy to learn and that there are those cool apps now that you can put on your phone and learn how to play.
Long story short, though, he wanted a human being to teach him how to play and begged me to teach him, when he found out that I knew how to play. As in, hire me to teach him how to play the piano.
So I finally agreed.
I’m sure it would not surprise any loyal readers of this lofty blog, to learn that playing the piano wound up being a really traumatizing thing for me. I mean, why wouldn’t it? Every single goddamned fucking thing in my life has traumatized me!
Okay, perhaps I exaggerate there, but I used to be an incredibly gifted pianist. And when I was 14, all the local piano teachers said that they’d taught me all they could and that I really needed to go to the Conservatory and study there. So my parents sent me. Well, my mom did because my dad was gone by then.
So this is where I studied, and I hated it:
Why, you may ask? Because it was intensely joyless. And it was frightening. Right away, focusing on Bach, which is, like, 17 different tempos for each hand, at once. and my teacher was incredibly strict. The only time she ever smiled at me was when I gave my first recital and blew everybody away.
And mostly I blew everybody away because I thought that if I didn’t, that crazy lady with the metronome would fucking kill me. I went to every single lesson with rabid butterflies in my stomach — yes, rabid; meaning, butterflies frothing at the mouth! I was so afraid of that teacher.
It was just awful – the pressure. And I couldn’t tell anybody how I felt because not only was I intensely shy, but my boyfriend had been killed by then, and the rapes had happened, and all of that. So my mind was just unraveling and it was hard for me to speak to people, about anything at all. And after the suicide attempt, when I was put in the mental hospital, there was a grand piano there and this really kind music therapist wanted me to play it as part of my therapy.
And I simply couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t. It was like I’d snapped. Part of me actually died, spiritually – the pianist part of me – after that suicide attempt. My guitar I could still play, but not the piano. I couldn’t handle it. I had been so traumatized by that teacher and her metronome and BACH… And even though I bought a piano a few years ago, I wound up giving it away. So it’s going to be interesting, teaching someone how to play.
I think it’ll actually be a really, really beautiful thing. I loved playing so very much – before all the pressure. I think it’ll be wonderful to go back to when everything was simple. You know: Here’s middle C.
Okay. Have a great night, gang! Wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting. I love you guys. See ya.
I guess a lot of people who remember CBGB‘s on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, recall the intense hideousness of the bathrooms there. I think they’ve mostly been guys talking about it, but the Ladies Room there was no better.
And I use that word “Ladies” as loosely as you can possibly imagine, gang.
The bathrooms there were just wretched but that’s also part of what made CBGB’s so endearing, really. At least in the Ladies Room there were actual stalls. But none of the stalls had doors. And the Ladies Room itself didn’t have a door, so if you had to go in there and pee, you would definitely have a random male audience in there, watching you pee.
I, of course, am easily flattered. I recall one night when I was in there peeing, and some guy was drinking a beer and just standing right there in front of the stall staring at me.
ME: “Get the fuck outta here!”
HIM: “No way. You’re too pretty.”
ME (thinking): Well, okay, if you put it that way…
I’m bringing up CBGB’s today because it is an extraordinary day today. Blare N. Bitch turns 60!!! Can you believe it, gang? What I cannot believe is how fucking great she still looks!!
Here’s a couple of my favorite shots of her from something like 2015.
I don’t know if I’d be ruining her reputation by saying that she’s a really sweet and funny person. She’s kind of quiet and very endearing.
I also want to say right up front here that what I’m writing about today is a memory from a really long time ago. We’re just friends now and she’s been very happily in love with her soulmate for something like 25 years or more.
But when I first met her, in 1982, I fell absolutely totally 100% in love with her. OMG. Her eyes were so pretty. So dark. I felt like I was literally falling into centuries of past lives when I was looking at her face.
I was a long-haired, bisexual folk singer in those days. I wore black mini-skirts and cowboy boots. Played an acoustic guitar in clubs in the West Village. And she played bass in an all-girl punk band that played the clubs on the Lower East Side. She always wore black jeans and a motorcycle jacket. That kind of thing.
I saw her play at CBGB’s a number of times, but we knew a lot of the same musicians and once she and I were both at CBGB’s to watch somebody else’s band play.
What happened before we went into the bathroom is kind of hazy because I drank like a fucking fish back then. But I’m guessing I was telling her how crazy in love I was with her (we only knew each other casually at this point). I know, though, that going into the Ladies Room was her idea, and that making out there in the stall was her idea. But I also know it was the very best idea God ever gave to anyone on Earth, ever. Even though through some of it, we had that random male audience.
Mostly, we just kissed (a lot). But since she was the only person in the Universe that I wanted to kiss, it’s one of the very few kisses I still remember after nearly 59 years of being alive.
I could have spent the rest of my life kissing her, but it didn’t work out that way. We didn’t really mesh at first. Heroin was a big part of her life then, and I was heavily into speed when I wasn’t drinking like a fish (and most of the time, I did both at the same time). Even though I remained hopelessly in love with her, it was a couple of years before we finally meshed. For fleeting moments over several ensuing years, she was clean and I was sober.
Out of the blue, she showed up at one of my gigs. She was back in NYC after some gigs in Europe and I did not know she was back. Oddly enough, that was the night that I played “Where Do Dark Girls Go?” in my set for the first time. And it was a song I’d written for her, and I said as much from the stage, not having a clue that she was sitting out there.
She left before the gig was over. I only found out that she’d been there because other people told me she’d been there. But she called me on the phone a couple days later – a thing she never, ever did. And for a little while after that, it was Heaven on Earth time, you know?
Man. Making love with her was exactly like that soundtrack. Just too beautiful. Too haunting. Too extraordinary. And I felt like: Oh, so this is why I’m still alive; God wanted me to know about this.
And it happened in that wretched little apartment of mine on E. 12th Street, which just proves that you can be in the depths of Hell and not even notice it because God arrives anyway, with those breathtaking gifts.
We did stuff like hung out in bars together, we saw David Bowie together at Madison Square Garden. We did random stuff, but times that stand out most for me were those times alone with her in my bed on 12th Street where everything else in the world stopped and fell away and time stood still and God said something like, “Here you go. Enjoy this gift. But don’t get too used to it because life really isn’t like this. Nothing can sustain this kind of beauty forever.”
Life just keeps pushing forward. Just on and on, evolving forward, right? You can’t stop it. She eventually went to L.A. and never came back. And then, of course, my own life happened, too.
But nothing before her or since her resonated like that. You know, like celestial violins playing while atomic bombs are dropping everywhere. I don’t know quite how to describe it because the lives we were living at that point in the mid-80s were very painful in a lot of ways. We were both searching for things and running from things and surrendering to things and fighting off awfulness. And then suddenly in all of that, we’d be making love.
I once sent her a single translated stanza from Baudelaire’s poem, Femmes Damnees from his book Les fleurs du mal:
Ah, look not so, dear sister, look not so! You whom I love, even though that love should be A snare for my undoing, even though Loving I am lost for all eternity.
I meant it totally back then, and in a ghostly sort of way, I still feel it now. In that way that haunting phantoms sort of linger.
Okay, well, I’m gonna leave you with your choice of 3 “soundtracks” from back then, each are equally part of how I felt for her. Each are songs I played on my record player nonstop back then, in that room on E.12th Street where so much heaven came home to roost, if only fleetingly.
Although today, the song is actually from the East Village, circa 1984. (As usual, if you’re on your phone, you gotta turn it sideways to see this music-related post.)
You’ll notice, once you scroll down a little, that my hairstyle changed drastically by the time I was living in the East Village (also called Alphabet City back then).
The East Village (Avenues A through D, and E.14th Street to Houston Street) has been completely gentrified nowadays, but back then, you only ventured into the East Village if you were either Puerto Rican and born there, or you were really poor and/or a struggling artist of some sort and still wanted to live on the island of Manhattan.
I, of course, fell into the 2nd category.
I left my first husband in 1983. Technically, I left because of a misunderstanding. I was pretty sure he’d told me to get out. He claims he didn’t say this and was furious when I left him, refusing to divorce me for another 7 years. However, he was always saying these weird, convoluted things to me, like, “Has it ever occurred to you to stop taking drugs??!!” “Are you ever going to grow up??!!” “Are you ever going to stop fucking around with musicians [male & female] and behave like my wife??!!”
ME: (Question #1)Yes.
ME: (Question #2) I’m not sure.
ME: (Question #3) No.
So I moved out and all I could afford was a 2 bedroom floor-through in an old tenement on E. 12th Street, between Avenues A & B. But don’t let it fool you; the “bedrooms” were only big enough for a bed, and there were no doors – one room led right into the next. There was a non-working fireplace in the front room, and a non-working fireplace in the kitchen, along with the cast iron bathtub. However, someone along the way had been thoughtful enough to put in a half-wall of glass brick to sort of give a feeling of privacy to the bathtub, so that was super nice! People sitting at the kitchen table didn’t have to look directly at you while you were bathing. And then the toilet was in a tiny closet at the very back.
The entire apartment was maybe about 600 square feet, and the whole building leaned in the direction of the East River, so you had to get used to walking, sleeping, and sitting on an extreme slant. I can remember sitting at my kitchen table and writing in my journals, feeling like the chair would topple backwards at any moment, the sloping floor was that extreme.
But I lived there for 9 years until I ventured into my 2nd marriage (where the questions put to me by my second husband were remarkably similar!).
I have some amazing memories from that era in the East Village, gang. I was still playing music out in clubs all the time. I had a new band and sometimes I had a manager (although we argued a lot and often she was indescribably pissed off at me because I was indescribably opinionated). I had indescribably huge amounts of sex in that apartment, too. And some of it was actually really good sex, too. I wrote constantly. Songs, mostly. But I wrote in my journals all the time, documenting everything, including my own insanity. And I also began taking my fiction writing seriously while living in that apartment – I was living there when I first started getting published in underground zines.
The neighborhood itself was just awful. It was full of deserted tenements that looked like bombed-out buildings. These were called shooting galleries because junkies would go in there to have a semblance of privacy while they were shooting up or nodding out. Because of the heroin problems down there, crime was also really bad. And when crack came in, the neighborhood got vicious.
But art was all over. Iggy Pop lived a couple blocks from me in one direction. Richard Hell and Allen Ginsberg lived a block away in the other direction (not with each other, though). Life Cafe was around one corner, where a number of my friends gave poetry readings, and The Ritz was around the other corner (where I saw many cool musicians, including but not limited to: Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds, Nina Hagen, and Lou Reed. And back then, tickets to these shows cost $13.50)
There were a number of sex clubs in the East Village, where BDSM was going into some really dark realms. Stuff was going on that even I would shy away from. There were a few after hours bars. The Mafia had a store front up the block from me. There were dirty cops on the take all over the place; cops from the 9th Precinct, which was just a horrible precinct back then. Dirty cops scared me more than anything I had encountered up to that point, and by then I had already been raped a number of times. But dirty cops were just fucking scary. I accidentally walked in to a video store on Avenue A once, when a cop was in the middle of a payoff. He saw me see it, unfortunately, and even though I tried really hard not to see it and left right away, he followed me all the way home. And the cops did shit to my friends that was truly terrifying.
There were people having sex in the parks all night, including friends of mine who were turning tricks there to make enough money to score heroin. They were wretched little parks. They had swing sets and sliding boards and teeter-totters for the little poor kids who would play there during the day. But then public sex was rampant there during the night.
Of course AIDS was everywhere by then. Most of my friends were dying from it, right and left. I literally lost count of how many friends died from AIDS. And it was also during this time period that I volunteered for Visiting Nurse Services of NY and watched a lot of people die (see my post about Peter Hujar here.) I was also taking that songwriting workshop with Jim Carroll at that point and was writing some really cool songs.
The one I posted today is called Avenue A. It’s a rockabilly number, actually. This is a 24-track demo, but still analogue. Rob Nash is playing the electric guitar (check it out – he was great.) His wife, Judy, was on drums. Lloyd Blake was on bass and then me on acoustic and vocals. This is a really fun demo, gang. I always liked it.
All righty. So here’s the hair from that era. First, me on the Double R subway train during the daytime, with no make-up and no Aqua Net hairspray:
The performer version of me back then, with make-up and hairspray. You can see here that Aqua Net hairspray really was awesome stuff!
All righty, gang!! I gotta get crackin’ around here. Hard at work on Chapter 20 of Blessed By Light. Thanks for visiting! I love you guys. See ya!
Do you notice how sometimes when you’re sick, you wake up and think, Hey I feel lots better today, and so you try to do a million things only to make yourself 10 times sicker than you were even the day before?
That was me yesterday. But because of that, I spent a lot of really spacey, sort of drug-induced dreaminess in bed this morning because I was incapable of doing anything else but just lie there for 5 hours, trying to drink coffee.
And I was thinking about my Lou Reed birthday post from yesterday, and thinking about that song Walk on the Wild Side and how much it meant to me when I was growing up, and how songs like that literally helped get me to NYC – helped me find my way there.
I moved there when I was 20, in 1980, thinking I would stay one year and then move to L.A. But once I got to New York, it was like everything I ever dreamed life was supposed to be, and also a whole lot worse. So I stayed there for nearly 30 years.
I think of those years in NYC as “my life” and everything that came afterwards as basically just the stuff I need to do before I die. Well, I did fall in love recently and that might change things, change my take on the world. It’s too soon to know for sure but I guess we’ll see.
Anyway. Loyal readers of this lofty blog know that pretty much the very instant I moved to NYC, I fell in love with an older man who turned out to be a hitman for the Mob and then I launched myself headlong into a pregnancy with him that devastated me. And in the middle of all that, John Lennon was killed, and he was truly one of my girlhood heroes. All of this was, literally, within a month of my moving to NYC. Once you get NYC into your veins like that — and it was so easy to do back then; it was a whole other world then — you just can’t get it out of your system, really. I became a New Yorker, like, overnight.
In the mid-1980s, I joined the Visiting Nurse Services of NY as a volunteer, because of the AIDS crisis going on back then. I went into the homes of people in the last stages of AIDS and tried to help make their lives easier in anyway they needed until they died, which was usually right away. By the time they sent someone like me into someone’s home, it was sort of the death knell.
THEM: “You’re not a nurse.”
ME: “No, I’m not.”
THEM: “Who are you?”
ME: “I’m just here to help you with whatever you need from now on.”
One of my patients was an aging black pimp up in Harlem, who had this amazing apartment straight out of the 1920s, and a wife who was still working as a prostitute, who was part black and part Chinese, who looked & dressed like an aging dragon lady. (Yes, folks, from that slice of my reality, my now classic erotic novella Neptune & Surf was born.) That particular patient – a pimp who kept his wife turning tricks until the final moment – only wanted me to read to him from the Bible, which I did, until he died.
Another patient of mine lasted for quite a few months when they assigned me to him. I was 27 at the time. You know, this kind of work is very confidential. However, not only was this over 30 years ago, the patient’s Significant Other mentioned me at the funeral, so that was public, and so now I feel I want to go public, too.
That particular patient was the photographer, Peter Hujar. A gentle, warm, lovely man. A very talented photographer who documented so much of the NYC I lived in — and had gone to NYC to experience in the first place. He had some truly famous, and infamous, photos framed and mounted on the walls of his modest apartment.
I bring all this up in connection to Lou Reed’s song, Walk on the Wild Side, because Peter Hujar took some iconic photos of men and drag queens from that era, including the men Lou sang about in that song.
When Peter first let me into his apartment that first day, I looked at all those photos hanging there on the walls and was stunned. I said, “Did you take all of these? I know these photos.” They were truly part of my life.
He was already so fragile by then, even though he would live a couple more months. But that day, he said to me, “You’re just perfect, you know that? I apologize for being so sick.” In the early days of the AIDS crisis, the patients were basically treated like they were radioactive, because the disease was not understood yet but it was killing everybody. Most people back then would not get near anyone who was known to have AIDS. It was hard for the nurses to find enough volunteers. For some reason, I never had a fear of being around them. I saw them as people who needed help while they were dying and that fear was never going to be the right response when anyone needed help while they were dying.
Yesterday, when I posted about how the song Walk on the Wild Side helped shape my life, making me who I am, I meant it on so many levels. Even though I’m almost 60 now, those very early days of mine in NYC seem like they truly happened just yesterday.
I’m not sure why so many gay men, drag queens, heroin addicts, gay alcoholic poets and painters, had such an enormous influence on who I was and who I became as a writer and as a woman, but they really did. A song like Walk on the Wild Side is part of my DNA now.
And I think that when people in Toronto (and sooner or later NYC), finally see the one-woman show I’ve been working on for 5 years now with Sandra Caldwell about her own life (The Guide to Being Fabulous), you’ll agree that the two of us meeting at all was pure destiny from the word go.
I was totally born to do this, to help bring her incredible story to the stage. My play, Tell My Bones, about the painter Helen LaFrance that I wrote for Sandra, is a beautiful piece of theater that I want to share with the world. But being part of a play like The Guide to Being Fabulous is why I was born.
Yes, it’s that time! When I regale you with another one of my songs from my Hell’s Kitchen singer-songwriter days. (If you’re on your phone, you gotta turn it to the side to see this post correctly.)
This is a song I wrote in 1982. I wrote it primarily for Blare N. Bitch (who was not called that back then, and back then, she played bass) because I was indescribably in love with her, but I also wrote it for all the other girl-musicians around the Lower East Side back then, who all had dark hair, played punk rock, and wore black leather motorcycle jackets. And, of course, played around with all that heroin until it became a really bad habit.
I never, ever touched heroin because I knew I would be a prime candidate for becoming an addict. Plus, heroin seemed to be better suited to the girls who played electric guitars. I already had a ferocious problem with pills and bourbon. But I played folk-country music in Greenwich Village (the lower West side), so pills and bourbon fit in just fine there. (I’m only partially kidding.)
Once again, this is the only digital demo of this song that I have. It’s not my favorite because I prefer the very first, homemade demos, of all the songs I wrote. But it’s an okay one. I definitely love the guitar work here, just not crazy about the vocals.
Blare N. Bitch of course got clean, moved to LA, stayed clean – lo! these many decades later – got all inked up and is a truly awesome heavy metal guitar player, even though all of us are now pushing [WHISPERS]: sixty!
But it was a pretty good act, wasn’t it? You probably couldn’t see me at all — for, like 8 or 9 days!
Except maybe for my quite comely yet furry little ears….
Anyway, yes! I’ve been away from the blog! I’ve been hard at work doing stuff! Like working on a new chapter in Blessed By Light. And working on a new chapter in Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. And having my first meeting with the director on my new play! And now working on some revisions for the play. (The stage adaptation of Tell My Bones.)
And, most importantly of all, I was hard at work taking out the front right end of my Honda Fit by hitting an enormous pothole in the road! Man, what a huge mess. It completely obliterated the tire. Bent the steel wheel rim. Put the whole car way out of alignment. Indescribably expensive stuff. The only thing that I didn’t have to pay through the nose for was the tow truck.
So that was fun.
But all in all, things are good. I need that car to get me back & forth to NYC again in the near future — and probably a few times — so, alas, gotta keep the car perfect.
Yes! More trips to NYC are on the horizon. There will be a couple of staged readings of the play in the intensely beautiful village of Rhinebeck NY, and then probably at least one in New York City itself. But there will be plenty of rehearsals there before the readings occur. (Loyal readers of this lofty blog no doubt recall that for a couple of years, I was planning to move to Rhinebeck, only to end up in the intensely quirky and magical village of Crazyland in Muskingum County, Ohio! So any opportunity to get back to Rhinebeck makes me really happy.)
I’m happy, just overall. Actually, I’m over the moon.
You know, it recently occurred to me that many light years ago, in a galaxy far, far away — meaning, the very first time I went to college, right after high school — I majored in Theater and really wanted to be a playwright. For some inexplicable reason I had forgotten about this. However, what I wanted more was to go to NYC and be a singer-songwriter, which is what I ended up doing once I promptly dropped out of college. But as anyone who knows me knows so well, that once I was living in NYC, I attended every single Broadway play, and Off-Broadway play, and Off-Off-Broadway play, and plays in the most unexpected hard-to-find venues, etc., etc. I have always just loved theater. So for all of this to be happening now — lo! these many decades later — I can’t even tell you how happy and astonished it makes me feel, to have it all unfolding like this.
Well, we’ve been working on both these plays for several years (Tell My Bones and The Guide to Being Fabulous), but still. Now suddenly it’s all happening, with prospects at 2 incredible theaters in the US and Canada, and it’s almost hard to believe.
I think the person who’s happiest for me, oddly enough, is my first husband. We have been divorced for almost 30 years, but when we were married, in 1981, we lived in a small apartment that was a hop, skip, and a jump from the theater district in Manhattan and he remembers quite well how much I loved the theater. So he is kinda over the moon with happiness for me, too.
It’s an incredible feeling. To suddenly come full circle when you absolutely least expect it.
Truly loyal readers of this lofty blog, might possibly recall that for over 20 years, I believed that my first husband was dead. Two summers ago, he popped back up, in an email, that said, “Hi how are you doing?” And I wrote back, “WTF??!! I thought you had died!! Where have you been for 20 years??!! We were all trying to find you!!” And he said, “Sorry. I was really busy.”
I’ve lived long enough now to know that if a man says that he’s been really busy for 20 years, just accept it and move on. Because you probably don’t really want to know “busy with what?”
But anyway. It’s funny. If you can manage to live long enough, the most amazing dreams come true. (In ways that I can’t even go into here on the blog. It is sufficient to say that I am incredibly happy.)
Well, I must get crackin’ here now and start writing. Thanks for visiting, gang, and sorry for the long delay in posting. Have a wonderful Wednesday wherever you are in the world. I love you guys!! See ya.