Tag Archives: Tell My Bones: The Helen LaFrance Story

Off We Go!! Or Maybe Not!!

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I have been trying to get to this blog post for, like, hours. I keep getting distracted. By weird stuff.

You know how your mind will just follow all these weird thought-currents and you don’t even realize you’re doing it? And you’re sort of puttering, too? And everything’s getting to be just a big sort of tangled up ball of thought-strings as you’re puttering far from your computer??

Yes, that’s me. Almost always, frankly — but this morning it seems to be more pronounced. Because I’m finally just sitting down to blog, one and a half hours later than I usually do, and I haven’t actually done anything different today.

I woke up at 5am — and this is truly weird for me — thinking about the Pink Floyd song “Shine On You Crazy Diamond.”

I do not care for Pink Floyd.  And the only song of theirs that I actually ever liked was “Shine On You Crazy Diamond.” But I think it could have been greatly enhanced by being 3 minutes long instead of over thirteen minutes long…. but that’s just me. (Yes, I miss the entire point of Pink Floyd’s music. I’m okay with that, though.)

To me, Pink Floyd was always “boys music.” All the boys loved Pink Floyd, but I didn’t know a single girl who owned a Pink Floyd record (including me).

But I laid there in the dark, wondering why I was singing “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” immediately upon awakening. I hadn’t thought of that song in probably 47 years. (Actually, I think that means I hadn’t thought of the song until well before it was written.) Still. Long time.

Then I realized, well, I was in the mental hospital the first time I heard that song. Maybe that’s why I was thinking about it. I googled the lyrics and thought, “Well, it is a cool song so that’s probably why I liked it. Still, it’s way too long….”

And then I remembered that a really, really long-time girlfriend of mine, from my wee bonny girlhood in Cleveland, dated David Gilmour briefly. They met in an airport, during some sort of bad-weather layover.  Boston, I think. This was somewhere in the 1980s. I think. I can’t remember. But she was/is really beautiful. At that point in her life, she was a very successful fashion designer for Pierre Cardin in NYC. She got me my first job in NYC, actually, so I was able to move there and have a job waiting for me — I was a receptionist for a really successful menswear designer. (Not Pierre Cardin.) And I worked in the Empire State Building and I sat at a big desk behind big glass doors with gold lettering on them. And I was fresh from Ohio, mind you. Right off the boat, as it were (although I arrived in an airplane…)

In those days, I have to keep stressing that we didn’t even have something like MTV yet — it wasn’t even close to existing. The world was still an enormous place — it got much smaller and much more global with cable TV. And especially with MTV.

It used to take forever for current fashions to reach the Midwest because we had no real frame of reference for information to travel quickly. Ohio was always a couple years behind the fashions of either coast. And NYC, in particular, was intensely haute couture.  So there I sat, behind those huge glass doors, at that big desk, at a hugely successful fashion design company, in my Ohio dresses that were outdated by a couple of years.

I couldn’t afford to buy any new clothes yet because NYC was incredibly expensive. It was hard on me, emotionally, because I was only 20 and, you know, those things like “what you wear” matter a lot when you’re 20.

Well, I quickly learned everything about the fashion designing business and I thought it was super cut-throat and mean and diabolical and fake and just awful. And was I terrible at my job. Just abysmal. They fired me after 6 months, but I hated that job and that world and I was super excited to get fired, so, you know, “don’t cry for me, Argentina,” or anything.

However. I think David Gilmour was a bit of a heavy imbiber/recreational drug-sort-of user back then, and so my girlfriend didn’t really hit it off with him too well and stopped seeing him pretty much right away.

But I do find it exceedingly interesting that his current wife, Polly, is a dead ringer for how my girlfriend looked. It’s uncanny, really — how similar they look.

None of this is leading to anything, though, because this is just an example of all the strange stuff going on in my head this morning. And I still have no clue why I was singing that song when I woke up.

And I did fall back to sleep, btw. And had a couple of those sort of astral projection type dreams. I don’t usually have those. But when I do, I only astrally project within my house. I don’t travel anywhere else. So that’s weird, right? Why go to all this trouble to leave your body and then just go sit at your kitchen table? You can (and do) do this while you’re awake…

So that’s a big question mark, too, this morning: Why on Earth do I do the things I do?

Well, who knows. So.

The director of Tell My Bones is set to call here momentarily, to begin the discussions for getting the table read in NYC underway. So that’s exciting, but it’s also making my tummy a little nervous. I’m so glad I don’t have to cast that thing. Seriously. It makes me a little anxious. Let’s just do some sort of creative visualization (meaning: right now, you & me) that everyone who’s incredibly and astoundingly talented will just show up and be there. And then all I have to do is show up and be there, too.

You know, strategies like that have actually worked well for me. So I’m gonna stick with it.

Meanwhile. I’m gonna get moving here!! It’s been such a weird morning. But thanks for visiting. I hope Monday is all you’re hoping it will be and then some! I’m leaving you with my theme song! I think they’re gonna play this when they bury me (or enshrine me or something like that)… All righty. I love you guys. See ya.

“Don’t Cry For Me Argentina”

It won’t be easy, you’ll think it strange
When I try to explain how I feel
That I still need your love after all that I’ve done

You won’t believe me
All you will see is a girl you once knew
Although she’s dressed up to the nines
At sixes and sevens with you

I had to let it happen, I had to change
Couldn’t stay all my life down at heel
Looking out of the window, staying out of the sun

So I chose freedom
Running around, trying everything new
But nothing impressed me at all
I never expected it to

Don’t cry for me Argentina
The truth is I never left you
All through my wild days
My mad existence
I kept my promise
Don’t keep your distance

And as for fortune, and as for fame
I never invited them in
Though it seemed to the world they were all I desired

They are illusions
They are not the solutions they promised to be
The answer was here all the time
I love you and hope you love me

Don’t cry for me Argentina
The truth is I never left you
All through my wild days
My mad existence
I kept my promise
Don’t keep your distance

c – 1976  Andrew Lloyd Webber, Tim Rice

It’s So Fucking Hard to be Good!

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(Yes, yes, I know — it’s so fucking good to be hard, too. But we’re not going there! This is a tasteful blog!!) (I know, like — since when??)

Anyway. I digress already!!

Last night, at the Rowland S. Howard Pop Crimes tribute in London, Nick Cave sang “Shivers” and it was so fucking amazing. I am so serious. His voice was incredible. The song sounded so beautiful.

I wasn’t there, obviously. I was toiling away for hours, here at my mini-desk in Crazeysburg, working on Girl in the Night. But people who actually were there began posting to Instagram right away. Even Nick Cave’s wife posted to Instagram right away — a 59 second video of him singing. (Yeah, I know — I was kinda thinking: really? you think you ought to be doing that? setting that kind of an example and all?) Still, I was indescribably grateful because the song sounded so fucking good.

I knew it had to be on YouTube somewhere — the complete performance of that song. And I hate supporting that kind of thing because, in America anyway, that is a total violation of all sorts of copyrights. It’s not an American song, or an American performance, and probably not an American uploading it to YouTube, so I don’t know the actual laws on that, but still. I don’t like to support that kind of thing. However, I did find it immediately and I did listen to it twice.

Jesus, it was so good. It made me feel so happy — Nick Cave’s voice has never sounded better. Really. I feel certain that Rowland S. Howard was smiling all over that performance.

Well, regarding the new segments of Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. If you’ve read them, you’ll see that they are indeed quite different from the other segments of the book. I’m not sure why they came out that way, but they did.

I know that some of the guys and gals I met in the mental hospital will reappear in a later “Letter” and it will likely be more graphic in nature — I fell in love in the hospital, but I also did have a ton of sex in that place (and I never got caught, even though a few times, it was by the skin of my teeth, as they say. A lot of the other kids in there did get caught having sex, and when that happened, the Administration came down really hard. There was really hell to pay then, because the hospital was legally obligated to tell the parents, and so then the parents got involved and you can just imagine how awful that was for the teenagers. Anyway. I never got caught.).

(Oh, and there was this one girl in there that I really just hated and she hated me. And she was so jealous that I was having all that oral sex with the blue-eyed blond boy — and he was really cute and he did really excel at his, well, craft or whatever. But that girl was so jealous that she finally convinced him, behind my back, to have sex with her, too. But for some reason, she actually had intercourse with him. And then she told me. Because she wanted to hurt my feelings. And it hurt like crazy — although I wasn’t a big fan of intercourse and couldn’t really imagine why she thought that was better than having oral sex because, I’ll tell you, that boy was good at it. But, regardless. Me being that easy- breezy 1967-type of no-strings gal (see the recent Glen Campbell post and “Gentle on My Mind”), I tried to act like I wasn’t really, really hurt by this. Well, then…as God would have it… the girl’s Fallopian tubes swelled up! It got really bad. So they made her go to the gynecologist, too, and he of course, discerned that she’d been having intercourse and she got into HUGE trouble. Just huge. Because they told her parents and her dad was a freaking minister. Seventh Day Adventist, to boot. Really strict and conservative, and she got into so much trouble; she was put on room arrest and all her privileges were taken away. And then some other female-organ complication ensued wherein she had to have an enema, too. Poor thing. I was de-lighted.)

Okay, anyway.

For whatever reason, #6 & 7 are just really different segments of the book. And I’m going to let them stand as they are, because that’s how they wanted to come out.

Well, it is continuing to snow here — like, for real. Snow everywhere, and it’s accumulating. So that’s really nice. I love snow.

And yesterday afternoon, Wayne finally called me from NYC to tell me he loved the new version of Tell My Bones and he didn’t see anything wrong at all with the ending.

So I guess I’m signing off on it. And moving forward. It’s such a weird feeling. I know that more tweaks will happen as the readings and the rehearsals and then the play itself is actually underway, still, for now, the play is done. And it’s hard for me to wrap my mind around that because I’ve been working on this theatrical adaptation of Tell My Bones since 2016.

Plus, it also means, we are indeed finally moving forward. Wow. Exciting. I know that some really talented people are going to get pulled into these roles — I just know it.

Well, today, I’m going to get back to In the Shadow of Narcissa. While researching more potential small presses to send Blessed By Light to (in the event I ever hear back from any of the other publishers I queried and they decline it), I did notice quite a few chapbook publishing options for a book like Narcissa. So that was cool. And yesterday, I got a really nice comment from an online reader, and it sort of solidified for me that, even though Narcissa is getting emotionally difficult for me to write, it will be a really, really good thing to keep moving forward with it. So I’m going to get back to that today.

Before I close, Wayne told me the coolest story yesterday.  In NYC, a lot of people sell used books on the street as a way to make money. And over a year ago, Wayne bought a hard cover edition of Chuck Berry’s Autobiography. The guy selling it only wanted two dollars, even though Wayne offered to give him more than that because it was a hard cover. But all the guy wanted was two dollars.

So Wayne gave him the two dollars and then took the book home, set it on a coffee table and then, over a year later, finally decides he wants to read it. He opens the book and it’s not only a first edition, but it’s signed by Chuck Berry. And not only is it signed by him, but there’s also a personal inscription because Chuck Berry apparently actually knew the guy who was buying the book.

So, wow. That was a really cool thing to get for two dollars. But then, as Wayne is reading the book, in small chunks, on subways and on city buses, etc., he was then in the Union Club yesterday, on Park Avenue, still reading the book and suddenly a $50 bill falls out from between some of the back pages! And he was, like, “Where the hell did that come from?” So he flips through the back pages of the book and there was a ton of money in it! Over $200 in 50s and 20s!! And it had been sitting like that in the apartment of over a year.

And on top of all that — Wayne said that the book is actually really good!

Isn’t that an amazing story?! All right. I’m gonna scoot and get down to work here. Tomorrow is all about Abstract Absurdity with Peitor again, so I really want to try to focus on Narcissa here today.

Have just a wonderful Thursday, wherever you are in the world. I’m not gonna leave you with what I would really love to leave you with today, but I just don’t think it’s okay to do that. So I’ll just leave you with this. It’s from an Australian news site, and I’m guessing there’s a copyright on the photo, too, but I can’t find a name (and I did look).  Okay, I love you guys. See ya!

Image result for rowland s. howard pop crimes tribute london 2020
Nick Cave singing “Shivers” last night at the Rowland S. Howard tribute concert in London.

Let’s Try That Again!

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So, today, I’ve been awake since 3am. No fears of oversleeping today, I guess.

Late last evening (my time zone, anyway), I got a text from Peitor, saying that he was on his way out to have a meeting.  I know the person he was meeting with and it was sort of a big deal, so that sort of stressed me a little. (See last evening’s post.)

He and I are very different in that way. When something in my life blindsides me, I sort of retreat to my little cave, re-group mentally, try to see where I’m coming from spiritually — you know, get a feel for what’s motivating me — before I do anything like take any meetings. I’ve known Peitor forever now, and he is the exact opposite from me in that regard. So I didn’t say anything. I trust him. But it still stressed me out. So I went to sleep kind of early. Hence, wide awake at 3am.

But I did see — upon scrolling through Instagram in the dark at that ridiculous hour — that for the first time in over a year (and I mean that literally), Susie Cave posted a sort of happy song in her Instagram feed. It’s literally been over a year. And not only have the songs she’s posted over the past year tended to be unhappy ones, but often they seemed so unhappy that they’ve made me actually gasp. So I think maybe this is a good sign? Something hopeful?

(Well, that, or she’s using Ghosteen just to sell dresses and I seriously don’t want to believe something like that.)

Well.

We are inching toward the Lenten season. I don’t always observe the Lenten season, but when I do, I follow the Franciscan prayers. I’m a big believer in St. Francis — I pray to him every day because he is the Patron Saint of animals. And even though I know he can’t protect all the animals, I pray to him to also help sustain my heart, to help it find strength and a way to heal, in the event that animals are suffering anywhere around me.

I haven’t wanted to post this to the blog, because it was such an open sore for me, but several months back, that favorite pasture of mine with the dozens of happy cows that I had to drive past to get into town? The guy there sold all of his cows to slaughter on the very same day. All of them. Cows, bulls, frolicking little calves. Gone to slaughter. A few dozen. Those cows always made me so happy.

I was of course driving when I saw this and I really just didn’t know what to do. I was just devastated, but I was behind the wheel of a moving car and fellow drivers all around me are counting on me not to lose my fucking mind.

Well, it’s at times like those when I really need St. Francis to figure out how to pull me through. Because I just don’t understand why people don’t think that animals’ lives are just as sacred as our own. I just don’t get it.

Anyway. A whole heck of a lot of people don’t agree with me on that, or that any lives are sacred, really, so on we go.

Lent. With or without St. Francis, I don’t always practice Lent. Mostly because, during some years, I don’t have it in me to have the Holy Week under a microscope. One of the very, very few things about Jesus of Nazareth that ancient sources agree on is that Jesus was crucified by the Romans. And that still makes me physically ill.

Why he was crucified is certainly debated. What happened to him immediately after that is the stuff that entire religions are crafted from! But the seeming fact remains: Jesus was crucified. (As was one of his brothers, and one of his great-great-great grandsons (or great nephew); and his other brother, James, had his legs broken by the High Priests and was then stoned to death. Basically, any men they could find who were still walking around that had even a shred of Jesus’s bloodline in them were systematically done away with. And while this isn’t proof that Jesus was considered the bloodline contender for King of the Jews, it does lend credibility to that theory. Because having a “fake” appointed king (Herod) opposed by a traditional (bloodline) king (Jesus) was going to be a real problem in Jerusalem for the Romans. And by “King of the Jews,” I’m referring to the traditional Hebrew belief that the next King (or Messiah) would be, in fact, two men — one who could trace his lineage to Aaron and the priesthood; and the other who could trace his bloodline to David, the king. And both men had to appear at the same time and within the same family, basically. And James was certainly a priest. That is well understood — even Paul could not completely wipe James out of the history books. But, to be fair, Paul was more focused on deifying Jesus and on making Jesus palatable to the Pagans, and on that score he was wildly successful. But I’m saying that from two thousand years of hindsight; I’m guessing that when Paul was (allegedly) beheaded by the Romans, he wasn’t feeling wildly successful. However, James was not of the recognized “High Priesthood” in Jerusalem, because those men were strictly appointed by the Romans, once Herod was declared King of the Jews by the same Romans. So, it’s Roman regulations versus traditional Hebrew beliefs and the Romans, of course, won through oppressive violence and bloodshed and all of that and, hence, the crucifixion — whether or not Jesus got back up three days later.) Anyway.

That all breaks my heart. Even these couple thousands of years later. I don’t always have it in me to have that be something I’m focusing on, daily, for several weeks (up until, you know, the Glory of the Resurrection, which, obviously, I don’t necessarily believe. In that specific way.). So, some years, I just can’t focus on it. But I haven’t made up my mind yet about this year.

I do love Easter, though. God knows.

Okay.

I am going to try to get back to work here on Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. That’s front & center on my plate. Nothing else is on the horizon today except booty core. And I hope it stays that way. (Although methinks I will likely hear from Peitor about how the meeting went…) (Heavy sigh)

So I’m gonna get to it here. Well, I’m going to leave you with 3 things today. Oddly enough, this morning, I reached for the breakfast set that’s made of glass: bowl, coffee mug, juice glass. All sparkling glass. Normally, I don’t choose glass. I either use porcelain or ceramics. Today, I chose glass. I don’t know why.

And I thought about the Blondie song, “Heart of Glass,” and wondered, was this telling me that I had a heart of glass? I really didn’t think so. Normally, I’m more of a “Tide is High” kind of gal if I’m going to define myself strictly through Blondie songs. (Not something I, you know, ever do. But there is always a first time to start doing something really weird.)

Did I have a heart of glass? Was I no longer a “Tide is High” kind of gal?? (Meaning, a gal who was gonna hang on to love, come hell or high water.) Well, I’ll let you decide that here this morning: what I ultimately am. You can listen to both songs if you so choose. (And/or you can choose to listen to only the final song posted here, which is the song I actually listened to at breakfast and which, I believe, once again illustrates that I am a simply huge believer in love. Come what may.)

All righty. Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys. See ya.

Her Dreams Are Always So Darned Prophetic…

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Yes, I am going to tell you about the dream I had right before I awoke this morning, but first–

Sandra has now gone off to Stratford (Canada), where she begins rehearsals for the musical “Chicago”. And now, for almost the rest of the year, her life is going to be about flying back & forth and back & forth, to fit in the round tables and revisions and rehearsals in Toronto, as well as round tables and table reads and staged readings and rehearsals in NYC.

I’m only bringing this up because my schedule now has to piggy-back on her schedule for the rest of the year. Wherein, I will have to be flying back & forth and back & forth, to fit in the round tables and revisions and rehearsals in Toronto, as well as round tables and table reads and staged readings and rehearsals in NYC.

It’s going to be exceedingly interesting, gang. I’m going to try to stay flexible and not lose my mind or anything. But knowing Sandra as I do, I get the impression that, for instance, two and a half minutes before I have to be in Toronto for something, she’s going to text me to let me know that in two and a half minutes I have to be in Toronto — that kind of thing.

I used to travel a lot. Flying, I mean. I always had separate bags for flying that were always packed with whatever essentials I needed, so that I could just throw in some clothes and go. But this was when: a.) I lived in NYC and it was so much easier to get direct flights to places all over the country and in Europe; and b.) 9/11 hadn’t happened yet and airports and planes were still really fun things.

I was in an airplane, in fact, in the process of landing at LaGuardia in NYC, back in early 1981 — I was reaching up to get my overnight bag out of the overhead compartment thingy, when I decided to accept my first husband’s marriage proposal. Isn’t that funny that I remember that? I have no idea where I was flying back from, but I recall flying over the Statue of Liberty and getting up to get my bag ready, and thinking, “I’m gonna go ahead and marry him. I’ll call him when I get back to the apartment.” And I did.

He had proposed to me in the strangest way. I was actually living with another guy at that point. But Foun Kee considered the other guy to be completely inconsequential.  “He is just a boy, Marilyn. He has no ambition. He is not like you at all.” (Bold move. Yet he was correct.)

But you also have to factor in here that I was only 20 years old and that Foun Kee had the most amazing accent I had ever heard. He was Chinese, from Singapore, but he was from the aristocracy and spoke English with a pronounced British accent.  He was really conservatively educated and spoke precise and perfect English, which was daunting enough (i.e., he doesn’t use the ‘f’ word — ever). But that mixture of a Chinese/British accent was really just the coolest thing I had ever heard. And then, if for some reason, he was sort of angry about something, he launched into pure Mandarin, which I didn’t speak yet, so that was also just amazing to me. I was just a girl from Ohio, you know? Before there was even cable TV. Nothing at all was “global” yet.

ME: “Wow! You speak Chinese!”

HIM (not amused): “Yes, I do.”

ME (ever eager): “Will you teach it to me?!”

HIM: “No.”

Anyway, his accent was not why I married him. (And I should add that two years into the marriage, he began calling me “Marilyn dearest”, in that same accent of course, but I always felt it was sort of derivative of Mommie Dearest and so it always used to get under my skin.  And yes I have a temper, but I don’t consider myself quite as off-the-charts as Joan Crawford was so I didn’t think it was funny.) Anyway.  So he came over to our apartment in Hell’s Kitchen (back when it was Hell’s Kitchen and still really bleak and dangerous) one rainy Saturday afternoon while I was there alone. He was impeccably dressed. He even had his long, black umbrella and a slim briefcase (very British), and he sat down on the sofa, and took out a yellow legal pad that had several hand-written pages, detailing, in bullet points, all the reasons why I should marry him.

I am so serious.

I sat across from him in — yes, a desk chair!! And I was just astounded, you know? I was not interested in getting married. At all. To anyone. I was only focused on getting something happening with my singing and my songs. And he put his legal pad back in his briefcase and said, “Well, just please give it some thought.” And apparently, I did. (Because, you know, he also said things like, “You are so beautiful and I have dreamed all my life of having a woman like you for my wife.” I have a huge ego to go along with my lovely (Irish) temper.) (But I did absolutely adore him, gang, from the very moment we met. I have always loved an audacious man and he definitely was one.)

But anyway. I digress.

My point was that now I’m thinking that I should get that travel bag together again and just keep it ready, so that it’ll be easier to just go whenever I have to from now on.

Which reminds me that the phone call with Peitor yesterday in LA was several more hours of business stuff. And starting next week, we’ll have two meetings a week — one of which will always be devoted to working on whichever script, so that we can try to get everything moving forward at the same time. So life is definitely inching toward “crunch” time for me, as far as projects vs. time vs. travel.

Okay, so let me tell you about my dream! I realize that dreams are full of highly personal symbolism and might not easily resonate for anyone else. But this dream just astounded me — mostly because I don’t know why I dreamed it.

I had this sort of really large microwave oven that was also an incubator and a little bird was in there, in a sort of box, getting ready to hatch.

I was with a “guy” — I have no idea who, because he was just a form, a sort of energy. But definitely male.

When the bird came out of the incubator, it was going to be sort of like a  movie — but like a hologram, in that it would be completely 3-dimensional. And I sat down on the couch, really close to the guy because we were clearly “a couple”, and I told him what would happen — like giving him a synopsis of the movie — saying that the bird would come out and then get really, really large and sort of take over and become part of everything, and be really powerful. (Like a “super hero” type movie.)

And the guy said, “I don’t really want to see that.” And I really wanted to please the guy, so I said, “Okay, well, I’ll just try to get the bird to go back into the incubator.” (The bird had already come out of it.)

I got up off of the couch, went over to the incubator, and my right hand sort of went out in front of me, and suddenly the bird flew right over to me and perched right on my finger. It really gripped me but it didn’t hurt at all. And I was astounded by the power in the bird, and that — even while it wasn’t tame — it still knew how to perch right on my hand.

And I sort of shook it off, and then put out my hand again, and it flew right back and perched on me again and gripped me really tight. And I couldn’t believe how incredible that power felt.  And I instinctively knew that the bird symbolized freedom to me. So I decided to keep the bird. And then the whole apartment thing was gone, and the guy. And I was in a sort of professional building where a really big conference was going on — men & women, both. I didn’t go into the auditorium, even though they were waiting for me, specifically. But I did open the door just a little and let the bird fly in there and teach them.

Isn’t that an amazing dream?

I have to say, I pondered that dream all through breakfast. I don’t  think that men don’t equal “freedom,” but it was so interesting that my first mindset was that I really just wanted to please the guy (which is actually what I’m really like), but then once I felt the power of real freedom, I couldn’t go back. Plus, I really wanted to share it with people who wanted it. (And the “freedom” thing could also mean that I’m more committed to being a writer than to being in a traditional relationship, and that I can share my writing, my freedom, with all sorts of people without even being in the same room with any of them.)

I guess that was the dream that just explained my whole life to me and that later today, I’ll probably die!

Just kidding. (I hope!!) I’m thinking it’s more this Super Moon thing — a revelatory dream brought on by the moon.

Okay. I’m gonna scoot.  Enjoy your Saturday!! Wherever it finds you. (It’s snowing here again! Yay.) I think I’m going to work on Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse today because Wayne still has not gotten back to me with his comments about Tell My Bones so I give up; I’m done waiting — onward!

Thanks for visiting, gang! I love you guys. See ya.

 

 

 

This Is Why You Have To Stay Married!

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It used to be that when I wanted Wayne’s feedback on something I’d just written, all I had to do was get up from my desk chair, go into the other room and hand it to him and then stand there while he read it and then listen to what he had to say.

But once you get divorced, you relinquish those rights!

Now you have to do this thing called “patiently waiting”!! (Nobody warned me about this, btw, and that just doesn’t seem fair.)

When I was married, I didn’t have to be patient about any fucking thing under the sun (and I’m sure he would be very willing to concur on this. I think, if I recall correctly, that far distant dialogue went something like this: “Christ, Marilyn, can you just give me a fucking minute??!!” Exact topic involved is immaterial.)

Anyway.

Nowadays, I have to email him a doc file and wait for him to have time to get on the PC and download the file and then read it, formulate a (glowing) opinion and then text me.

(Which reminds me!! Nick Cave sent out a Red Hand Files thing today, sort of all about texting. It was very fun (and even educational — although he neglected to include the phone number where we can all text him at when he’s hanging out in an airport). (I’m thinking that’s just an oversight that he will correct later today.) Anyhow. You can read it here if you so choose!!)

Well, Wayne did at least text me again yesterday, saying that he was going to read the new version of Tell My Bones “soon” and get right back to me. However, “soon” is one of those words that is wide open to interpretation.

And when you’re no longer married you also relinquish the right to “badger” the person who used to be part of your legal property. You can’t just keep going over and disturbing whatever it is he’s trying to do at his own desk, and say, “Come on, man. I’m waiting.”

So now, with no legal rights left, I’m just sitting here, waiting. If you can imagine that. And I really, really do want to know his opinion on how the play is ending now. That part is not a joke. I’m really relying on his insights here and I don’t want to look at the play again without hearing his opinion of the ending first. (Which I don’t believe is working as good as it could be but I’m not sure why.)

The director is really busy with some other project in NYC right now, and I won’t be able to get his complete attention about this until something like February 15th. And I just don’t want to wait that long. And I can’t concentrate on any of my other projects right now because I want to sign off on the play. And I want to feel that I’ve made it the best it can be, for now.

So I’m waiting. (We’re going into Day 3 here…) (Of course “three’s the charm” is something we so often hear but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything at all.)

Meanwhile, I keep getting weather alerts on my iPhone telling me that it’s snowing out. I’m not 100% sure how they define “snow” because I keep going to my window, all excited, and seeing only freezing rain.  And I love snow, so it just feels like it’s one of those days where everything, on all fronts, is sort of working against my ability to achieve bliss.

You know, in sort of a round-about way — thinking about bliss, lack thereof, marriage, etc. — one of the things the late bandleader/clarinetist Artie Shaw says in the Ken Burns Jazz documentary, is how he began to really hate having to play the song “Begin the Beguine” because that was what the audiences always wanted to hear and they never wanted to hear anything else.

I can understand why he felt that way (this is going all the way back to the late 1930s, btw), but it made me kind of sad because, in all honesty, if God himself asked me what my actual very favorite song of all time was, it would not only be “Begin the Beguine,” but it would also be Artie Shaw’s version of it.

I’m really serious. Nothing moves me like that specific song does. That song is really the only song ever written that fills me with enough hope about love that when I hear it, I can actually imagine getting married again. (I don’t know to whom, I’m just saying that song makes me feel that hopeful about the nature of love.)

If you don’t know the song, Artie Shaw didn’t write it — Cole Porter wrote it. And tons of people have recorded many versions of it over the years, but Artie Shaw’s instrumental version of it from 1938 was the most popular version of it, ever. (Followed closely by Ella Fitzgerald’s version of it, which includes the lyrics, which are wistful indeed.)

So, even though I understood why Artie Shaw felt that way about the song, it made me feel a little sad because I am just so grateful that he recorded it at all and that he did such a brilliant job of it. It is so joyful, so smooth, so free. (And it makes me just want to drink a vodka martini straight up, with 3 olives, and light up an unfiltered cigarette, too!) (But not alone.)

Okay, well. I am going to get back to sitting patiently, awaiting a text. See how the day unfolds. Thanks for visiting, gang. I hope the world is going your way today, wherever you are in it. I love you guys. See ya.

“Being the Beguine”

When they begin the beguine
It brings back the sound of music so tender,
It brings back a night of tropical splendor,
It brings back a memory ever green.

I’m with you once more under the stars,
And down by the shore an orchestra’s playing
And even the palms seem to be swaying
When they begin the beguine.

To live it again is past all endeavor,
Except when that tune clutches my heart,
And there we are, swearing to love forever,
And promising never, never to part.

What moments divine, what rapture serene,
Till clouds came along to disperse the joys we had tasted,
And now when I hear people curse the chance that was wasted,
I know but too well what they mean;

So don’t let them begin the beguine
Let the love that was once a fire remain an ember;
Let it sleep like the dead desire I only remember
When they begin the beguine.

Oh yes, let them begin the beguine, make them play
Till the stars that were there before return above you,
Till you whisper to me once more,
“Darling, I love you!”
And we suddenly know, what heaven we’re in,
When they begin the beguine

c- 1935 Cole Porter

Contrary to What this Looks Like!!

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It’s actually quite a rainy little Tuesday morning here. Although laundry is indeed underway!

And last night, I went into town and got my groceries so I don’t really have to go anywhere or do anything today outside of my house if I don’t want to. So I’m feeling kinda cozy here!

While texting back & forth with Wayne yesterday regarding my (our) old accountant in NYC (Wayne doesn’t actually keep tabs on my accountant, he uses the same one), I told Wayne that I had an updated version of Tell My Bones and asked him if he wanted to read it. And he said yes, so now I’m waiting to hear what he thinks.

He’s actually a helpful critic for me because he does tend to like my work, in general, but he also knows what I’m capable of and usually has good insight into how something may or may not be working as well as it could. (Plus, he was a professional stage actor for a really long time and has read a ton of scripts.) So I’m really curious to know how he feels about that chunk of dialogue at the end. After I hear back from him, I’ll look at the script one more time from start to finish. And then sort of “get ready” for the trip back to New York. Mentally, I mean.

I keep getting the feeling that this new character arc is so unexpected and intense, and the one song the character sings is so creepy, that Sandra is going to switch gears and say that she wants to do that supporting role instead of playing the lead of Helen. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if that happens. But we’ll wait and see. Sandra won’t be reading the script until after she gets settled in up in Canada.

So.

Booty Core continues to astound and amaze — burn-wise. Wow, gang. Yesterday almost killed me. But it’s only a 30-minute workout so that makes it endurable. (Plus the video instructor will suddenly say things like, “don’t forget to smile,” which cracks me up and makes it easier. Or she says, “if you don’t feel like you’re gonna die right now then you’re not doing it right!”) And the difference in my core muscles is really incredible, considering that I’ve only been doing this workout for a few days.

The downside, of course, is that it’s making me curvier. Already. I’m not super thrilled with that, since I really enjoyed being straight up & down and wouldn’t mind returning to that (I’m just so 1970s, gang — the culture from which the chic anorexic look sprang), but I just try not to look in the mirror, you know? (I realize that young women nowadays want to be super curvy but that whole look just creeps me out. My goal here is not to get more curves, it’s to simply be able to walk across the floor… Well, that part’s going really well, too. So I guess that’s the trade-off: you want to be able to walk, you’re ass is gonna get curvier.)

(1970s women, courtesy of Helmut Newton — these are the types of images I grew up with and I loved them! If you don’t know who he was, he was a famous photographer, not a designer or anything. And he did a ton of erotic nudes, as well.)

1970s, Vogue, Helmut Newton
Vogue, 1972, Helmut Newton

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Charlotte Rampling, 1973, by Helmut Newton

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An occasional muscle, perhaps, but no curves… (this look had something to do with the popular notion back then that you could never be too rich or too thin.) (And nowadays, I guess, only about 4 people in the world are rich, so why bother to be thin?)

Anyway. That was all yesterday. We only look forward now, right? Right!!

Okay! So. I’m not sure yet what today is going to be about. (Besides more Booty Core.) I’ll either write something, or I won’t. I might work on the new website for Abstract Absurdity Productions, but I might not. I haven’t made up my mind yet about anything. I only know that I am in a really good mood around here and I am super happy with how all the various projects are going. So I might just spend some time kicking back and feeling happy. We’ll see!!

Meanwhile, I hope you have a terrific Tuesday, wherever you are in the world! Try not to get too rich or too thin today! Thanks for visiting, gang. I leave you with my breakfast-listening music from this morning — “Satin Doll” by Duke Ellington & his Famous Orchestra. (Although the version on the CD I was listening to is over 8 minutes long and is incredible!!) All righty. I love you guys. Enjoy. See ya!

Such Intense Decisions!

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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!

The Better it Gets, Gang, the Better it Gets!

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Okay, well. Yesterday was amazing. Peitor and I worked for hours (on the phone) but we got nothing new done on the “Lita” script because we wanted to start getting our Mission Statement down on paper for Abstract Absurdity Productions and figuring out how we wanted to approach the layout of the web site, etc. (which is my job to execute in my “spare” time!!).

And then, while in the midst of that, we wrote three new micro-micro-shorts. I’m so serious. It’s, like, insane. How creative we are together. And the stuff is so funny that, once again, I ended up crying.

And it’s not the kind of thing that a viewer would necessarily see as “funny.” More, like — hm. that went someplace I didn’t expect. And even though the micro-micro-shorts are under 60 seconds in length, they are complete stories and are just really complex as far as filmmaking and ideas and sound, which, to Peitor and me, is a large part of what makes it so funny.

But it did, again, become extremely apparent that I’m going to have to spend a lot more time in Los Angeles. And I’m super hoping that my birth mom is going to be okay with practically living here when the time comes.

It is her birthday today, btw. She is 73. And it also would have been my stepmom’s birthday. So I called my dad first thing this morning and he’s not doing so great today. But overall, he’s managing.

And oddly enough, Peitor’s dad died yesterday morning. But that’s sort of really personal to him so I can’t comment on that. I can only say that we were off-the-charts creative yesterday. And just all day and on into the night — when I wasn’t thinking curiously about Nick Cave’s final Conversation in Brussels and wondering how on Earth I would live the rest of my life without knowing where he is, what he’s wearing and what he’s talking about, I was thinking about one specific story Peitor and I had thought up yesterday and it would just make me laugh out loud.

Which leads to the topic of the final Conversation in Brussels last night. Only a couple of photos of Nick Cave were posted to Instagram, but quite a few photos of the enormous sign in the theater lobby stating that phones weren’t allowed during the performance were posted. So, people in Brussels apparently have a strong belief in the truth of signs.

[mini update: as the morning went on, tons of photos and videos got posted, including him singing “15 Feet of Pure White Snow”!!!! Yay!!]

[another update — it looks like someone got engaged on the stage in Brussels last night!?]

I know, I know. I really and truly hate when people take out their phones in any type of performance space. I really do. And it’s really great that some people somewhere still know how to experience their lives without their phones. I’m actually that way myself. I would rather revisit what’s in my mind than what’s on my phone. Still… man, Jeez. Well. Okay, I’m not gonna go there. Don’t use your phones when you’re not supposed to!

The director of Tell My Bones texted yesterday saying that by Sunday night, he would have time to read the script and have comments for me re: the new character arc. I know I still want to work on the final bit of dialogue before the final song, but I am really eager to hear what he thinks of the new stuff. Because, honestly, I think this play is just about almost entirely finished!!!!! (Until it goes into actual table-reads…)

But this also means that I have all of today and tomorrow to either get to work on the new website, or even maybe take a little break and just do Booty Core (see yesterday’s post) and then relax!! Who knows? We shall see.

Meanwhile, have a happy Saturday, gang, wherever you are in the world! Thanks for visiting. I leave you with my breakfast-listening music from this morning. I just love the atmosphere of this entrancing song! From 2009, “Listen the Snow is Falling” by Thea Gilmore (but it’s from the Lennon/Ono Wedding Album, originally, but this version is just so hypnotic.). All righty. I love you guys. See ya.

“Listen the Snow is Falling”

Listen, the snow is falling over town
Listen, the snow is falling everywhere
Between Empire State Building
And between Trafalgar Square
Listen, the snow is falling over town

Listen, the snow is falling over town
Listen, the snow is falling everywhere
Between your bed and mine
Between your head and my mind
Listen, the snow is falling over town

Between Tokyo and Paris
Between London and Dallas
Between your love and mine
Listen, the snow is falling everywhere

Snowdrift, snowfall, snowfall
Listen

c – 1969 John Lennon & Yoko Ono

A Turn in the Road

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I guess my life is getting ready to be different.

You know how you can feel it — that things are changing? The way you’re perceiving your life, or the reality of your life, or maybe what you think is the reality of your life?

I guess I started feeling it the other night, when Peitor began texting about certain new goals he had for Abstract Absurdity — our  production company — and I realized that my perceptions of that part of my life were shifting.  And not just realizing I was going to have to go to LA more often. But realizing the full scope of the micro-shorts that he and I are creating — they are extremely strange. Visually, they’re abstract; story-wise, they’re absurd. And they’re super short.  But they rely heavily on the vision of the directors of New Wave foreign cinema. From 50 years ago, basically.

And I think it’s strange that he and I know all these films. The other day, we were working out a shot of a sexual assault that needs to be viewed from the POV of inside an overturned vacuum cleaner, and Peitor wanted to include the sound of the vacuum cleaner bag deflating/sighing. And I said, “how are we going to get that?” And he said, “We’ll just make it up. Do something ‘Jacques Tati.'” And I said okay.

And then I thought that it’s so weird that I’ve seen most of Jacques Tati’s films, so I knew what he meant. Why have I seen all of those Jacques Tati films? Have you? I mean, really; why? What is my life?

And then the new section of Tell My Bones — if I can use a pun without meaning to —  dramatically shifts the scope of that play.  In one 3 or 4 minute song, I’ve managed to visually push it into the areas of lynchings and slave auctions and the extreme racism of alleged white “Christians.”  I still haven’t heard back from the director but I know he is going to be, at the very least, taken aback by where I took  the storyline, and how I took it there. Where did it come from? The only thing I really know is that it took me a few weeks and a lot of nausea to get it there.

Then yesterday, I spent 9 hours doing another edit of Blessed By Light. It didn’t actually need much real editing, just some punctuation tweaking here & there. And then I sent it off to yet another small press. (I still haven’t heard back from any of them.) But after reading it again, from start to finish, without having read it like that in about 7 months, I was struck anew by how strange it is.

I love reading it. I love that I wrote it. But I still don’t understand what it actually is, besides a short “experimental novel.” Which I guess is just a really handy label for saying: “I wrote this but I don’t understand what it is.”

And I saw that this same small press publishes chap books – of poetry and fiction. And I thought, but my chap book (In the Shadow of Narcissa) is nonfiction. It’s flash-nonfiction. It’s a flash-nonfiction memoir chap book.

You know, leave it to me to be hard at work on something that doesn’t actually have a ready category. Yet again. ( I have done this more times than you can possibly imagine, throughout my career.)

And I have just been working really, really hard for like the last 17 months. Without a break. Going from project to project, and then back again. And I am so incredibly happy with how everything is turning out. But everything I’m doing is so strange.

And when I was pouring my first cup of coffee this morning, it occurred  to me that my writer-friend in Brussels is correct — Blessed By Light is a weird title. No one on Earth will understand what it means and they’ll think it’s some sort of New Age-Christian book. But what it is, is a fictional American rock & roll legend thinking about his life– and doing stuff, falling in love, talking about his life, his career, trying to deal with his family, his best friend’s death, having to quit smoking — in the final year of his life. That’s all it is. (Except that he thinks his life is beautiful.)

“The Guitar Hero Goes Home” is a chapter title, but it’s probably a better title for the whole book — with “home” meaning “heaven” or something like that.

Even though Neptune & Surf has been around now for over 20 years, no one ever related to that title, either. They always thought it was going to be about the ocean and the planets or something. Or mythology. But it’s named after 2 streets in Coney island — in Brooklyn. The French publisher thought “Neptune Avenue” made more sense as a title, and they were completely right. It made way more sense.

Anyway. I don’t want to belabor the nonsensical aspects of my life — of which there are many. I’m only saying that I can feel my life shifting. From the creative process, to the going-back-out-into-the-world process. And all that it may or may not entail.

And thinking about mortality — will I be around next year, ten years from now, forty years from now? How much of my work will I actually get done? What’s going to be my legacy? I had sort of a life from hell and then wrote a lot of weird stuff. And was alone (with cats) most of the time.

That kind of seems accurate.

This morning, I woke up around 4:30am and the strangest song was going through my head — a Paul McCartney song from 1970: “That Would Be Something.” I loved the McCartney album. I was 9 when it came out and I played it nonstop for months. But I hadn’t thought about that album in years.

Whenever I wake up with a specific song in my head, I play it on YouTube, even before I turn on a light or get out of bed. Because I want to see if the song tells me something, before my mind gets cluttered up with regular life.

So I played the song and it was, like —oh my god— my entire 9 year-old life came right back to me. I was such a strange little kid. Music was my entire world. Playing records, but also playing the piano, the guitar, the violin. Music meant everything to me. I think music was my barricade against my mother. I think it protected me, somehow, and helped me survive. (It didn’t keep me sane, but it helped me survive the insanity, for sure.)

Overall, though, I realized this morning that, for whatever reason, I’m just plain strange. And my life is probably just going to be about writing stuff and putting it into the world. And then over & out.

And I also realized — remember a few months back, when one of my nylon stockings disappeared from the washing machine in the space of 20 minutes? It never ever came back.

So I’m guessing that reality is not just about manifestation, but de-manifestation, as well. Certainly food for thought.

Okay. Nick Cave will be Conversing in Brussels tonight and tomorrow night, and then he’s done. I cannot stress what a dearth came out of Nijmegen. Honestly. I think it was worse than Portland, Oregon. I know he was already in Belgium last year.  I don’t remember how it went. (I do remember that Luxembourg’s show looked like it was astoundingly amazing. But I’m not 100% sure how long I plan on remembering all this stuff…)

Anyway. I’m gonna scoot. I have some more boring legal documents I have to go over this morning, and then maybe I’ll just sit and stare for awhile. Not sure yet. But thanks for visiting. Have a super Thursday, wherever you are in the world! You know what I’m leaving you with, but you’re probably not expecting the entire song to have only 2 lines of lyrics…still, it’s a really catchy song. It really is. And for whatever reason, it totally encapsulates my girlhood and makes an uncanny point about where my mind still is.

All righty. I love you guys. See ya.

“That Would Be Something”

That would be something,
It really would be something,
That would be something,
To meet you in the falling rain, momma,
Meet you in the falling rain.

Oo-hmm-hmm,
Oo-hmm-hmm,
Oo-hmm-hmm,
Meet you in the falling rain, momma,
Meet you in the falling rain.

That would be something,
It really would be something,
Mm, that would be something,
To meet you in the falling rain, momma,
Meet you in the falling rain.

Meet you in the falling rain, momma,
Meet you in the falling rain.
Meet you in the falling rain, momma,
Meet you in the falling rain.

That would be something,
It really would be something,
That would be something,
To meet you in the falling rain, momma,
Meet you in the falling rain.
Meet you in the falling rain, momma,
Meet you in the falling rain.

Oh, oh.

Meet you in the falling rain, momma,
Meet you in the falling rain.
Meet you in the falling rain, momma,
Meet you in the falling rain.

Oh!
Oh!

Uh, now, meet you in the falling rain, momma,
Meet you in the falling rain.
I meet you in the falling rain, momma,
Meet you in the falling rain.
Meet you in the falling rain, momma,
Meet you in the falling rain.
Uh, meet you in the falling rain, momma,
Meet you in the falling rain.

c – 1970 Paul McCartney