Tag Archives: Tell My Bones: The Helen LaFrance Story

Ah,Tuesday! It Rears Its Lovely Head Once More!!

Yes, Tuesday is laundry day around here! So that’s already underway.

And it’s also the day I have to drive into town and get groceries. All I have left around here are arugula and tomatoes. Healthy as I am, even I need a little more excitement than that. (Well, a lot more excitement than that, but we’re talking about food right now.)

Sometimes that part of living in the middle of nowhere gets a wee bit old — having to drive 25 miles & back to get the food. Because I spend maybe 20 minutes in the actual market. Then an hour driving. And then about 20 more minutes putting all the groceries away.

And I’ve already spent a chunk of the morning going over stuff with the director again for Tell My Bones and our Christmas promotion. And so I’m just now sitting down to blog at an hour when the blog is usually already posted.

So my day’s gone.

I’m going to spend what’s left of it (after the shopping trek) doing some more tweaking on Letter #5 from Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. And then, if I have the right headspace after that, I’m going to work some more on Thug Luckless: Welcome to P-Town. I just woke up in that kind of a mood.

Working with Thug takes a lot out of me, though, and if I’m not in the right headspace then it’s just useless. Writing that kind of porn (meaning the kind people wish to actually read) is like neurosurgery with words. Even though 99.9% of the words are filthy dirty & disgusting, they still have to be incredibly precise and in the exact specific place in the sentence; and then each sentence has to be precisely right. And then you can’t have too many words or it ruins everything.

So it’s a lot of work. However, it’s a task I’m willing to undertake for the sake of mankind (and good porn).

William at the A1000Mistakes blog in Australia (my favorite blog for learning about cool music I’ve never heard of before!), commented here yesterday about the unfortunate situation on the Internet and artists getting ripped off, etc.

What’s happening to me now is just sort of getting out of control. It’s never been this bad — where so much of my stuff is illegally being offered for free or for sale, all over the world.  I have enough of an enormous ego to feel flattered, you know — if you want it that bad, then, great. However, it truly erodes my income. But at the same time, these are really old stories and novels and novellas, and so it sort of just makes me feel like I have to focus my energy on the new work and let go of these things I can’t control.

The truth is that without the Internet I never could have gotten as popular as I did, as quickly as I did — all over the world. I loved the World Wide Web. I thought it was the most awesome thing back in the late 1990s. And back then, it went hand in hand with driving sales of actual books in bookstores.

And, because of the kinds of books I primarily wrote, Amazon was also a godsend to me. Most people did not want to go out to a public bookstore and openly buy the kind of books I wrote (because publishers usually put such horrifically tacky covers on them!!). So the privacy factor of Amazon really helped put me on the map, 20 years ago.

Still, as much as I personally love the ease of Amazon, they were also the beginning of the erosion of my earnings, way back when, because they were the ones who started to make it so fucking easy for people to buy cheap used copies of my stuff, that I got no royalties on whatsoever. Eventually, the Internet and eBooks helped put all of my publishers out of business (small presses, primarily). So this disruption of my career has been going on for quite a while now and, for the most part, I’m used to it.

This sudden onslaught of so much of it at once is a little hard to take, though. However.

I made the decision a long time ago that I was going to be a writer, no matter what. I’m used to the winds of fortune constantly changing. I would not recommend being a professional writer to anyone on the planet, though, unless you can stomach that.

A few years ago, the Philippine Daily Inquirer, a national newspaper of the Philippines, interviewed me in the late Spring, as students were graduating school, and among the questions they asked me was what I would advise these students who might want to make a career out of writing literary erotica.

I was dumbfounded, you know? Why on Earth would they ever want to do that? You’ve got to be out of your fucking mind to, you know, willingly choose this if you had even the remotest option of doing something else. And if, for whatever reason, like me, you know you don’t really have an option: you either write what’s in your head, or you blow your head completely off. Well, if that’s the case, then nothing I say is going to persuade or deter you.

But anyway. I’m used to things being less than perfect. My main goal is to write something good enough that somebody somewhere likes it so much that they want to keep it. Because it only takes one copy of something to be buried away for safe keeping — like a scroll in a clay jug in a cave in the cliffs over Qumran — to help it be part of the physical world for a really, really long time.

That’s the goal, anyway, when I put a word on some sort of page. And the Internet and everything that comes along with it, is part of that; be it good or less than good.

Okay. Nick Cave sent out a Red Hand Files thingy today! It was all about:

Ghosteen Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds

Had I known he was actually going to eventually tell us what Ghosteen was about, I’m thinking I might not have spent all those hours pondering it while listening to it in my bed, or at my desk, or in my kitchen, or while I was doing yoga, or driving all over Muskingum County, or while I was taking a shower….

However, that’s all water under the bridge, as it were. What matters more is that I still look really young for my age so not too much time was lost there.

I’m just kidding, of course. Mostly. Anyway. You can read it here if you so choose! As always, he’s eloquent and thought-provoking. And the album is just breathtaking, however you interpret it (or try to).

FYI: “Spinning Song” is a song I really love. I have no clue what it’s about. It is not one of the songs that breaks my heart or anything; I just really like the imagery, even though I don’t understand it. At all. But it seems to be a little bit about Elvis. And “the Queen” whose hair was a stairway, makes me think of Priscilla — not just on their wedding day, but more specifically, in the official photo from when the baby was first born: Priscilla’s hair is not to be believed. I never could understand her hair in those days. As a young girl, her hair actually kind of frightened me. (But then it turned out, in the 1980s, that she just had regular hair like everyone else.) (And that she was also incredibly funny and cute.)

Okay.  I’m gonna scoot. The day is practically over already!!! Have a perfect Tuesday, wherever you are in the world, and whatever it finds you doing. Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys. See ya.

Gettin’ My Shit Together & Takin’ It On The Road

Well, that’s sort of a play on words, based on the title of a popular Off-Broadway musical from the late 1970s, I’m Getting My Act Together and Taking it on the Road.

And even while I can sort of totally base my life on that musical, I’m actually just trying to get my shit together here today. I really, really am.

I have a phone meeting with the director in NYC this morning and need to kind of be like a “complete person” before that happens, because there are a lot of little things I need to discuss about the play, about the Christmas promotion, about bringing the first actors together and getting the workshop underway there for Tell My Bones. So I really need to have a functioning brain when I’m discussing all this.

Back when I was in Divinity School, I was trained in grief counseling, and so all the things I learned there (and practiced — I’ve been an effective grief counselor for others) — well, I need to do this for myself. Again. Counsel myself through this. And the first and most important thing, is not to meet myself at the level of my grief.  It’s kind of convoluted to counsel myself as if I’m two people, but in a way, I am because my grief has me behaving like a separate person here. One that I can stand back from and look at it in my head. And I know it isn’t going to help anyone at all, least of all him, if I don’t just get my shit together and get back to work around here.

And I have to stop worrying so much about how to behave towards him. I happen to be a really compassionate person and if I end up annoying him by hovering too much, I know him well enough to know that he will let me know if I’m annoying him.

This morning, I decided it was time to get the Christmas breakfast dishes out. Because how can you feel sad or dissociated when this cute guy’s looking at you, bringing you your coffee??!!

Well, I mean primarily the MOOSE in his little cap & scarf,  but I decided not to crop Nick Cave out of the photo, because that photo of him from a million years ago just always makes me really happy. (And of course my mom’s there in the background, pregnant with me in perpetuity.)

And it actually did help — having breakfast with the moose. He’s on my breakfast bowl, too. And his sweet little face is adorable.

And for some reason, I keep listening to that old Bruce Springsteen song (I posted it here over the weekend) over and over. And before it popped so suddenly into my life the other day, I hadn’t thought of it in 40 years. Now I can’t stop playing it.

Loyal readers of this lofty blog can probably already figure out that the song pushes a lot of the wrong buttons for me, and yet there is something about this song — melody, tempo — that I really love.

And I was sitting at the breakfast table this morning, listening to it for the millionth time, trying to pinpoint what it is, exactly, about these kinds of sentiments about marriage that rub me the wrong way. And I have always been like this when it comes to marriage.

Back when this particular Springsteen album, The River, came out, I was at the tail-end of trying to make a key relationship in my life work. It was a guy I was really in love with, and had been for 5 years, but we argued so much, that we were always breaking it off, then getting back together.

He was from West Virginia, from a small town right on the Ohio River, so I only got to see him on weekends if I got to see him at all. And even back when we were teenagers, still in high school, he wanted to get married. Meaning, he wanted me to drop out of high school, move to West Virginia, live there with him and his mom, be married to him and start having babies. Right away. (And his mom was in full support of this, so that didn’t help.)

I know I don’t even have to tell you what was wrong with that picture for me. Especially since, by then, I already knew, by age 16, that I wanted to be a singer-songwriter and move to NYC, once I was out of school and could figure out how to do that. But I really, really loved that guy, so it was hard to simply just walk away. And so, instead, we tried to stay together and just argue, constantly.

One time, the summer when I was 16 and he was 17, he and I went to a drive-in movie and of course we were fooling around in the car — we had more sex than you can possibly imagine. In fact, he was actually the first guy to give me an orgasm — and on purpose. Meaning, he knew his way around that whole “clitoris” thing and when that had first happened between us, I was only 15 and it was a huge, happy thing for me, especially since Greg had only been dead for a year by then, and the rapes had happened. But anyway, I digress.

We were at the drive-in movie, fooling around, and I told him I couldn’t have intercourse that weekend because I was ovulating. And then  he was like a man on a mission, you know? And I was a girl on a mission in direct opposition to his mission. It got really dicey in that car that night, I can tell you. Man. I mean, I was super horny, because I was 16 and ovulating — the worst combination to be if you’re with your boyfriend in some car at the drive-in and not wanting to get pregnant.

It is sufficient to say that I really wanted to kill him that night. I was so pissed-off at him. And even though it seems like most 17 year-old boys don’t want their girlfriends to get pregnant, if you happen to have one of the weird ones, don’t — even for a moment– believe him when he says, “I promise I won’t come in you.” Instead, just put your jeans back on, get out of the car and just walk the fuck home.

Anyway. In early 1980, he and I were still in that constant struggle of trying to be together, long-distance, with me not wanting to get married.

HIM: “Why do you have to go all the way to New York City and sing in some bar? We can get married and you can sing at home. I’ll buy you a trailer and your own washer and dryer.”

ME: (various expletives spluttered really loudly and with deep consternation and disbelief. Even when I was totally sober.)

What’s odd, though, is that after I moved to NYC in November of 1980, I was actually married 5 months later. To this really amazing Chinese guy from Singapore. And even though the marriage didn’t work out, I loved him and still do; he always tried to help me find my way in the world. (And still does, actually.)

So it’s just fucking weird — me and marriage. And whatever the hell goes on in my head about that. Primarily, I just don’t want to be owned, you know? Because then you can always be discarded. For some reason, it’s very hard for me to see past that one specific thing. The discard.

Well, the Bruce Springsteen song, in my opinion, is all about marriage as ownership, but it’s still a sweet song that’s hard not to want to buy into, even knowing all that I know.

Oh, before I close! I want to point out that there is going to be a book by Nick Cave to coincide with the exhibit in Copenhagen, Stranger Than Kindness: The Nick Cave Exhibition. Back, over 30 years ago, when I worked at MoMA and books were published that supported a special exhibition, the books were only for sale at the museum. Not in bookstores or anything. So I don’t know if this particular book (which I know will be amazing) will be available for regular people to buy (meaning myself specifically.)

Normally, in a year when I’m not planning on being in Los Angeles, Toronto, and New York City repeatedly, with pretty much all of my published books and stories being rapidly consumed free of charge all over the Internet  by everyone in the world and so money is becoming a real pressing THING in my life (although I still got some royalties from Amazon this month, so thank you, people, who are actually purchasing stuff)… but normally, when all that’s not going on, and an amazing museum exhibit is going on somewhere in the world, I will go to it! But this one just can’t happen for me. That so sucks… But I know it’s gonna be really, really cool. And hopefully, that book will end up being for sale all over, at some point.

Okay. I gotta get ready for my phone meeting here. Finish my coffee. Brush my teeth. (I never feel like my day has officially started until I brush my teeth!!)

So I’m gonna try to be cool today, and stop being so irrational with my grief, and try to find a more productive way to behave about my grief because I know for sure that the success of my writing is also really important to my friend, whether or not he has cancer that does not seem likely to be cured.

So, thanks for visiting. Have a really good Monday, wherever you are in the world. I’ll leave you once again with the Springsteen song, so that you don’t have to scroll down. Plus, I’ll also leave you with my “answer song” and then my absolutely MOST FAVORITE song for when I’m in love and will follow a guy anywhere (even into marriage…). (And if you can’t figure me out then imagine how it feels to actually BE me!!). Okay. I love you guys. See ya!

You Just Never Know What A Day Brings, Do You?

I don’t know what it is about reality, gang, but just for no reason at all, I woke up battling those depression triggers this morning.

Those thoughts that I know are going to lead to nothing productive. You know — put your canoe in the stream here, where it’s all dark & negative, and let’s go. No, I refuse to put my canoe in there. Or over there, or over there, or over there.

I have so many streams of consciousness that are just useless to me. All these thoughts where I know I don’t want to go. Why do they keep wanting to pop up? I’m okay, as long as I stay on top of all these triggers and keep steering myself in another direction. But I don’t know why some mornings start out like this.

I’m actually really happy. I have only 2 things on my plate today, both of which I’m really excited about. During my meditation yesterday, I got clarity on Letter #5 for Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. 

There is always a general underlying theme to each letter (each letter also being a memoir of sorts). For instance, Letter #2 was about intercourse: not knowing what it was, then knowing what it was; not liking it, liking it; the ecstasy of it versus rape.

Even though the titles for the letters always come first (Letter #5 is “Hymn to the Dark”), the titles usually don’t illuminate what the letter will actually be about. I get an overall feeling or color in my mind, but it takes a while for the true gist of it to actually come through. For awhile, all I could get was “the genesis of angels and what angels smell like” but what the heck does that actually mean?

So, even though I was beginning to make some headway, yesterday during meditation, I got that real clarity I needed. Letter #5 is primarily about the orgasm.  First, trying to figure out what they are — but can we ever truly figure out what they are?

I remember really clearly being 5 years old, and waking quite suddenly, very early on a summer morning. and my body, between my legs, needed to do something with great urgency. I could not figure out what. The only thing I could equate it with was peeing so I did that, right in my bed there, and immediately discovered that this was not what my body was wanting to feel.

Then when I was 6, the little stories in my head started. Erotic, you know. And I loved those little stories. I’d lie in my bed at night and the little stories would unfold, and I just loved that. And then when I was 7, for some unknown (but wonderful) reason, I figured out that if I touched myself at the same time, the stories got super interesting. The orgasm part stymied me, though, because I knew my body wanted to get to something urgent there but I was convinced that all I was going to do was pee. And I already knew for sure that I didn’t want to do that.

But one night, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I figured well, if I pee, I pee, but I just really need to feel this urgent thing — and that’s when I didn’t pee at all and had my first orgasm. Although it was literally years before I knew that it had a name and that it eventually happened to everybody. Because right away, at age 7, I tried to talk to all my little girlfriends about it– ME: “You know, those stories in your head at night and they feel really good?” —  and none of them had even the remotest clue what I was talking about, so I just thought it best to stop talking about it.

But even at age 59, I still remember so many of those little stories that were in my head. They were so captivating back then. And even without intercourse or any of that stuff yet, they were really filthy dirty little stories, even by my 59-year-old mind’s standards. But oddly enough, that one specific night at age 7 where I couldn’t hold back any longer — that story was just weird.  I was up on deck on a big boat, in the  middle of the night. It was storming really badly — pouring rain, lightning. And I’m on the sea in a huge boat, alone except for the man who was almost always in all my little stories. We didn’t do anything “sexual”; it was simply full of really intense erotic feelings. And it’s kind of amusing now that something so full of the symbols of Nature would be the time I finally couldn’t help but have an orgasm.  I am not someone who is ever prone to using erotic euphemisms, you know? And I guarantee you that if I were ever up on deck on some boat on the sea in a terrible storm, I would not find it erotic in the least. I’d be super pissed-off. With or without the man.

But, I digress. “Hymn to the Dark” just has elements of that stuff in it, and I’m excited that it’s finally really unfolding.

However, in another brief digression — I also remember that my parents used to close my bedroom door part-way at night, and that the hall light used to slice in and form a sort of crow shape on the ceiling above my bedroom door. And I decided that this crow of light was God, looking over me. Protecting me. Weird, isn’t it? Especially considering that, in my 20s, when I went to study with the Lakota Sioux medicine man, we discovered that my Power Animal was a white cockatoo. Another bird. (A “really intelligent and affectionate bird that needs to be taught a lot of boundaries,” according to Google just now. Sounds like someone I know!! Really well!!)

All right, so. The other thing that I’m happy about today is that the notes from the director came through, finally, last evening. And he was very, very happy with the revisions. I still need to work on one of the character arcs at the end there. But he’s ready to start Workshopping the play. Which is so exciting to me. But it does indeed mean another trip back to NYC and I’ll probably have to fly this time. You don’t want to risk getting stuck in the wilds of Pennsylvania in the winter. Plus I can’t just put a great big ton of mileage on my car, because it’s leased. But I’ll just deal with it when I deal with it. (Driving to the airport an hour from here; long-term parking; shuttles; then dealing with LaGuardia airport and all that madness on the other end. I just hate dealing with all that stuff anymore. But whatever.)

I’m happy.

Okay, I’m gonna close and get started here today! I leave you with my breakfast-listening music. I was back in Negative Capability mode this morning. Marianne Faithfull. I just find that album (well, except for “They Come By Night”) to be really soothing, even while the songs can sometimes be very emotional. But this morning it was “The Gypsy Faerie Queen,” over and over, as I tried to keep my humble canoe from heading out into any dreary, unproductive waters. I’m usually not into faeries or witches or any sort of mystical forest creature type things. But I find this song, especially the musical arrangement of it, to be just stunning. And the vocals are hypnotic.  So, enjoy. Thanks for visiting, gang. Have a great Wednesday — watch where you’re putting your canoe! I love you guys. See ya!

“The Gypsy Faerie Queen”

I’m known by many different names
My good friend Will calls me Puck and Robin Goodfellow
I follow the gypsy faerie queen
I follow the gypsy faerie queen

She walks the length and breadth of England
Singing her song, using her wand
To help and heal the land and the creatures on it
She’s dressed in rags of moleskin
And wears a crown of Rowan berries on her brow

And I follow, follow, follow
The gypsy faerie queen
We exist, exist, exist
In the twilight in-between

She bears a blackthorn staff
To help her in her walking
I only listen to her sing
But I never hear her talking anymore
Though once she did
Though once she did

And I follow, follow, follow
My gypsy faerie queen
We exist, exist, exist
In the twilight in-between

And I follow, follow, follow
My gypsy faerie queen
We exist, exist, exist
In the country in-between

Me and my gypsy queen

c – 2018 Marianne Faithfull, Nick Cave

Finally! It’s Tuesday!!

Wow, I really slept in today, gang. It felt great but I kinda feel like half my day’s gone already.

I need to go into town and get groceries today because there is practically nothing left. Milk, V8 Juice, Almonds, and Cocoanut Water. That’s all there is in the house. And that’s about a 2-hour chunk of time, total, right there — driving into town & back to get groceries.

(My spellcheck is alerting me that my spelling of “cocoanut” hasn’t been in popular use for the last century. Yet this is how I was taught to spell it and I am not a century-years old yet…hmm.)

Anyway. I overslept. But only because, yet again, my bed and my room were so incredibly comfortable. I just slept so great. And the very moment I awoke, I checked my email because I’m still awaiting those comments from the director re: my revisions on the play. They have not yet arrived! But I did notice that the very moment I opened my eyes and checked my email, a Red Hand Files letter-thingy from Nick Cave arrived at that very moment. So I’m guessing this was why I bothered to wake up at all! Because, I tell you; man, I was really sleeping soundly there.

I am just so eager to get the director’s notes to see how close we are to signing off on the play and beginning the Christmas campaign for producers/backers. Even if the director wants me to do some additional work, I know he’s not going to ask me to undo anything that’s already there. I’m thinking that he’ll want something more done to the ending, though. We’ll see. But one thing I know without doubt is that his instincts for what’s needed are always just so on target. So his feedback is just really important to me.

(And someone else who is just so on target re: what a script needs is Peitor and I am really looking forward to being back on track with him with our script, for real, this Friday. I just love that project so much. And even though the finished film will only be about 8 minutes long, every single moment of screen time is considered, shot by shot, because there is almost no dialogue in the film. Honestly, maybe 6 or 7 sentences of dialogue, total. But the film is so absurd that every single viewable thing that an audience can process has to be accounted for. Even if they’re red herrings and sending the audience, subliminally, in an erroneous direction — every shot has to be seriously thought out. So that’s why this script is taking so long. (Plus, the film is funny — so we do spend a lot of time laughing our asses off.)

I want to give an early plug to a fellow blogger‘s book:

F*ck Sales Let's Talk: A Common Sense Approach to Sales by [Robert, Anthony]

I’m currently reading this in my “spare time.” The blog is called Tony’s Bologna, and Anthony Robert is the blogger.  So far, I am really enjoying the book because it is easy to grasp and very humorous.

The book is indeed about sales strategies and how to better approach selling; and while I am not only “an artist,” but also one who is very, very nearly close to being out of my mind most of the time — one thing I have always been really good at is that I give “good meetings.” I seriously do.I have my shark elements, for sure.

That comes from having grown up in an era where women were simply not taken seriously, ever. And if you were Attractive. Young. Loved sex. Then forget about it — no one was ever, ever, ever going to do anything more than be patronizing towards you. (Oh, and stare primarily at your tits and ask you if you wanted to have sex. Because men owned the world back then — and if we’re brutally honest about it, they still kinda do.)

Well, what I really wanted was to be taken seriously and have sex, but you really can’t do both. And since my career has always been the most important thing to me, 100% for always and forever, whether I was in the music business or in the publishing industry — well, hard as it is to imagine, my sexual availability actually has to completely disappear during meetings. (I know! Sometimes for as much as 60 minutes — or longer, if lunch is involved — I have to seem sexually unavailable! It’s exhausting.)

But seriously. Especially nowadays, artists do have to sell themselves, always. Just always. So even though you might not be in a corporate selling environment, or you might rather die than work in, like, a store; it still helps to understand how to sell something — meaning, your own work; your art. Because there is a lot of psychological stuff going on that’s super good to know about in a meeting (and “meetings” crop up in a lot of different ways if you’re an artist and you need to sell yourself). And this particular book, Fuck Sales, Let’s Talk…, is a really fun approach to all that stuff, if you’re interested.

Okay, well. Nick Cave’s Red Hand Files thingy today was very interesting. And amusing, but also, to me, very interesting. Because, of course, I ponder. Overall, it’s about Nick Cave’s version of the song “Stagger Lee.” A song that, especially if you’re an American (because we are Puritanical to our very cores, when you get right down to it), well, it makes your jaw drop the first time you hear it  — and it’s been around forever now, yet a huge portion, just a really huge portion of Americans are unfamiliar with Nick Cave’s version of “Stagger Lee.”

Not too long ago, for some reason that I can no longer remember, I was showing a young woman the original “Stagger Lee” video on YouTube. She lives in Kentucky. Sort of educated in certain specific areas, but all tatted up and pierced everywhere and a smoker, 420 friendly and all that, and for some reason, it just never occurred to me that  she wouldn’t connect with how amazing the song was.

Well, she didn’t. Oddly enough, the first thing that amazed her was that he was smoking a cigarette on the stage (in the video). Even though she smokes, she was taken aback by it: “Whoa, he’s smoking on stage.” (Which to me, shows just how culturally brain-washed younger people are nowadays about making choices — even their own choices, because she smokes.) Anyway. Once she said that, I thought: oh boy, smoking is so much the very least of it… And then he sings all the other stuff and she was just shocked by it. She said, “Wow, that’s harsh.”

And I said, “Don’t you think that’s amazing, though — where he took that song? How extreme it is?” But she couldn’t go there; I had seriously misjudged her mind’s ability to go out on a limb.

You know, as an aside — in the old days, the only people who were pierced and had copious amounts of tattoos, were the fetishists. The marginal people, well outside of mainstream thinking. Now it’s more a signal of mass-tribalism and fashion. It’s not necessarily an indicator anymore of where a person’s mind is capable of going.

Anyway. I still think that what Nick Cave did with that song, even though I am the last person to celebrate murder in any way; I still think it was courageous and brilliant and true to the character he was creating at that specific moment; just so over-the-top in a gloriously horrific way. And the video still blows my mind — the pink tee shirt and the white pants, and all those cool men and the absolute noisy chaos of the ending — which I had always assumed was some orgy of sex and murder. But perhaps it’s just sex. Or just murder.

Nick Cave made a comment in his response today about how he sometimes wonders if anyone really listens seriously to his lyrics (I’m paraphrasing) and my initial reaction was, “What sort of weird Nick Cave planet are you on, dude?? Everyone listens to every single word of your lyrics!”

But then I was reminded of my recent brunch with Wayne and Sandra in NYC, wherein Sandra, an absolute woman of the world, had never heard of Nick Cave at all; but Wayne had and has at least known of him for a very long time because Wayne was married to me for 14 years, but he only owns the CD Murder Ballads; a thing he acquired only recently because a niece gave it to him as a gift.

So I made a remark about “Stagger Lee” because I know Wayne’s sensibilities and I know that would be the type of song Wayne would love. But he didn’t know the song. I said,”You’re sure the CD is Murder Ballads?”

HIM: “Yes, I’m sure.”

ME: ” And you don’t remember hearing that song?”

HIM: “I guess I have to listen to it again. Pay more attention to the lyrics…”

So, I guess Nick Cave is actually right. Who knew?

Okay, anyway. I gotta scoot and drive into town and get some food for this barren place! Then I have 7 trillion emails to wade through, then I’m gonna work some more on “Hymn to the Dark” from Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. Have a terrific Tuesday, wherever you are in the world!! Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys. See ya.

Listening to “Stagger Lee” at an inappropriate age!! (Or perhaps just having some sort of weird sex thing in the afternoon.) (Actually, this is one of those kittens who lost his mittens and mom got pissed… I used to have this book when I was a little girl and this illustration always perturbed me.)

Okay, I’m outta here!!

A Super Saturday in the Hinterlands!!

Well, for some weird reason, the blog decided to update all on its own after I had typed only a single letter!

(The letter was “A”.) I hope it wasn’t too riveting for you…

Anyway! I woke up really daydreamy this morning and had nothing really coherent to blog about. And as the day has progressed, I find that I’m still super daydreamy. I’m in a great mood. I feel just so extremely happy today. For no specific reason, I just am. And because of that, my mind just keeps wandering.

I’m still not getting a ton of new writing done, although I am focusing on Letter #5 of Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. At least I did get that far.

I’m also really kind of waiting to hear back from the director to see if he has any additional notes on the play, because Sandra will be back in NY from LA on Monday, and she’s waiting to get a copy of the revised play, too. So lots of waiting going on here. (I’m also still waiting to hear back from various small presses re: my queries about my new novel, Blessed By Light. Small presses take forever to reply to you. It’s been 5 months. One of the small presses I queried takes a year (!!) to respond.) So anyway, lots of waiting.

If you haven’t already noticed, I started a little photo gallery for In the Shadow of Narcissa. If you’re reading this on your phone, you can’t see the gallery. It’s only visible as a web page — down on the lower left. The web site where I actually post the segments of that memoir is not very photo friendly, so I’m posting them here instead. The photo of my birth father I will probably switch out for a younger photo. I have to dig something out of storage. But the photo I have posted of him currently is probably my favorite photo of him, just generally. He was in the Navy, on Midway Island, 1973. Still about 16 years before I would meet him.

Well, even though it isn’t even Thanksgiving yet, I am starting to feel excited about decorating the house for Christmas. This will be my 2nd Christmas in the house but my first year decorating. I was indescribably depressed last Christmas and didn’t actually think I would live through it.  I think I have a photo of my tree from last year. A fake tree with built-in lights. But I only had one ornament on it because my birth mother had been here and gave it to me.

The sole decoration on last year’s tree.

And as far as past Christmases go, here’s Fluffy, helping me put up a tree several years ago!! Gosh, I miss that cat. She died just a couple weeks before Bunny did. Those were very sad times for me. Selling the house. Moving away. My little cats dying.

Fluffy helping me put up the tree!

Okay. I also saw this photo from my old house. Summertime a few years ago:

Summers at the old house

If I spend too much more time scrolling through pictures this post will get unwieldy!!

All righty, on that lofty note, gang. I leave you with the breakfast-listening music from this morning, “Jesus of the Moon,” from Dig!!! Lazarus, Dig!!! by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds.  I’ve posted it here before, but it was several months ago.  Okay. I hope you’re having a super Saturday wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting! I love you guys! See ya!!

Okay. The Play’s done. Again.

That’s a shot of part of my family room — I might sit in that chair again some day. I remember I used to do that. Watch movies and stream all those cool British DCI shows from the BBC.

We’ll see.

As indicated above, I finished the revisions on the play and just sent them off to the director in NYC. I did what I was hoping to do, to capture, but I’m not 100% sure it’s having enough of an impact as the ending (before the final song). We’ll see what the director thinks.

I have Helen ending on a partial quote from Psalm 22. She’s on an elevated platform thing, sort of like heaven, but it’s a mental landscape that doesn’t include her wheelchair, and she’s wondering what her story is now — now that she’s paralyzed and can no longer paint –after having waited 50 years before she could afford the time to paint and had enough money to buy paints and canvases, and so many paintings are still inside her.

Wanda is down below her, talking mostly to the audience, but all these other voices from Helen’s past are also speaking, overlapping. Wanda is marveling at the story that became her own life because she met Helen, and she ends with: “I’ll ease her way. I’m strong.”

And then Helen says some stuff about Jesus going to Jerusalem even though he knew his days were numbered there. And then she ends with impassioned dialogue based on Psalm 22, ending with,  “Tell my bones, tell all my bones, people — what you think it looks like to be me!” And then everything goes to black and her best paintings are projected everywhere — lots of motion and images, and then a very young Helen is heard saying, “I am Helen LaFrance Orr, I was born in a log cabin that my daddy built on our farm in Graves County, Kentucky, on November 2, 1919…” And then the entire cast breaks into a real rafter-hitting arrangement of “I Want to be Ready to Walk in Jerusalem Just like John.”

So we’ll see.

Anyway, I can turn my attention to other projects in the meantime. And dream of that day when, you know — everything’s gonna be done! (Is there actually a day like that?)

I had a good day, though. And now I’m gonna do yoga. Think about life.

I hope things are good wherever you are! See ya in the morning, gang. Thanks for visiting.

All Righty, Gang! Here We Go!!

Well, it doesn’t look exactly like this here in Crazeysburg today — all of the snow is mostly gone now. But it is a brisk and invigorating 13 degrees Fahrenheit around here!

But I don’t have to go anywhere, except perhaps across the road to my mailbox. So I don’t mind. I am kind of wishing that the main door to my barn was fixed, though, because I’d like to put my brand new grown-up car — with its awesome sparkly paint job — in there on icy days like this.

I would really like my sister to come out here and do that for me. I don’t like to play the “Damsel in Distress” card too often, but sometimes I simply am a damsel in distress. I can’t fucking fix anything. Whereas my sister, a hardcore daddy-dyke who wouldn’t be caught dead being a damsel in distress, can fix everything. But it’s a 2-hour drive from her to me. And she has, like, a life of her own and stuff like that. And if I texted her and said: can u pls come out here & fix my barn door, she would do it in a heartbeat, so I hate to take advantage. I’ll just keep dealing with it until, for whatever reason, some day she is back out here.

(The door opens, but it’s off its roller thingy and so it has become a 2-person job to open & close the main barn door.)

Anyway, there my brand new car sits, outside my kitchen door, with ice all over it.

Well, okay. I got some very interesting progress made on the final page of the play yesterday. It sort of veered into a direction I wasn’t expecting, but I like where it went. It sort of showed me that I had a plot-line & a character arc that wasn’t getting sewn-up there at the end, so that was a good thing. However, it kind of stopped me in my tracks and I had to re-think some things.

I think I’ll get it done today, but I was at it until pretty late last night, thinking I almost had it. Then for some reason, with the script open in front of me on the laptop, I suddenly decided that if I got on pornhub on my phone for a moment, it would help me think more clearly. What it did do was help me find some girl’s “channel” or account, or whatever you call it — this young brunette who uploads her own videos, where she does this one specific thing that sort of made my jaw drop a little. So I became a little bit fixated on her (and her partner, but way less on him than on her, because, truly, it was all about her). Anyway, she was awesome. And it was late. And I’d been at my desk for over 12 hours already, so I closed the laptop and gave her my undivided attention until bedtime.

I’m not going to say what she sort of specializes in, but she has an amazing eye for color. She uses primary colors in a very startling and enhancing way. And what she does is in extreme close-up so the specific choice of color is actually part of what she’s doing, and I think that’s just amazing — that she has such an eye for how color is going to enhance what she’s filming because, you know, she can’t readily see what’s going on when it’s going on. So I think she’s brilliant.  And in a couple of the videos, you can see her face for a moment and I thought it was really interesting that she hardly wears any make-up but she does wear false eyelashes — so why that specific choice? False eyelashes when she wears so little make-up? False eyelashes are usually the coup de grâce when you’re wearing just a truckload of make-up — male or female. And she has a very unusual manicure — it’s startling. So you know she’s doing all this on purpose. I just thought she was the coolest thing (plus, she was doing something I actually really like — nothing to get squeamish over or anything — so I was very appreciative of her willingness to be such a total exhibitionist — with an unexpected eye for primary colors.)

So that was yesterday! I actually had a really cool day. And today is all about nailing that final chunk of dialogue. And I am getting the feeling I am just going to be really happy, gang.

So I’m gonna get started here.  I stayed in bed a little late this morning — it was just too snuggly for words around here! My flannel sheets were fresh from the dryer last night, and flannel sheets are always so unbelievably soft when they’re right out of the dryer.  So between that, the cold outside and the heat inside, and my cute cats frolicking hither & yon in my bedroom, attempting to get me to wake the fuck up — well, it was just a wonderful morning for laying there and feeling snuggly.

But now art awaits, and things like Pulitzer prizes and such are on the horizon, so I must get down to work. Thanks for visiting, gang!! I leave you with my breakfast-listening music — I love this song, gang, even though I have no clue what it’s about. I think it could be my favorite on the album, but that sort of shifts around. Anyway. Have a great Wednesday, wherever you are in the world!! I love you guys. See ya!

“Night Raid”

There’s a picture of Jesus lying in his mother’s arms
Shuttered windows, cars humming on the street below
The fountain throbbed in the lobby of the Grand Hotel
We checked into room thirty-three, well well, well well
You were a runaway flake of snow
You were skinny and white as a wafer, yeah I know
Sitting on the edge of the bed clicking your shoes
I slid my little songs out from under you

And we all rose from our wonder
We would never admit defeat
And we leaned out of the window
As the rain fell on the street, on the street

They were just a sigh released from a dying star
They were runaway flakes of snow, yeah I know
They annexed your insides in a late night raid
We sent down for drinks and something to eat
The cars humming in the rain on the street below
A fountain throbs in the lobby of the Grand Hotel
A spurting font of creativity, yeah I know
Your head in a pool of your own streaming hair
And Jesus lying in his mother’s arms
Just so, up on the wall, just so

And we all rose up from our wonder
We would never admit defeat
And we leaned out of the window
And watched the horses in the street, in the street

In room thirty-three, yeah
Yeah, I know

c – 2019 Nick Cave

Just A Snuggly Little Morning!

Yes, it snowed during the night!

It’s not exactly a winter wonderland, but there is a covering of snow on everything here in Crazeysburg.  Mostly, it’s just super cold here today. The high will be 23 degrees Fahrenheit. So I’m happy to just sit here at my desk today and write — and  drink coffee. The laundry is already well under way…

I’m expecting just a really nice, quiet day.

If you saw the photo I posted the other day of the remains of the old coal bin under the basement stairs, it won’t surprise you to learn that this house is old enough to have had fireplaces in every room.  The dining room still has a fireplace, but it’s only decorative now — it was boarded up a long time ago.

The boarded-up fireplace in the dining room — another room that only the cats use because I rarely ever set foot in there!

The fireplaces that were in the two bedrooms are completely boarded up and plastered over, still, you can see where they used to be. I love trying to imagine what the rooms were like when the fireplaces were in them and in active use.

A previous owner had a wood-burning fireplace in the family room, which is now stored out in the barn. (This house was a rental property for several years before I bought it and in Ohio, it’s illegal to have wood-burning stoves in rental units.) (Fire hazards.)

I’ve toyed with the idea of having it brought inside and re-installed. The connection to the chimney is still accessible in the wall, I just have it covered over with a free-standing bookcase. But honestly — these days, I am never in my family room, either, so it would only be for the cats. Plus, I can barely find time to do things like wash my hair and make my bed. I can’t even imagine having to stop whatever I’m doing at my desk and go put more wood in the fireplace. Or — God forbid — have to go outside and bring in more wood when I run out. I just don’t see it happening. Unless I hire some sort of a permanent live-in handyman, or something. You know, to keep things looking as if someone — besides 7 cats — actually lives in here.

However, I have always loved living in places that had fireplaces, working or not. Growing up, we almost always had at least one, if not two, fireplaces in the house. And even in NYC, most of the apartments I lived in had fireplaces. That hellhole tenement on E.12th Street, where I lived for 9 intense years, had two fireplaces — one in the living room and one in the kitchen!! That was too cool. I loved that. The building had been built in 1895, and had been built specifically to house the teeming amounts of poor immigrants on New York’s lower east side, so I’m guessing that was their source of heat for a really long time.

I was the last person to live in that specific apartment before it got “gentrified.” As tenants moved out, one by one, the landlord would cosmetically update each apartment — board-up and plaster over the fireplaces and then lay down new wood floors, to make the floors seem level (which they weren’t– they constantly sloped in the direction of the East River). And then, overnight, they jacked-up the rent astronomically. And, of course, found plenty of people willing to pay for that fake “renovation.”

But as run down as it was when I lived there it sure had character. I loved those old wood floors and those fireplaces, and the old iron bathtub in the kitchen. It had a front door to the living room, and also a back door to the kitchen. And it was filled with spirits — just like this house I’m in now. Friendly and very active spirits, from a hundred years (or more) of lives being lived at whatever intensity. I loved that part about living on E. 12th Street — the spirits of old New Yorkers were so close back then.

But now it’s just gentrified. No character. Just really expensive.

Well, I know, you can’t just live in the past. Progress is usually a good thing. But in America, it’s hard to find places that retain any sort of real character. In order to do that, the people who live there have to work hard at keeping large-scale commerce out.  Fast-food chains and box stores, specifically. Keeping that stuff out really does help keep a place peaceful and sane — and low crime. Plus tons of trees. There are always plenty of tress in areas where they aren’t constantly building something.

Anyway, I like it. And it’s not as if the people here in this little village, in these intensely old, quirky houses, don’t drive nice cars and have smart phones and flat screen TVs. Everyone’s on the Internet.  In fact, one night last summer — it was so funny: everyone was out and taking a stroll, really late in the evening. I mean, like after 10 PM — so many people out strolling. Why? Because the Internet was down! And almost everyone here has the same internet provider. No TV, no smartphones. So let’s just go out and stroll and talk to each other. It was very amusing.

Okay. I’m gonna finish up the laundry and get to work on that last page of the play! Have a terrific Tuesday, wherever you are in the world and whatever the weather.  Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys. See ya.

“Our Town”

And you know the sun’s settin’ fast
And just like they say, nothing good ever lasts
Well, go on now and kiss it goodbye
But hold on to your lover
‘Cause your heart’s bound to die
Go on now and say goodbye to our town, to our town
Can’t you see the sun’s settin’ down on our town, on our town
Goodnight

Up the street beside that red neon light
That’s where I met my baby on one hot summer night
He was the tender and I ordered a beer
It’s been forty years and I’m still sitting here

But you know the sun’s settin’ fast
And just like they say, nothing good ever lasts
Well, go on now and kiss it goodbye
But hold on to your lover
‘Cause your heart’s bound to die
Go on now and say goodbye to our town, to our town
Can’t you see the sun’s settin’ down on our town, on our town
Goodnight

It’s here I had my babies and I had my first kiss
I’ve walked down Main Street in the cold morning mist
Over there is where I bought my first car
It turned over once but then it never went far

And I can see the sun’s settin’ fast
And just like they say, nothing good ever lasts
Well, go on now and kiss it goodbye
But hold on to your lover
‘Cause your heart’s bound to die
Go on now and say goodbye to our town, to our town
Can’t you see the sun’s settin’ down on our town, on our town
Goodnight

I buried my Mama and I buried my Pa
They sleep up the street beside that pretty brick wall
I bring them flowers about every day
But I just gotta cry when I think what they’d say

If they could see how the sun’s settin’ fast
And just like they say, nothing good ever lasts
Well, go on now and kiss it goodbye
But hold on to your lover
‘Cause your heart’s bound to die
Go on now and say goodbye to our town, to our town
Can’t you see the sun’s settin’ down on our town, on our town
Goodnight

Now I sit on the porch and watch the lightning-bugs fly
But I can’t see too good, I got tears in my eyes
I’m leaving tomorrow but I don’t wanna go
I love you, my town, you’ll always live in my soul

But I can see the sun’s settin’ fast
And just like they say, nothing good ever lasts
Well, go on, I gotta kiss you goodbye
But I’ll hold to my lover
‘Cause my heart’s ’bout to die
Go on now and say goodbye to my town, to my town
I can see the sun has gone down on my town, on my town
Goodnight
Goodnight

c – 1992 Iris DeMent

Stepping back to re-focus

Sometimes, even when I know that the stuff I’m trying to say is in there — inside my brain— I just can’t get a clear signal. You know, like a radio dial. I’m tuning and tuning, but not landing on that clear signal that lets everything come in crystal clear.

I’m talking about the final page of dialogue for the play— in case I’m not being crystal clear!

It’s not coming. So I’ve decided to focus on my Italian lessons instead. Just get my brain involved in something else.  And then maybe when I shift my focus back to the play, the dialogue I need to hear will be there.

Even though I’m not sure now if the retreats will be held in Italy or England, I paid for a year in advance for the Italian lessons so I’m just going to keep studying it until either the year is up, or I end up needing to keep studying it indefinitely.

I am not very good at Italian.  My mind still wants to shift back into French. And like any language I’ve ever studied, except for Mandarin Chinese, which I was strangely good at speaking, I just do so much better reading a new language than speaking it. So the moment I’m not actually looking at the Italian lessons, I forget everything I just learned. Yet the moment I take another quiz, even if it’s the monthly quiz that goes over everything to date— well, then I remember absolutely everything. So I have no idea why I can’t simply recall all this stuff when the lessons aren’t in front of me.

But anyway. I’ve decided to focus on Italian for awhile. Give the play a wee little rest.

It’s a beautiful morning here. It doesn’t seem to be as cold as it’s been the past few mornings.

The other morning when I was out in my car along the main road, this one group of cows that I really love did something so cute! If you’ve never been around a group of cows— meaning standing right with them or in their midst— they are quite curious creatures. They will all look at you, at the same time, the moment you appear. It’s a strange sensation, because they’re so large.

Anyway, I group the main road here by the animals. First there’s a huge group of cows on a hill. Then a smaller group of cows in a pasture right by the road. Then a group of chickens. Then horses with a couple of cows. Then another large group of cows on a hill. Then more chickens. Then you get closer to town.

Well it’s that group of about 20 cows that are near the road that I just love, because whenever I drive past them, they’re just so close. I love looking at them. The other day, the guy who owns them was installing some new feeders. Another guy was helping him. And all the cows were standing sort of in a circle, surrounding the men, just very curiously watching what they were doing. It was so funny looking! It was just the sweetest thing.

Anyway. I do love animals.

Okay, I’m gonna scoot. Have a great Sunday. Since I’m still in bed, I’ll leave you with a photo of my bedroom door, from the bed just now. I love how the light is hitting it. I’m not sure why I love this door so much, but I do. It’s one of the few doors that are original to the house, so the door and the iron door knob are 119 years old.

All right. Thanks for visiting!! I love you guys. See ya.

The view if my bedroom door from the bed just now.

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Just Some Thoughts on a Celebration, of Sorts…

Since most of my readers do not come from the United States, and are more likely to have a cognizant awareness of who Nick Cave is — I’m guessing that most of you already know that Ghosteen, the new album by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds, has been declared the Album of the Decade, by Metacritic, which tallies the accumulated critical scores that a movie, album, or game receives. And Ghosteen received the highest ratings across the board, to land it in the top spot for the entire decade.

Ghosteen Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds

It’s a wonderful achievement, but it’s also an announcement that is just so poignant to me that it’s hard to be truly “happy” about it. I am glad, though.

Assuming this is not your first visit to this blog then you are well aware that I love this album, but still find it just devastating to listen to. I can rarely listen to the whole album all the way through. I usually have to stop it at some point and just breathe, you know? Walk away.

Sometimes I only get as far as “Waiting For You” before that happens — that’s only the 3rd song in. Most of the time, I can get as far as “Galleon Ship” and then I have to stop. I don’t know why “Galleon Ship” is so hard for me, but it is. I have a really tough time listening to that one without it totally breaking my heart.

I don’t know for sure if this is true, but I heard that their album Skeleton Tree is the #5 album of the decade. Of course, both of these albums have to do with the death of one of Nick Cave’s sons. But I think it’s accurate to say that a lot of  Skeleton Tree had already been recorded before his son was killed.  But Ghosteen — I don’t see how that album could have come into existence if his son hadn’t died, and so that’s why it’s just so hard for me to join in all the Instagram hoopla over it being the Album of the Decade. Honestly, I can only see the trade-off. And it’s too poignant. What the death of a child does to the parents, and to the family. Not to mention what it does to the child’s private world — other children; lives that have nothing to do with the parents or the family. Or with art.

Yet all of that had to happen for the art to have even needed to be expressed.  And it is amazingly beautiful art — and I am glad that it’s getting honored everywhere. I am. But it’s still just so sad.

Okay, I’m going to get back to work here, gang. I’ll leave you with this, if you haven’t already heard it. Thanks for visiting. I love you guys. See ya.

“Galleon Ship”

If I could sail a galleon ship
Long, lonely rider across the sky
Seek out mysteries while you sleep
And treasures money cannot buy

For you know I see you everywhere
A servant girl, an empress
My galleon ship will fly and fall
Fall and fly and fly and fall deep into your loveliness

And if we rise my love
Before the daylight comes
A thousand galleon ships will sail
Ghostly around the morning sun

As the city rises up
As the city rises up
As the city rises up
As the city rises up

For we are not alone, it seems
So many riders in the sky
The winds of longing in their sails
Searching for the other side

And if we rise my love
Oh my darling, precious one
We’ll stand and watch the galleon ships
Circle around the morning sun

c – 2019 Nick Cave