If you saw my post from this afternoon, after I officially finished Booty Core, and my digital instructor instructed us to take photos of our new post-Booty Core physiques — well, that photo has nothing whatsoever to do with Booty Core because apparently I still never do what instructors tell me to do. And I couldn’t duplicate that photo again if I tried, gang! So hang on to it for future reference, because I don’t actually really look like that…
Well, the new contracts for Tell My Bones are done and off in the mail. Finally. And I’m not going to tell you how many rights I chose to give away, in order to get them to sign that darn thing, but you know what? I really, really just need my play and all things connected to my play (and my previous screenplay that it’s derived from) so I’m good. It’s all okay.
And I’ve been working on Thug Luckless: Welcome To P-Town. So it’s been a good day.
I’m a little concerned that the IRS wrote to me today and informed me that they took $30 from my 2019 tax refund that I had apparently owed since 2013.
Is that insane, or what? Jesus. Thirty bucks. Seven years later. What the hell? I sure hope it helps improve our nations highways and educational systems. Whatever. It still felt kind of scary. Like, how did you just now discover that? What else is lurking out there for me in IRS land? I should call my accountant and demand answers!! But I won’t. I’m just moving forward. They got their money.
And FYI: everybody wants more money this year! Not only did my new (leased) car payment leap up wildly, but my cell phone went up, my Internet went up, my healthcare cooperative nearly doubled. It’s fucking insane. And according to a new alarming blog post at the Copyright Alliance site today, you’ve got to be out of your fucking mind to be an author anymore because book pirating is through the roof all over the darn world. (As I can sadly attest to, when Ribbon of Darkness got illegally downloaded in a torrent about 3000 times in 10 minutes this past fall. Something horrible like that.) But you know — what am I gonna do? Not write books? So on we go, right?
If you are able to view the music player in your browser (you have to turn your phone sideways, if you view this blog on your phone), you will see that I switched out the music again. I have posted this song before, but in a 1984 demo version. This one is a 1993 demo that I’d forgotten all about! It’s full of fiddles and steel guitar — and a piano! I have no idea who’s playing that. And I’m singing like an angel. Honestly, I have some sort of angelic vocal thing happening there. So that totally shocked me, but I decided to post it here to the blog. It actually starts with a 45-second dobro guitar intro, and then the actual song begins, if you feel like listening to it.
[Update: apparently that dobro intro de-materialized somehow.]
And I also apparently cleaned up the lyrics — no mention of orgasms in this version. We changed “coming” to “dreaming.” So if you’re at all sensitive to stuff that the human body does (and if you are, I can’t imagine how you’ve found yourself at this particular blog), but anyway — it’s safe and sanitized today! We have forfeited our orgasms for the safety of dreams!
All righty. I hope you guys have a great night — or a good morning, if you’re somewhere really far from Crazeysburg! Thanks for visiting! Enjoy, gang. I love you guys. See ya.
And, no — by “miracles” I don’t mean that my cats are finally cleaning!
What I do mean, is that I have to clean — well, that’s not the miracle, either. I do try to keep my humble, cat-infested abode clean. But I haven’t actually vacuumed in weeks.
The last time I vacuumed, some sort of pebble-thing got sucked up into the vacuum and kept rattling around in there and freaking me out. So I figured that if I just let it sit quietly in the dark hall closet for many weeks, it would fix itself.
I feel pretty confident that it did.
But that’s not the miracle, either.
The miracle is that I happened to see a mortgage-banker that I know casually and as I was saying hi, I suddenly asked him if he knew a reputable & affordable plumber who could fix my upstairs toilet, since he deals with home mortgages and all that. And he said, “I’ll do it. Just take some photos of the parts you need, text them to me and I’ll swing by on Sunday and fix it for you.”
Whoa. (That’s the miracle part there, in case you didn’t recognize it. He’s saving me a fortune!)
He’s friends with my friend Kevin — not the director of the play, but the other Kevin, who stores his vintage 1965 VW camper van in my barn all summer. So he’s bringing Kevin along with him. And since this constitutes “people in the house,” I decided that I’d better fucking vacuum today.
I figure the pebble-thing has certainly had plenty of time to de-manifest from the vacuum cleaner by now. I guess we’ll see.
This has already made me feel very spring-cleany-ish, though. I put the Easter wreath up on the kitchen door this morning (yes, while it was still dark out — God knows, you gotta put your Easter wreath up at 5am on a freezing cold February morning…) and I put out all the little spring/Easter things in the kitchen. Not sure what the hurry is, it’s not even Mardis Gras yet. I think it has something to do with all the birds returning.
Today is my older brother’s 61st birthday. (Yes, there is a mere 49-year age difference between him & me.) (And what’s even odder — when I was first adopted, there was only a 17 month difference in our ages!) (And what’s even more weirder – I will still be 12 on my next birthday!) (I know — like, how weird is that? Just one of those mysteries of life that’s best left un-pondered.)
Anyway. My indescribable immaturity aside. I haven’t seen my older brother in 26 years. I know he’s still alive. And he’s happily married — and has been for 26 years. (Yes, I haven’t seen him since his wedding, however, I was actually invited to that wedding.)
(That was his second wedding — I wasn’t invited to the first one because our adoptive dad paid for that wedding and it was one of those years where being really mean to Marilyn was seriously in vogue with my adoptive dad.)
(Honestly, I have no idea why I wasn’t invited to my brother’s first wedding. I wasn’t invited to my dad’s 3rd wedding, either. I can understand not being invited to my dad’s first wedding, because I wasn’t born yet. And I can understand not being invited to his second wedding, because it happened hurriedly, the night before I moved in with him, briefly, when I was 14, and he decided that to remain shacked up with his 27-year-old cocktail waitress girlfriend while I was living there with them would set a bad moral example for me. (I know — don’t laugh. To see those words “moral” and “me” in the same sentence, but he tried.) (And I have to say that after I did move in and my new 27-year-old stepmom and I were hanging out together in the living room, smoking cigarettes while my dad was out on the road, and she was having a cocktail and sort of sharing it with 14-year-old me, she said, “Thank you so much for moving in, Marilyn. I didn’t think your dad would ever marry me.”) Anyway, there are just a whole bunch of family-related weddings that I wasn’t invited to, even though I behave really well in public. I do. I’ve got that whole “how to attend a wedding” thing down. I know how to dress, what to say, I’ve got table manners and stuff. And I bring gifts. So who knows.)
Well, so, I digress.
My older brother is 61 today and I haven’t seen him in 26 years.
He used to look like this, though (and I used to look like that):
And of course, all of this makes me wistful — I really don’t know my brother as a grown man; I know him more as a little boy — and it makes me want to spend some time working on In the Shadow of Narcissa. But I’ve still got to finish up the new Life Story Rights documents for Tell My Bones and get those off in the mail. And the longer the files stay open on my desk top, the more I seem to resist them. So I really have to just force myself to get those finished and back into the mail.
After I vacuum, though.
And do Booty Core.
My Booty Core program is almost over, by the way. 4 more days. Then I will just do it maybe 3 times a week and do yoga the rest of the time. And then just sail off into old age as a sort of splendid swan.
Oh, and I finally broke down and bought glucosamine chondroitin supplements, too. So I guess we’ll see how that goes. I’m really not trying to stop myself from aging. I’m just trying to, I don’t know, keep walking? Stay on good terms with my lovely legs? When I bought this house, one of the reasons I bought it was because the dining room can easily be turned into a first-floor bedroom (and I think it was one in the past) and there’s a full bathroom on the first floor, too, so in case my now elderly adoptive dad wanted to live with me as he got elderly-er, he could have these things. I didn’t get that stuff so that I could be elderly here, you know? It was for him. But, for some hard to discern reason, he doesn’t want to be elderly here in the wilds of distant Crazeysburg where there is absolutely nothing at all…
Well, the script work with Peitor went very well yesterday. We got a lot done. On Tuesday we will finally begin working on my very favorite scene in the whole 8-minute film! The only scene in it where there is a person who actually has lines of (erotic) dialogue!! I cannot wait!! (Honestly, it is going to be so fucked up and so cool!!) This is one of the reasons why I love not living in the regular world. You can just open up your mind and the most entertaining stuff comes out. Seriously.
I haven’t lived in the regular world in such a long time. Actually, I don’t think I ever did. But for a lot of those years, people thought of me as mentally ill. But I’m not ill. I’m just not able to live in a half-sort of world, where you have to squish yourself down and worry all the time about what other people might be thinking of you. Of course, when people think you’re mentally ill, they can just say, “Oh, she’s like that because she’s crazy,” and give you all sorts of leeway and social dispensations and still invite you to parties and stuff. But when you’re not crazy, people don’t know what the fuck to make of you so they just give you a wide berth and leave you mostly alone.
But I don’t really like parties anyway.
However, one part of the regular world that I do live in involves having to deal with that pesky film budgeting stuff. Peitor and I discussed that yesterday, too. And it seems that MovieMagic budgeting & scheduling software is the industry standard and people will be expecting us to work with that, so we will breakdown and buy it (it’s really expensive) and then I will break down (hopefully not in tears) and learn how to use it.
And we shall sally forth into the great creative unknown!!
Well, on Instagram yesterday — quite a bevy of happy folks buying tickets to see Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds on their North American tour! Tickets went on sale yesterday. That was so cool to see, even though when I saw someone post a receipt for their ticket to see them at the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville, my heart kind of, you know, winced a little. However, I am extremely happy with how things are turning out for me, regardless. But what’s weird, though, is that I know for a fact that the guy who bought that ticket for the Nashville show lives in fucking Australia. Isn’t that funny? People going all over the world to see stuff? (You can buy tickets at that link there, btw.)
Meanwhile, I must get going here!! Jesus. I’ve been working on this post for 3 hours already. I’ve got to get this house clean!! Okay!! Have a great Saturday, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys! See ya!!!
The above is one of the opening lines from the musical, Cabaret:
M.C. (with great irony and a heavy German accent): “In here, life iz beautiful! Za gurls are beautiful! Even za orchestra iz beautiful!”
And that’s sort of how I feel about today! Only without the irony (I still keep the heavy German accent though — in my head, anyway).
Gus Van Sant Sr has a birthday in a few days, so I went outside first thing this morning and walked across the road to stick his birthday card in the mailbox, and even though it was quite cold out and frost was everywhere, guess what?! The birds are back! They were out there singing!
I would not have known this had I not ventured forth into the frozen dawn, still in my jammies & flip-flops!
What a blessing, right? To be rewarded with that reminder that Spring is on its way. And those happy words came to me (without the irony but with the German accent): Even za orchestra iz beautiful!!
Yesterday was a little intense. I did not get to work on Thug Luckless much at all, because more legal stuff came up re: Tell My Bones and I had to deal with that, and with trying to re-write even more legal documents without losing my fucking mind.
ME (on the phone, not really saying this, only thinking it): “Just give me the rights to my fucking play! Fuck all this other shit! That’s all I fucking care about right now, you fucking assholes! We’re going into table-reads in New York in a few fucking weeks here and you’ve had years to object to this other shit! I’ve already gone above the industry standards on these fucking options and these percentages and at this rate, I’m not going to see any fucking money from this thing until I’m 72 and half years old! For Christ’s fucking sake! Fuck!!”
ME (what I really said, in my nice-Ohio-girl voice, wherein I actually do sound 12): ” Oh I see. Sure. I understand. Let me just make a phone call, okay? And see if I can work on maybe just re-wording this document a little bit because, you know, I’ve given you all of my babysitting money already. So, um. Would that be all right?”
That aside, though. I slept great last night because I had been reading an email from someone that I don’t even know, and I believe that people really are beautiful. They just fucking are. You know, we all have our little roadmaps that we follow in life, trying our best to find our way through whatever is thrown at us. And I think it’s so beautiful how most people just keep trying and keep tweaking that map, maybe, but they find their way. (Me included, of course. God knows.)
And I did oversleep a little bit this morning because, deep down in my subconscious, I knew my script work with Peitor today wasn’t going to begin until this afternoon because he has to go to the eye doctor. And I also knew that I didn’t want to do Booty Core this morning, either — I wanted to take a break. And my bed felt so cozy and I was breathing great because I’d finally changed the furnace filter and everything just felt so perfect in my little world, that I decided to oversleep! And so I did! And then I was still up early enough to hear the birds singing. In February.
Sort of a joyful start to a morning, right? And I’m going to try really hard to make today’s script session better than it was on Tuesday.
I’m still not sure if the tension was coming from me, or not, but I do know that I was upset about that whole Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds North American tour thing that day but I wasn’t talking about it with Peitor because he gets really tired of hearing about Nick Cave. (I know — how weird, right?! He even says stuff, like, “Marilyn, could you please focus? We’re trying to work here.”)
(Although, to be fair, it’s probably not easy having a business partner who’s only 12 — ME: “I found another ladybug today! Oh, and I saw a hoverfly on my kitchen window! And I rescued him in a Kleenex and I put him outside and he just flew away, he really soared. He seemed so happy!” PEITOR: “I’m sure he was. Can we look at scene 5?”)
However!! Now, because of the overwhelming kindness of complete strangers, that whole issue regarding Nick Cave has not only evaporated, it has become this truly amazing thing! This gift in my life.
So. I’m just feeling really good about today. And I probably can’t work on Thug Luckless today, either, because I still have to work on rewriting the legal stuff for the play. But I did realize yesterday, that the atmosphere I’m visualizing for P-Town feels a lot like that comic book, Fell, written by (the other) Warren Ellis & Ben Templesmith. It began in late 2005. I’m not a comic book fan, but I always really loved that one — that series. I actually have never met anybody who was familiar with that comic book, but I just loved it.
And so I got out all those FELL comic books and sort of flipped through them again. And still just loved it.
(Which, in a round about way, reminds me that the guy who turned 18 the other day, and I bought him a lighter? He’s becoming a Navy SEAL. Which is sort of jaw-dropping to me, because — I’ve never told him this, or anything — but he really reminds me of my father, my birth dad. For one thing, he’s always singing these songs that were huge hits back during the Vietnam War, and yet this kid is only 18. But it’s one of the reasons I feel so drawn to the guy’s personality — he seems so much like my dad. And, of course, my birth dad was a Navy SEAL, in Vietnam. It was another one of those things that stopped me dead in my tracks and made me wonder: who are we, really? You know? What are human beings beyond this constant transference of energy, of beingness?? That just keeps recycling and expanding and never ending. Wow.)
So on that note!! I better get going here. Have a great Friday, wherever you are in the world!! Thanks for visiting, gang. I leave you with the opening song from the movie version of Cabaret, “Willkommen”. (It includes the quote from up above — and if you’ve never been exposed to this film, this opening song here will give you an excellent idea of what you’re getting into when watching it. I was actually 12 when I saw this movie and was blown away by it. My adoptive mother was with me, though, and her being Jewish, well, she was very disturbed by the whole movie, and understandably so. But anyway. It is now a classic.)
First of all, Nick Cave’s Red Hand Files thing today was really cute. You should go check it out. One of the people who wrote to him today was really funny! I laughed out loud. (He has now had 20,000 letters written to him by way of The Red Hand Files!) (And, no, I did not write 19,993 of them…)
Okay. Yesterday saw a brand new Page One come into existence for Thug Luckless: Welcome to P-Town.
I was very, very happy with it because it feels to me like Thug has really found his voice. I’m re-writing the whole thing from scratch, by the way. So, a new “page one” appearing is a really exciting thing. I call it “finding my way in.” Once that voice comes, I know that a book is as good as written. Now all I have to do is actually physically get it down onto the page. But the excitement factor for me in creating something new in the world has certainly arrived and I just love that feeling.
(If you’re new to the blog: Thug Luckless is my new novel-in-progress. He is an AI male sex robot who is abandoned in a post-apocalyptic town after his female owner dies suddenly. And no one in the town knows how to turn him off so he just goes around, fucking all those jaded and lonely women that you so often find in a post-apocalyptic town. He becomes a sort of misused fixture in the town (called P-Town — and not because it’s Provincetown). But it’s actually a story about coming into a gradual awareness of Self. Self-awareness, self-discovery, the Higher Self, through the intimacy of sex, whether it’s sort of forced or otherwise. ) (I guess it’s “spiritual pornography” — that always-easy-to-market book publishing category…)
Anyway. I’m excited about it. I really am. I love Thug Luckless. And as God is my witness, someone will publish it!
Some other really, really exciting things happened yesterday! In addition to discovering more auspicious ladybugs in the house (!!), and a plethora of hoverflies (what’s up with that?? I found three in my house just yesterday afternoon — those are the flies that look like bees but aren’t), I also went down into my creepy basement and finally changed out the filter in the furnace. It was several weeks overdue and my sinuses were acting up again.
I can’t emphasize enough how much I really don’t enjoy going down into that 119-year-old unfinished basement, replete with a bonanza of spiders, passing the cold winter months near the toasty furnace, and just a bunch of other stuff that you glance at and think: “what the hell is that?” And then you just quickly change the filter and get the heck out of there…
So that’s done for the next 3 months. I’m already breathing better. It’s practically instantaneous. (Not only is this a really old house that’s just naturally full of dust and I’m allergic to dust; but it is also a house filled with 7 cats and I’m allergic to cats.) Anyway. I’m breathing better.
The other thing that happened yesterday is not quite as exciting as finding a bunch of insects and going down into my creepy basement, however — I was very kindly and generously invited to go to Switzerland in June and see the lovely country and meet its lovely people (and hopefully get some more cool coasters in the airport) and also see Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds at the Hallenstadion!! Yay. And the ticket has now officially been purchased!!
How cool is that, gang? I mean, honestly? I’m really so excited and so grateful. What a great day yesterday was. People can be so wonderful.
And to be precise: this will be the first actual vacation I’ve had in years. Truly. I always travel for work-related things. They are never “vacations.” Ever. Ever. Ever. I don’t think I’ve been on a vacation since I went to Copenhagen with Wayne back in, like, 2001 (wherein, I also decided that I wanted a divorce so that was a super happy vacation). I’ve traveled a huge amount since then — London and Paris a few times; Bristol, NYC many times, and LA a few times, San Francisco — even to Cleveland, for god’s sake. But they were all work-related trips in one way or another. Doing readings, book-signings, taking endless meetings, setting up massively time-consuming new business endeavors with colleagues overseas, etc., etc., etc.
So, I am so excited. A vacation. Meeting new people. Going someplace that I’ve always wanted to go. I just can’t wait.
However, between now & then — man, I have a lot of work to do. And I guess, on that cheery note, I’m gonna get started here. Thanks for visiting, gang. I hope Thursday is really just spectacular — full of unexpected delights and reasons to rejoice. (I know — I don’t ask too much from a mere Thursday, do I?) I love you guys. See ya.
Okay, gang. Today I’m going to try to move forward joyfully!!
None of this “shooting her” business! We will deal with fucking movie budgets if we have to deal with fucking movie budgets. God knows, I’ve dealt with worse things in my life. I’ll just buy MovieMagic budgeting software, like everybody else, and see if it will “magically” just do everything… (Loyal readers of this lofty blog perhaps recall that I am not super good at math. I am good at algebra. But, oddly, algebra does not feature hugely in movie budgeting.) (Not yet, anyway.)
Even though I really want to get back to some new chapters for In the Shadow of Narcissa, I’m thinking that some new pages for Thug Luckless: Welcome to P-Town will win out today. I’m sort of in a Thug Luckless kind of mood. (I always like to use the image below for quick reference — are we in a Thug mood today, or not?)
I’m not sure what happened yesterday — why it was that, midday, my energy completely turned around and became so stressed. It actually never got better.
(I think part of it is that I don’t see any reasonable way for me to attend any of the Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds concerts this time. I have too much to do with my various far flung projects and I will have to travel for all of those already. So Nick Cave just doesn’t seem like a reasonable expectation. Yeah, I know — I’m the one who decided it was going to be great to live alone in the middle of fucking nowhere so that traveling becomes such a fucking ordeal. And I am not a person who accepts “having to be reasonable” with any sort of grace or anything like that. I get pouty and frustrated, because I feel like I should just be able to do anything I want, right? And not have to fuck around with intensely complicated movie production budgets and playwright contracts that look suspiciously like the playwright always gets screwed, etc., etc. I think my barely suppressed attitude was fucking up my whole day yesterday and on into the night.)
Well, I did do Booty Core after I posted so angst-ily to the blog last evening, but the final ten minutes were so intense on my knees, that I just gave up on that, too.
I did watch a really cool episode of Ken Burns’ Jazz, though. We are now in the post-WWII era. Dave Brubeck is putting in an appearance now, along with Miles Davis. So we are inching into contemporary jazz, which is not my favorite. But it is still just a really great documentary. I am almost done with all 10 episodes. How many months has it taken me to watch this thing? But I have just really, really loved it and I’ve learned a whole lot about various jazz musicians that I just grew up taking for granted.
Even though I’m not a Charlie Parker fan, or even much of a Miles Davis fan, either (although I did meet Cicely Tyson back in the mid-1980s and she was really, really cool and just so sweet), (Miles Davis and Cicely Tyson were married at that time, in case you’re wondering what the fuck I’m suddenly talking about). Anyway. In the documentary, they were saying that Charlie Parker’s impact on music fans was just as startling as Louis Armstrong’s had been on people in the 1920s.
I found that perspective really sort of jolting. It gave me something to think about, because of course I grew up in an era where Louis Armstrong was a household name, there was nothing at all startling or emotionally arresting about his sound. As far as I was concerned, he’d simply always been there. (I’ve learned a ton of cool stuff about him in this documentary, as well.) But it gave me a different perspective on Charlie Parker, too.
Anyway. I’m learning a lot. I still don’t understand what it means to actually be a human being — you know, why we exist and what we actually are (although I’m leaning toward believing that we are just vibrating energy that gets filtered through our senses, only appearing as something physical on the surface). But in the meantime, music is fucking cool.
In fact, on Instagram last evening, I was exposed to Miyavi for the first time. @alysoncamus, who writes for RockNYC, always posts really cool photos and videos of bands playing in smaller clubs (in LA, I’m pretty sure). It’s almost always bands I’ve never heard of before because it’s not usually the kind of music I listen to. Still, I always find it really interesting. So many, many talented musicians out there in the world, making so many different kinds of music, and it is just so hard to earn a living at it nowadays.
However, Miyavi (from Japan) has been around a long time now and seems to be doing just fine. Although I had never heard of him until last night. I’m going to quote what Alyson Camus wrote about him on RockNYC because it seems extremely accurate: “Miyavi is a born rock star, electrifying the air with his powerful stage presence and his incredible energy, he is a blue-haired silver bullet with a theatrical style and a guitar on fire.”
I always love that feeling when you encounter a musician for the first time and your jaw sort of drops and you feel that kinetic energy just rush through you. Even on a tiny little screen like Instagram. (And it’s exactly things like that, which make me wonder what exactly human beings are, you know? What are we, when I can feel something like that through a tiny little screen on my fucking phone? And it wasn’t even live — the show happened Monday night. But anyway.)
So that was cool. And I had a wonderful exchange with a reader last evening, too. About an older story of mine that appeared in Italian translation a long time ago.
It’s really nice to finally be getting such life-affirming feedback on my writing, as opposed to the amount of letters I’ve gotten over the years from men in prison. I don’t judge people in prison, even though the people who have written to me have tended to be convicted murderers and pedophiles. I honestly don’t judge that. I still believe that the human experience is really just a transference of energy — choices that are constantly being made. For whatever reasons. You know — if you choose to murder somebody, you’re making a choice about the energy you’re putting out and then you have to receive the energy that comes back from that.
So I don’t judge that. It comes down to choices. And I know the choices that I prefer to make in my own life; choices about who I want to be in the world. But it did feel incredibly great to hear from somebody who seems to have lived a really great life — free of prison and murder and pedophilia — and something I wrote got to be part of that. That really made me feel good.
So all is not lost!!
And who knows; maybe for some inexplicable reason, I’ll have to be in, like, Nashville on October 4th and, just like Charlie of “Chocolate Factory” fame, I’ll buy some sort of candy bar and inside of it will be a coveted golden ticket to see Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds at the Grand Ole Opry! (I mean, how fucking mind-bending would that be? As much as I’d like to see, maybe, Ernest Tubb at the Grand Ole Opry (he’s quite dead, btw, in case you don’t know his music, plus, he would have played at the Ryman, not at the new one), still, it would just be too fucking amazing to see Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds at a venue like that.)
But anyway. Life goes on.
And on that note, I’m gonna get to work here on Thug Luckless! Pour a little bit of my frustrating angst into him!! Thanks for visiting, gang. You probably have a sneaking suspicion about what I’m leaving you with today — from the RockNYC YouTube channel! Miyavi. The full version of what I was watching on Instagram last night! Have a good Wednesday, wherever you are in the world! I love you guys. See ya.
You know, yesterday, I took a look at what I had already written in Letter #6, “Captivity,” (Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse), and I actually liked it more than I thought I did. But I still think it needs to be completely re-written. Well, it’s only 2 pages. What I mean is that the voice needs to change — the rhythm of it. It’s too linear the way it is right now. I feel like this is one of those chapters that needs to be more stream-of-consciousness.
So, as I sat and thought about it, more images or thoughts or vague perceptions — I don’t know what to really call them — for Thug Luckless continued to creep in around the edges of my brain. A sort of brain-landscape getting underway there. And it couldn’t be more different from what I’m trying to capture in Letter #6 for the other book. So there was a lot of maneuvering for brain space going on there, but Thug won out, for a little while.
Thug just gets more interesting to me every day. The strangest things inspire me:
Those (in my opinion) hideously huge monogrammed, square-toed Balenciaga boots for men. (They look huger on the models than it looks here.)
The old Rudy Vallee smash, sort of haunting, hit song, “Just An Echo in the Valley” from 1933.
And of course, the tone and overall temperament of Jean Genet’s ode to death & rape in Occupied Paris in the summer of 1944, Funeral Rites.
And then add the post-Apocalyptic urban backdrop of P-Town where most of the men were killed in the Apocalypse and there is no longer any working indoor plumbing so all the women are pissing in the streets, and then the pornographic premise of the AI sex robot, endlessly wandering around because the woman who bought & programmed him, died, and none of the other women know how to un-program him, so he’s fucking everyone, and gradually morphing from artificial intelligence into sentient intelligence strictly through sexuality. But nobody knows this is happening to him, or ever knows, and it’s sort of a tragedy. But beautiful.
It’s just an amazing hodge-podge of stuff swirling around my brain regarding Thug –and creating yet another one of those universes that sort of isolates me from everything and everyone around me… but I still love it. It just excites me to no end.
And yet, I awoke at 5:30 this morning, suddenly feeling like: Okay, gotta get In the Shadow of Narcissa into some kind of manuscript shape today.
WTF??!! Where did that come from? That memoir could not be more different from the other two projects. And I really thought that the other two were on the front burners for now. But apparently they aren’t, because I was lying there in the dark, completely focused on Narcissa.
So there you go. All these projects that sort of lurch forward at the same time around here. And tomorrow I need to focus on Tell My Bones because I’m meeting with the director. And I’m thinking that I’m supposed to be planning on being in NYC next month to begin the table-read process so that I can rewrite the final act of the play and fix one of the main character arcs. Time is flying. And then at some point I have to be in Toronto with Sandra for the round table with the producers and the director for The Guide to Being Fabulous.
I still have no idea when that’s supposed to get underway. I only know the show is slated for the upcoming season, beginning in November, and I have a ton of re-writes still to do on it. But I won’t have any idea what those specific re-writes will be until we do the round table. And Sandra has to be in Stratford (Canada) beginning in April to be in the musical Chicago all spring/summer. So, um, hmmm….
Here’s a handy definition to have:
capable of bending easily without breaking.
All right, well. We’re certainly going to find out about that.
Here, the laundry is just about done. I’m thinking that later today, I’m going to drag the boxes out of the storage closet and take them downstairs and pack up all the Christmas stuff, while streaming more episodes of Black Books. (The dining room currently looks like some sort of Christmas thrift store, everything’s piled everywhere.)
But meanwhile, I have the segments from In the Shadow of Narcissa open on my desktop and I’m going to go over those now and format them into one manuscript and get a feel for how that reads (currently 9 pages). And then maybe even write a new piece for it (and post it to the site). I’m not sure. Overall, since I want it to be chap-book length, I don’t see it being longer than 40 or 50 pages. I guess we’ll see.
So have a terrific Tuesday, wherever you are in the world and with whatever you’re working on while you’re there! Thanks for visiting, gang. I leave you with yet another cool Tropical Fuck Storm song, “Aspirin.” (William over at a1000mistakes blog in Australia had it as one of his top songs for 2019.) It’s off the TFS album Braindrops, released this past August. Okay. I love you guys. See ya!
The last summer that I saw you
At the BP with no cash
You were burnt out like an aspirin
And I was melting on your dash
And this was years ago when Richmond
Was way out on the astral plane
But it was fine ’cause I could see there was a light up in the tunnel
It’s okay, you know I remember how you used to say
When you finally go
You’re gonna find out who you’ll miss the most
Well, I guarantee you’ll find it is not me
It won’t be any of the usual suspects, but whatever, man
Soon enough you’re gonna find out who I mean
When you go, you get to finally meet the one who tortured you
The one who hurt you worse than anyone, even me
And I’m just sorry that I won’t be there to tell you that I told you so
But soon enough you’ll leave, and then you’ll see
You’re the old sneakers on the floor, the coat by the front door
The ashtray by the milk crate in the yard
And you’re the dead fern in the hall, all the blanks in my recall
The old Toyota van I sold for parts
You were the house that they tore down
It’s now a vacant block of land
The ache I try to shake when I drive by
And you’re the dog ear in the book
I didn’t even know you looked at
And then other times, you’re furthest from my mind
Then I got something in the post, and there it is, your legal ghost
And just goes to show, you know
You’re kinda hard to leave behind
I don’t wanna go out no more, just the thought makes me recoil
It’s like that feeling when unwanted guests
Come banging on your door
They’re either too smart or too dumb
Or they’re too weak or they’re too strong
You said I’d be okay without you, yeah, you’ve been here all along
You were the best time I remember, and I do ’cause life is dull
It’s like you’re half the fucking neurons in my skull
When you finally go, you’re gonna find the only thing you needed
Did exactly as it should and got you through
You did not need nobody’s help, just the idea of being helped
Though at the time it wouldn’t have felt like that was true
And when you go you’ll get to finally meet
The one who tortured you
The one that hurt you worse than everyone, even me
But you’ll be fine
‘Cause you could always see a light up in the tunnel
I got a feeling it’ll happen soon for me
But you’ll be fine
‘Cause you could always see a light up in the tunnel
I got a feeling it’ll happen soon
But you’ll be fine
‘Cause you could always see a light up in the tunnel
I got a feeling it’ll happen soon to me
But you’ll be fine
‘Cause you could always see a light up in the tunnel
I got a feeling it’ll happen soon
And if I’m following you on Instagram – don’t take that personally.
It’s just that my account is now not only so overloaded with ads for cute cat-related things and clothing I would never wear if my life depended on it (and I mean that — I’ve had a long and somewhat arduous while certainly interesting life, and now I’m at that lofty age wherein I’m either going to wear exactly what I want to wear or just opt-out of life entirely). Anyway.
In addition to unwanted ads, my Instagram feed has also gotten so long now that I can never even imagine getting to the bottom of the scroll anymore. And the non-advertising stuff that makes it into my feed is just a whole bunch of stuff from people that, you know, I don’t even know who they are. But this is only in the unlikely event that these complete strangers managed to get in a post amid the truly UNENDING number of Keanu Reeves photos that glut my feed.
But I don’t want to unfollow the Keanu Reeves hashtag because it is the sole hashtag on Earth (and likely its surrounding celestial environs) that does not provoke, disturb, perplex, confound, unnerve, or confuse me in any way whatsoever. So the hashtag is staying. But, you know? Jesus. How many fucking photos of Keanu are actually out there? It is mindboggling. And even while I literally sweep past these photos, I find that I’m still able to form opinions in a nanosecond: Ooh, he looked so cute back then. Oops, a little too young there. Oh man, that was a nice one. Gosh, he looks really good these days.
And I’m literally making these assessments in anti-time — it is that fleeting — because I am trying to get past all the fucking Keanu photos. And the whole scrolling process clogs up my brain and I wonder, what the fuck am I doing this for, there’s nothing interesting here…
Although David Byrne’s web magazine Reasons to Be Cheerful(yes, he of Talking Heads fame) had a really extraordinary post over the weekend. If you want renewed hope in everything imaginable about planet Earth, check out his stats for the decade, which include:
“Homicides fell, green space grew and your weather forecast got a lot more precise. The last 10 years were filled with positive change—really! Read our list…”
And loyal readers of this lofty blog no doubt recall that while I am slavishly devoted to Nick Cave, I refuse to follow the Nick Cave hashtag because people who use the Nick Cave hashtag are seriously intense and my brain is intense enough, thank you, I don’t want their intensities getting mixed up with my own often unmanageable intensity. And Nick Cave himself only posts maybe twice a year to Instagram. (Meaning non-promotional-related Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds type posts.) (But, still — he will do it sometimes. You just gotta wait for it…)
I also follow Iggy Pop, of course, and he posts a lot of opinion polls. I’m never really sure what these accumulative opinions are leading to, but I have discovered that I fit the exact profile of the Iggy Pop fan, since I am always in among the largest group of people who click “yes.” What this means, I have no clue. Why he wants to know, I have no clue.
I will tell you, though, that even while I was never a Stooges fan, I have loved Iggy Pop since 1977, when his Bowie-produced albums, The Idiot and Lust For Life, were released. I had the German imports, too, which, back then, for a 16 year-old unemployed girl in Ohio, was quite an investment. And I also bought a fake ID in order to get into the Agora to see him and Bowie live during the Lust for Life tour. However, my point is, that I went on to buy every album Iggy Pop made after that (including his very interesting newest one, Free), and I wanted to point out that Soldier, from 1980, is a really good album.
I often sing the song “Dog Food” for no real reason, even all these decades later. It was just an insanely ridiculous and somewhat angry song that I find myself still needing to sing sometimes (and it’s super short– you can listen to it below. It lasts one minute and 50 seconds and you might find that you need to sing it sometimes, too, so it’s a good song to know.)
I also loved the song “Loco Mosquito” a lot. (You’ll need to invest 4 minutes in this one, but it’s worth it. Especially if you, too, are “sick of hanging out with old transvestites.”)
(I remember that when his album Zombie Birdhouse came out, I didn’t have a whole lot of money, as usual. And one of my best friends had the album (this was back in NYC – 1982). I asked her, point blank, if I could have hers. I convinced her that I would appreciate the album a lot more than she did and that she should just give it to me. And even though she rolled her eyes and got pissed off, she actually gave it to me… I took it gladly and had absolutely no shame.)
Anyway. Not to confuse my initial point: Soldier was a really good album.
Okay. Well. I am on two completely different yet equally compelling wavelengths around here: Working on notes for a possible stand-alone story excerpt for the new novel Thug Luckless: Welcome to P-Town. As well as getting those persistent incoming images for Letter #6 for Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse — titled “Captivity.” (Novel vs. memoir; fiction vs. nonfiction; all of it erotic.)
So it’s a little confusing, which direction I’m really going to go in, but we’ll see how the day unfolds. My meeting with the director of Tell My Bones has now been moved to Wednesday, so tomorrow will likely just be a spillover from whatever I end up working on today. Plus, it gives me an additional day to contemplate the idea of washing my hair.
In general, I can’t complain. Life’s good. But time’s a-wasting here, so I’m gonna scoot and get at it. Thanks for visiting. I leave you with “I Need More,” possibly my favorite Iggy Pop song of all time — certainly the one I relate to most personally. Also off of the Soldier album. All righty. Have a really great Monday, wherever it leads you, gang. I love you guys, See ya!
“I Need More”
I walk around
I flop around
I need something that will be found
More venom, more dynamite, more disaster
I need more than I ever did before
But everything is going up in price
My life is going all right up ’til now
Even so there’s something missing
Don’t forget adrenaline
I need more than an ordinary grind
And the more I think the more I need
I’ll take more money
I can’t forget my brain
Pickle and relish
I need more than an ordinary grind
Everybody ought to love his job
And live his life and keep his pride
Imperturbably happy with the one you love
With an exciting future
On the fat of the land
I need more than an ordinary grind
And the more I think the more I need
My life is going all right up ’til now
Even so it’s not enough for me and
I need more
I need more
I need more
Oo oo oo oo
Oo oo oo oo
Than I ever did before
I need to lead a disciplined existence
And play scratchy records
And enjoy my decline
With more divorce, more distance,
More future, more culture
Okay, I have to say that for whatever inexplicable reason, some of the Alexander McQueen women’s wear Spring/Summer 2020 Pre– Collection (whatever the heck that is supposed to mean) made it into my field of vision and I actually loved it. (Except for the shoes and the tapered waist — I hate a tapered waist.)
Still. How fucking weird is that? The designer with whom I have the least patience… It was in the vein of a man’s suit, which is what I was just talking about the other day.
I guess it just goes to show you that, not only do Chesterfield cigarettes come back around — meaning that what you’ve lost can return to you. But also, something you are used to disparaging can suddenly surprise you.
Indeed, life is interesting when you remember to release things, to let things go. It makes room for other things to come into your awareness, right?
Okay, yesterday, the work with Peitor was so fun. We got some good work done on the script — still in the process of going shot by shot through Scene 3, sort of a key and quite dynamic 90-second scene in our 8 minute film! A lot hinges on it being believable, even while its premise remains absurd.
At one point, I said: “Oh, I found all those notes we were looking for a few months ago! It turns out, I saved them to a really weird file. I have no idea why I put them there. But I was searching for something else at the time, so I just left them there and now I can’t remember where I saw them!” Meaning that the notes we need on a second project are still irretrievable. “Why the heck did I do that?”
And he replied, “Just common idiocy.” And I laughed so hard, that then we were off and running with ideas for another project, of course titled, Common Idiocy. And we ended up laughing so hard over it, that we were both crying again. And then that underscored the rest of our work for that session. It was just so fun. I really needed to laugh like that.
I just love “Lita’s Got To Go.” (The current micro-short project.) It is so darn serious and even a bit disturbing. The shots and mood in the first couple scenes are heavily informed by Polanski’s Repulsion, which of course is not funny at all. And each shot is so precise and full of uneasiness (Bauhaus), and yet the whole thing is basically arbitrary and leads nowhere. It’s just so funny.
Well, to us, anyway.
It does seem like it was a good thing for him to go off to London (and Paris) for the holidays, because Peitor just seemed a million times lighter yesterday. I didn’t bring up the new TV series because, frankly, I’m so fucking busy right now. I’ll just wait until it comes up again and then make room for it in my brain at that point.
Today, I want to work on crafting a sort of “stand alone” section for Thug Luckless. Something that would be part of the novel overall, but that would be suitable for publishing as an excerpt on its own. I don’t ever write that way — I either write a short story or a novel. I don’t try to craft both at the same time. But this morning it occurred to me that I’d like to try doing that with Thug. It could open up how I’m looking at him, because I just have so many ideas circling who I think he is and what goes on in his world (even though all he actually is is an AI sex robot). So bringing part of it into tight focus could prove really informative for me.
“Captivity,” Letter #6 for Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse, is still gestating. I wrote 2 pages and then had to pull back from it. The energy was going nowhere. I don’t want it to be too much of a narrative. So I need it to kind of re-assemble itself in my brain.
Life is so strange, isn’t it? It’s just moment upon moment upon moment, and it always feels like it’s got a forward momentum of some kind, yet it doesn’t actually go anywhere. Everything sort of seems the same every time you wake up. And then eventually, everything’s just different. I was thinking about that when I came out of meditation this morning.
I want so many things to change in 2020. I guess “come to fruition” is more like it, but I do want this sense that my life is lived in captivity to just leave me. By captivity, I think I mean fear and habit and that drifting thing my mind always does.
I can be in the middle of working on something, then I’ll get up from my desk, an unlit cigarette stuck in my mouth, I’ll sit down on the side of my bed and stare out the window and just drift for a while, you know? Wonder why I’m alive. What life actually is. What does it mean to be physical rather than nonphysical. I’m really just a focusing mechanism; a tuning mechanism; a mass of electro-magnetic-chemicals — this idea that I’m more important than that is sort of an illusion. My body is astounding but what I believe its purpose is, is just an illusion…
This kind of stuff takes up a lot of my brain space. And then when I stop doing that, I’m writing highly erotic weird stuff that people seem to enjoy reading. You know, words get onto the page. I read it over and then wonder: How’d that get there? Meaning, where does it come from? I’m tuning into something; focusing on something. God only knows what. But it does sort of define who I am — the words I choose to put onto a page. Whatever that means, right?
And the days fly by… and then suddenly, everything’s different.
And on that note, gang! I’m gonna take a look at Thug Luckless. See what sort of artificial life I can bestow upon him. I hope you’re having a nice Saturday, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting. I love you guys. See ya.
Yesterday was sort of a perfect day, gang. Surely it is indicative of a perfect year ahead. Maybe even a perfect decade??
I did no work yesterday at all, and I actually read that issue of Another Man from cover to cover and inadvertently got some interesting insights into the Thug Luckless character, of all things.
Not necessarily related to Thug Luckless, though, it does seem that haute couture menswear is going in two distinct directions — which is cool in and of itself, because usually menswear goes in no direction. But it’s either a sort of “anime in the post-apocalypse” plus oversized boots and shoes (and oversized overcoats), or really, really elegant stuff — Givenchy, specifically.
Plus the random, single pearl earring, over and over. I loved that.
I’m not an anime fan, at all. It really just doesn’t do anything for me (although I do love hentai, but if you add pornography to anything I tend to like it lots better!). So I don’t really relate to most of the menswear lines that are aiming at very young men. And those enormous shoes and boots — I’m not getting that. But, overall, there was just some really elegant stuff and I wished that designers would design that kind of stuff for women. But they just don’t. (I guess because men prefer that non-lesbian women not dress like men unless they’re Katharine Hepburn or something.)
And oddly, Alexander McQueen had a really elegant outfit in there, which of course makes me wonder why his womens-wear line is always reminiscent of women in cages. But the men get to look elegant. (It’s not actually him, though, because he’s been dead a long time. And Givenchy is dead now, too.)
Anyway, it was thought-provoking. From the sublime to the ridiculous (i.e., kids wearing sort of full-length “A Clockwork Orange” depictions on their coats and such. That seemed more than a little regrettable to me. You know, if a grown man wants to wear something that is blatantly symbolic of violence and control, that’s one thing; but to put it on a child trivializes it down to absolutely nothing. And that, to me, is such a waste of the human mind and the power of ideas.)
And I also thought it was extremely interesting how Lanvin had a menswear layout that featured a woman, between two fully dressed men, wearing only a sort of cape — or oversized scarf — at her neck and a pair of socks. Since Jeanne Lanvin, the actual woman, was one of the first truly visionary designers — over a hundred and twenty years ago — who truly liberated women within (under) their clothing. What would she think of a woman wearing only a scarf and a pair of socks now, in her”name”? I don’t actually have any idea, but it was worth pondering.
(And Paul Poiret, who followed in that liberating vein in the early 20th Century — absolutely fascinates me. He created designs that necessitated women get rid of restrictive undergarments entirely; to let their bodies be totally free under their dresses, and also to do away with yards & yards of fabric, so women no longer had to drag the weight of that around, and also to have shoes that liberated their ankles.)
And the thing that interested me most, in the whole magazine, which is close to 280 pages, was something knitwear designer Gareth Wrighton said, in connection to narratives told through digital avatars — about wanting to create costume designs that aren’t restricted by physics. That made me stop and really think.
Well, after that, I spoke on the phone for quite a while with Val in Brooklyn. We hadn’t spoken in many weeks. I tried to get her input on what I should do about the current family drama situation in my life, and she just said, “Sheesh, Emmy, that’s a tough one.” So no real help there… but it was great talking to her while I was just lounging around on my bed, doing nothing!!
And then I went down to the kitchen and started streaming an old British TV show — Black Books. It’s 20 years old already, but it was brand new to me and it was so funny. It’s basically just gags, no riveting storyline or anything. It takes place in a small London book shop. But it made me laugh out loud repeatedly, so that was nice. I’m planning on watching more of that today.
I’m liking this not-really-working kind of thing. Even though I can feel Thug Luckless gestating and that’s exciting to me. (Wouldn’t that be cool if we could get ultrasounds of our novels gestating inside us? “Oh look! He’s got a little Chapter 4 growing in there!!” And then I could show the printout to everyone: “Look! I’ve got a new novel taking shape inside me!!”)
Which sort of reminds me… I’m not exactly sure how it’s happening — whether it’s related to the director of my play, or something else entirely — but my days of living in deep cover out here in the Hinterlands seem to be coming to a gradual end. I’m okay with it; I’m not going to fight against it, or anything. And I guess it was going to eventually happen. Meaning total strangers suddenly knowing that I’m a writer.
Well, okay. I’ve actually decided that I do want to start keeping a regular journal again. I’ll just figure out how to make room for it in all this other writing I’m constantly doing. And with that in mind, I’m gonna scoot and get back at it. And then maybe take it easy again for the rest of the day!!
Thanks for visiting, gang. I hope 2020 is starting off nicely for you, wherever you are in the world! I love you guys. See ya.
I did re-watch Wim Wenders’ Wings of Desire last night. It had been, literally, decades since I’d seen that movie. The only thing I really remembered about it is that I had really loved it when I saw it. (Enough to have bought the video of it and kept it all these years.) I knew it had something to do with an angel and a girl in a circus, and that’s kind of all I remembered about it. (Well, the only other thing I remembered was that Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds were in it, sort of toward the end.)
Which is another way of saying I had forgotten practically all of it.
Wow, what a great movie. All that constant murmuring. The sound in that movie is just incredible. And the beauty of the whole concept. Of course, then I instantly remembered why I had loved that movie so much. Just a poetic work of art, on all levels. Every nuance; every murmur.
After I was done watching it, though, I was wondering why, all of the sudden, I was sort of steeped in old foreign things about death and poetry and sexuality and love between the dead and the living, and Nazis in Germany and the war…
Cocteau’s Orpheus came out in 1950 so there were still remnants of the war visible in its scenery and in the behavior of certain characters. (And I loved how Cocteau’s version of the bacchantes was to make them a women’s poetry society– nasty female critics who turned on Orpheus, who is a celebrated poet in Paris in Cocteau’s version. Too funny. Anyway.)
And I’m still re-reading Jean Genet’s Funeral Rites. It is nothing but poetry sex death Nazis… And in a wholly different way it deals with all the same stuff.
And then I realized, sort of with a shock, that Tell My Bones is all about poetry, sex and death — and love between the spirits of the dead and the living. And even Thug Luckless is about that. And certainly Blessed By Light is all about poetry sex and death.
I wonder what is going on with me? Seems like something profound is trying to get my attention.
And all this Nazi Germany stuff. Early this morning, I was lying in bed, thinking about just how saturated my childhood was with Nazi Germany. To be honest, even though I never talk about it because I just love that freight train that barrels past my door, but every time it does, I always think of the train that’s going to Auschwitz. I can’t help it. I have to remind myself that it’s just a freight train. These are not cattle cars, herding people to death camps.
But my childhood was filled with those images. Cleveland was full of immigrant Jews and so a lot of concentration camp survivors came to live in Cleveland. I was surrounded by them in my childhood. My Hebrew school teacher was a survivor of Auschwitz — her number was tattooed in blue on her forearm. It was always there, always visible to us, because she wore dresses with short sleeves. She was from Hungary. Her twin sister had died at Auschwitz and she told me that her sister’s name would have roughly translated to “Marilyn” in English. Because of that, she seemed to be very attached to me. I mean, in a nice way. I was only about 8 years old.
I hated Hebrew school. I had to go 3 times a week for several years. That particular teacher thought I was really gifted in languages and she got me a scholarship to attend an accelerated Hebrew school sleep-away camp sort of thing for the summer and I was secretly just horrified by this. I did not want to spend my summer in Hebrew school! Even though I was supposed to be really appreciative of all of it because usually girls didn’t get that kind of education — only boys did.
Well, I really wanted dancing lessons. I really wanted to study ballet and tap because I loved musicals. And I went home and begged my parents not to send me to Hebrew school all summer.
Plus I never felt Jewish at all. Even though I could read and speak Hebrew really well, and was steeped in Judaism through my adoptive family, none of that stuff resonated with me. By the time I was 5 years old, I had secretly fallen in love with Jesus Christ, because of all the paintings I had seen of him at the Cleveland Art Museum. I would stare at those paintings and I knew I remembered him from somewhere. It was a visceral response. And I was captivated by nuns, too — back then, they still wore those old-style, flowing black habits and those white wimples.
As I got a little older, I collected crosses and crucifixes and little illustrations of Jesus that I had to hide under my mattress. It’s interesting to think that I also eventually acquired a lot of sex books, like Story of O, and I was allowed to just have those things out in plain site. But the Jesus stuff — I would have gotten in so much trouble for having that!
And I also remembered, this morning, a time when I was about 7 or 8, and a little Jewish girlfriend of mine, named Edie — she and I were taking a shortcut through a field one cold autumn afternoon and suddenly found ourselves stuck in some serious mud. That thick sucking wet kind of mud that pulls your shoes right off. When we got to the other side of it, we were outside a convent. We really needed to clean off our shoes so we went up and asked if we could come in and clean our shoes, even though we were Jews. (We actually said that.)
The nuns were so nice to us. And this convent wasn’t anything like the old Carmelite stone convent I go to an hour from here when I’m having one of my suicidal breakdowns. This other convent in Cleveland was vast and spacious and majestic and filled with light and air and high ceilings. And all these truly friendly nuns, in those flowing black habits, all over the place.
By this time, my adoptive mother had survived cancer and had begun her descent into becoming the meanest, cruelest person I knew on planet Earth. And my adoptive dad was away from home more and more. My home life was becoming a terrifying place. So the warmth and the kindness and friendliness of those nuns — it was so foreign to me. I really wanted to stay there and never leave.
I’d forgotten all about that until this morning.
Well, I now have yet another little notebook with a pen clipped to it. I’m still keeping my daily Inner Being dialogue journal every morning after meditation. I haven’t missed a day of writing in it since I started it in early June. (And I tell you, it is an awesome thing. I recommend keeping one because your inner being probably has all sorts of meaningful information to relate to you.) Well, in addition to that little hard-bound journal, I now have a smaller one, cloth-bound, to have with me all day. And it’s for pre-paving every moment of the day. Making sure I’m consciously choosing how I want to respond to every single thing; how I want to experience it. Because every single thing is, once again, starting to get to me and I just don’t have the time to go nuts right now.
I am still feeling a little disconcerted that Peitor took off for London so suddenly — he texted yesterday that they indeed went there for the holidays and will be back in LA for New Year’s Eve. That’s 3 sessions of script-writing that we’re going to miss because he doesn’t want to work while they’re there. I don’t blame him. He can do whatever he wants to do, but the fact that he never actually said anything to me at all about it and just went. It sort of — well, I don’t know what. He had wanted to start working on the new TV series in January but now he’s going to have to finish mixing and mastering a few songs for his new record, then I have to be in NYC in February to start the table reads for Tell My Bones and will have re-writes to do on that.
You know — time gallops away. And I guess I would have appreciated being in the overall mix somewhere. Other than, you know, a quick text that he’s on a plane heading to London…
And then my friend in Houston who has cancer — my one-text-a-week approach is working nicely. I text once and he now replies within a day. He texted me late last night, in detail about the radiation treatments, which are making him feel even sicker, of course. But since he’s a scientist, he is fascinated by the radiation treatments. He explained to me what goes on, scientifically. And it was like he was exulting in this bombardment of science — which is perfectly okay, because it’s his experience and his world. But again, I found it disconcerting. The intense, scientific description, along with the details of just how bad the cancer is. And I was already in bed, with the lights out, when I got the text.
So yesterday culminated in a whole big bunch of images and sounds and thoughts, heaping up on me while I was in bed in the dark, drifting to sleep. Then I woke up, immediately thinking about Auschwitz and Nazis — and how, you know, actually it wasn’t really that far removed from me. And then the beauty of the nuns.
So I’m keeping this other little journal as a way to sort of not only ground myself into staying on course with the images I would rather claim, but also to help draw my preferred experiences to me– every hour, every moment, of every day.
Everybody gets to be whoever they are in this life, but I cannot let myself get derailed by any of it. I just have too much work to do, you know?
And on that note, I will get started here. Thanks for visiting, gang. I hope Thursday is good to you, wherever you are in the world, I love you guys. See ya.