Tag Archives: writing

Another Industrious Day Out Here in the Hinterlands!

February 25, 2020 marilyn jaye lewis Leave a comment

Before I go off on a tangent about how magical and wonder-filled my world is here in the wilds of Muskingum County…

Nick Cave sent out another Red Hand Files thing this morning that was very interesting. It was about his song “Girl in Amber” from the Skeleton Tree album. Plus it includes a photo of his original scribbly lyrics to the song and I always love looking at stuff like that.

“Girl in Amber” is one of the few songs of his that I actually sort of relate to personally. Even though I love all of his songs (as you have most likely surmised by now), there are only a handful that I feel like I actually relate to personally — that makes me think of things I feel about my actual life, I mean. (“Hallelujah,” of course, is another one.) (And “O’Malley’s Bar.”) (Just kidding about that last one.) (Well, at least right now, I’m kidding — but the day’s still young!)

Anyway. What he wrote about the song was illuminating and beautiful. It is such a haunting song, You can read his post here if you so choose!

Okay, so today is all about work. (And by way of my new friend in Switzerland, I am now painfully aware that I work way too much!!) (Oh!! And my ticket to see Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds in Zurich arrived there today!! And even though the concert is 4 months away, unlike Nick Cave’s In Conversation tour, I won’t have to worry about accidentally leaving my ticket here in my room in Crazeysburg because the ticket is already there in Switzerland! Um. How cool is that??) (Very, very cool.)

I digressed. But it was a wonderful digression!!

So, yes. Today is all about work. The laundry is almost done. After I post this to the blog, I’m finally going to force myself to finish those 2 contracts that I had to re-write for Life Story Rights for my play, Tell My Bones. (Yes, indeedy! When I want to avoid something, I can really, really drag it out for days…) But I seriously gotta finish it because people are waiting.

And then I have a few hours on the phone with Peitor this afternoon to work on Scene 5 of Lita’s Got To Go! And this is my very favorite scene. It was actually the whole reason why we decided to write this short film in the first place — this specific scene was the thing that came to us first, while we were sitting at the counter of that French pastry place in one of those farmer’s markets in LA, and we were laughing so hard we almost fell off our counter stools.

(I just want to reiterate that most people won’t find this film so funny that they’ll fall off their counter stools. We are the ones who find it this funny. I’m guessing that most of the people who watch this movie will sit silently for 8 minutes and wonder: What the fuck? But that’s a good thing, too.)

Then after I’m done working with Peitor, I have yet another online seminar, this one about movie financing for short films. (Yes, I try to only take the most uplifting, life-affirming seminars! Because I like to come away from them thinking: Yeah! This is so fun! I love my life!)

So that’s my day — oh, and Booty Core. Can’t forget that.

Well, yesterday, I had to venture into my barn (shown above there) for the first time since the summer ended and it was immediately apparent that the raccoons have definitely been having a nice time in there this winter, including creating their own little front door to get into it (ripping aside some planks at the bottom of one of the side walls of the barn). I really seriously gotta do something about fixing that barn. But I really seriously need someone to haul away that enormous dead oak tree that collapsed beside the barn before I can really work on the barn. And all the many people who have claimed they were coming to remove the tree over these past 2 years that I’ve lived here, have never shown up to remove the tree.

Perhaps this year will be the lucky year!! We shall see. At this point, I am willing to buy the damn chainsaw myself and give it, as a happy parting gift, to whoever actually shows up to do the darn job.

And on my journey back from the barn, I also noticed that the soffit over the eave next to my back door — the one the starlings insist on fucking with in order to build their nests under it every spring — is now completely twisted and destroyed. It is a colossal mess now because I didn’t take care of it when I could have — last spring, when the baby starlings flew away. I’m guessing that the starlings will be thrilled to death that it is move-in ready for them this year and they won’t have to fuck with it at all this time.

It’s just amazing — what a great homeowner I am. The many birds and animals appreciate me, anyway. My neighbors – not so much.

Oh, anyway. I’m happy. And eventually, it all gets done.

Okay, well, I think I’d better get this day underway here. I hope you have a terrific Tuesday, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting, gang! I leave you with my listening-music from last evening. I’ve posted it here on the blog before: “Time to Move On,” from Tom Petty’s solo album, Wildflowers, 1994. The lyrics by themselves make it seem like a sad song, but I actually find it sort of empowering and uplifting. You can, of course, decide for yourselves! All righty. I might be back to the blog later. We’ll see. Meanwhile. I love you guys. See ya!

“Time To Move On”

It’s time to move on, time to get going
What lies ahead, I have no way of knowing
But under my feet, baby, grass is growing
It’s time to move on, it’s time to get going

Broken skyline, movin’ through the airport
She’s an honest defector
Conscientious objector
Now her own protector

Broken skyline, which way to love land
Which way to something better
Which way to forgiveness
Which way do I go

Time to move on, time to get going
What lies ahead, I have no way of knowing
But under my feet, baby, grass is growing
It’s time to move on, it’s time to get going

Sometime later, getting the words wrong
Wasting the meaning and losing the rhyme
Nauseous adrenaline
Like breakin’ up a dogfight
Like a deer in the headlights
Frozen in real time
I’m losing my mind

It’s time to move on, time to get going
What lies ahead, I have no way of knowing
But under my feet, baby, grass is growing
It’s time to move on, it’s time to get going

c – 1994 Tom Petty

Just Too Much Joy On All Fronts!

February 24, 2020 marilyn jaye lewis Leave a comment

You know how some people can’t pass up coins on the ground? If they see a penny, they will pick it up, even if it’s face down? (Which is bad luck, people! I’m just saying.)

Well, I’m the type of person that cannot pass up pens on the ground!!

If I see a pen and it hasn’t been run over by a car or something, I will pick it up and see if it works. And if it works, it’s mine!! (Over the years, I have become the proud owner of a couple of mighty nice gold Cross pens because of this habit of mine.) (I’ve also become the not-so-happy owner of a few truly awful pens — the kind where you can immediately see why its previous owner didn’t even take the time to seek out a trash can and simply threw it, most likely in rage, to the ground.) (However, I keep even the lousiest of pens because you just never know when you’re going to need a pen that at least works or has ink in it.)

Anyway, yesterday, I found the most amazingly perfect pen. And it’s just one of those cheap ball-point pens, too, that’s advertising some business or other and isn’t very pleasing on the eye and yet, when I quickly scribbled with it on a piece of scrap paper — wow. I could not believe my good fortune. It is like the best pen ever. I am so serious.

First thing this morning, I used the pen to write in my Inner Being Journal thingy and it just — I don’t know; it was such a joy. I just love a great pen. I’m a writer — pens mean a lot to me!!

I’m reminded suddenly of the last (and I like to think final) time I attempted suicide. Things were of course dreadful in my life. I was 19. I’d already dropped out of college — I hated college, even though I was majoring in Theater Arts and thinking that maybe I would like to be a playwright. I simply hated the school. But because my adoptive mother felt I was mentally ill, she wouldn’t let me even consider any of the schools I really wanted to go to (to study Theater). (And as an aside, I did have a psychotherapist at that time who didn’t think I was crazy — he actually thought my mom was crazy and he told me so. But, sadly, it was our little secret for a very long time.)

Anyway. I was really smart. I graduated close to the top of my class in high school — and had I not been constantly skipping school back then (and I mean constantly; I hated the arbitrary rules & structure of school) I probably would have been right at the very top of my class. Nevertheless, I was still Valedictorian on Graduation Day — and there were over 800 kids in my graduating class, so that says something about how crazy I may or may not have been (like a fox, I guess). So I feel pretty sure that I would have been able to get into any school I applied to because they were all these sort of strange, hippy-ish boutique-type Arts colleges. Not Harvard, or anything.

However, my mother wouldn’t let me get too far from home because she thought I was out of my fucking mind.

So I wound up at this god awful, huge, antiseptic, mind-numbing university that was about 25 or 30 miles from where my adoptive father lived. Like he was going to keep his eye on me, or something.

I hated the school. Drank bourbon almost every day instead of going to most of my classes. I lasted about 8 weeks. Quit. Then went to California to allegedly live with the girl I was in love with, but — as loyal readers of this lofty blog no doubt recall — she was no longer in love with me by the time I managed to get there.

But back in Ohio, looking for any kind of a decent singing gig; really wishing I could figure out how to get to NYC instead but having no money and no real job; I was hanging out in this truly seedy Country & Western bar (called the Wagon Wheel) where they didn’t ID me and let me drink bourbon to my heart’s content all night and I was hanging out with all these criminals and much older ex-con truckers — and my mom finally kicked me out of the house. Even though I was indeed paying her room & board to stay there, which I thought meant that I could do what I wanted, but she said: au contraire.

So. Out I went. Still 19. I got a waitressing job in a diner-truck stop type place off the Interstate. And I was living in a cheap motel that was one parking lot away from the diner. Sleeping with a much older, ex-con trucker at night in my cheap motel room bed — both of us drunk but still managing to fuck. Yes! I consider this one of those high points of my whole life!

Okay — I am going to cut to the chase of this dreadful story, and say that my best friend’s dad back then was a private detective. And after I had tried to kill myself in the motel room — in the throes of it, still, and vomiting everywhere — I left the motel room and managed to call my best friend on a phone. (We didn’t have cell phones yet — not even close.) I was in very bad straits. I did not want to die. I just wanted a life worth living, which is just so different. And my best friend’s dad managed to find me before it was too late. And afterward, they let me come live in their basement for awhile, until I could figure out something better — like, how to get to New York. And that Christmas, her dad bought me a really, really nice pen because he knew I was a writer. I still have the pen, 41 years later. (And I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve moved since then!)

Okay!!! Yes!!!! I digressed.

Well. Right after I fed the cats this morning, I took the trash out to the garbage bin and lo & behold! Robins everywhere!! Wow. It was so cool. They were in the trees. They were flying around. They were on the dead, brown lawns that will soon be super green. It was so cool to see it.

And then after the cats ate and the sun was really up — there were cats sitting at every window, watching the birds again. They get so tense and alert. I just love when they do that. It assures me that summer will soon be back around, too, and every one of those windows will be wide open onto the beautiful green and very lively world of Muskingum County.

I can’t wait.

So, yes! My upstairs toilet is working again. How cool is that? People are just wonderful.

And also yesterday, a friend of mine — a much younger guy that I’ve blogged about many times in the past. I feel certain we knew each other too well in another life and that we were seriously up to no good in it. Anyway. He’s something like 28 years old in this life. And he just moved to a new place. And I wanted to give him a gift but I didn’t want to just give him a plant or something like that, right? I wanted to give him something that would imply that life was awesome and stars are always exploding somewhere.

So I gave him something of mine that I really loved. It’s a very nice (and it was actually expensive) traveling martini kit. It is really the coolest thing. In a little locked leather case. But it’s meant for two. I didn’t buy it for myself — an old flame bought it for me. A man I had many, many vodka martinis with. Many Chesterfield cigarettes with. And did a whole lot of the other stuff with him, too. I took really good care of that little martini kit, though. I used to dream that one day, I would fall in love for real and we would travel first class on the Orient Express to Istanbul, maybe on our wedding night or something equally thrilling, and we’d make really good use of the traveling martini kit.

Not that I think dreams ever really die, but it doesn’t seem super likely to happen. And I don’t really drink anymore, least of all vodka martinis. And I thought — man, this young guy has his whole incredible life ahead of him. Even if he doesn’t ever want to go to Istanbul on the Orient Express, well, a full moon over some amazing starlit field here in the wilds of the Hinterlands is more than good enough when love is involved. Plus, he drinks like a fish. So hopefully he’ll find some pretty girl to love who also drinks like a fish and, voila! He will already have the suave Martini Kit of Love to bring along with him.

Okay!! I gotta scoot. Booty Core awaits!!! Have a wonderful Monday, wherever you are in the world,gang! Thanks for visiting. I love you guys. See ya.

“The Criminal Kind”

You got a criminal mind
You got criminal looks
Boy you better look out
You’re gonna get hooked

Don’t you ever feel guilty
When you come up short
Man you better be careful
You’re gonna get caught

‘Cause you’re the criminal kind
You’re the criminal kind
Man what you gonna do?
Where you gonna hide?
They’re callin’ you a sickness, disease of the mind
Man what you gonna do?
You’re the criminal kind

Don’t you ever get tired?
Don’t you ever want to quit?
Yeah it’s been a long time, and you still don’t fit
Dog tags on the mirror, hangin’ down from a chain
Give up little sister, this ain’t gonna change

Yeah, and that little girl you used to know
Just don’t come around no more
Now she ain’t there to watch the door
She don’t wanna die in no liquor store

I hope they all made money, I hope they all get rich
Yeah, I hope they give hell, to every son-of-a-bitch
That put a man on the carpet
Or stuck him out on the line
Whatever let him get a taste of the criminal life

c – 1981 Tom Petty

A Favorite Poem

February 23, 2020 marilyn jaye lewis Leave a comment

from my wee bonny 16-year-old girlhood.

POEM

Instant coffee with slightly sour cream
in it, and a phone call to the beyond
which doesn’t seem to be coming nearer.
“Ah daddy, I wanna stay drunk many days”
on the poetry of a new friend
my life held precariously in the seeing
hands of others, their and my impossibilities.
Is this love, now that the first love
has finally died, where there were no impossibilities?

Frank O’Hara, 1964

Luckily, I’m Not Going Anywhere!

February 23, 2020 marilyn jaye lewis Leave a comment

Man, it’s been another one of those mornings. I cannot seem to focus for more than a nano second on any one thing.

I had already made up my mind last night that I wasn’t going to really do anything today. I was going to just sort of relax (or, at the very least, work on understanding my definition of the word “relax”) and just wait for the guys to come over and fix that upstairs toilet.

I did actually vacuum the whole house yesterday, and that pebble problem thingy had — miraculously — fixed itself.

I am so serious — this is one amazing house, gang. It sort of pitches in and helps you work miracles.

When they enshrine my house after I’m dead, they will rope off that hall closet so that no one can touch it anymore, and the eager docent will explain to the many visitors how it was a magic closet that worked miracles. “She would put her vacuum cleaner in here for many weeks at a time and it would fix itself.”

Then the inevitable questions of visitors to the shrine:

“That writer who lived here was crazy, though, right?”
“How come they don’t make magic closets anymore?”
And one lone woman with tell-tale cat hairs all over her clothes will pipe up: “I knew closets could do that!”

Okay. Anyway.

I woke up in such a sad little place this morning. I was having another one of those dreadful dreams where my adoptive mother was abusing one of my beloved cats. This time, it was Daddycakes, my little rescued boy cat who died last spring from kidney failure.

Even though he was feral, he would let me pick him up and cuddle him, but he didn’t really like it too much so I tried not to do that to him too often. He did like to sleep on top of me and walk on me in bed and stuff. And he loved to be brushed. But once in a while, I would scoop him up and force him to endure great big hugs and kisses! And he would look at me with a sort of tolerant dignity and an expression that said: “Please stop. They’re all looking at me.”

I miss him so much. And it broke my heart to watch my mother (in my dream) abusing him. I was finally able to get over to him and pick him up and he felt so real. You know, his body was warm and alive and all furry and wonderful.

So I woke up crying a little bit, I still feel like I failed him by not getting him to a doctor sooner. It just didn’t seem right to try to trap him here in the house, where he felt so safe, and put him through all that terror when he was so sick. And by the time he was docile enough to get him into the car without a trap, and drive him to a vet 30 miles from here, the only one I could find who agreed to treat a feral cat — it was too late to save him. It was just heartbreaking.

But when you’re dealing with wild animals, you have to try to let them live & die by their own rules. As much as possible. But it’s hard not to want to layer your own human perceptions on to who they are. You know, to me, it felt like he was my little baby boy cat. To him, it was probably more like: “No, I was a cat who came to live in your house for awhile and it was time to go.”

Anyway, I realized that probably I was actually thinking about my older brother in that dream (see yesterday’s post) and everything our adoptive mother did to him when we were little that I couldn’t save him from. (My memoir-in-progress, In The Shadow of Narcissa.)

And at the breakfast table today, I realized that she was all about dividing & conquering. My brother and I weren’t allowed to help each other or even to care about each other, because she was the center of the whole universe — we weren’t allowed to focus on anyone else, not even each other. And still, she wouldn’t allow you to openly care about her, either, because there was no way you could ever love her enough. She would scream at us in this truly god-awful way. Just so frightening. I mean, the physical stuff was awful, too, but that screaming was not to be believed. And there was always that undertone that she intended to kill you – literally. She wanted you not to exist. (She had an extreme Narcissistic Personality Disorder, and was likely psychotic, as well. Her mother — my adoptive grandmother — also dealt with various personality disorders and mental illness. Electroshock treatments, dark bedrooms, drugged to the gills kind of thing.)

Anyway. I realized that she instilled in us — and it’s still in my brother, at least — this wall of emotional resistance. As soon as it looks like you’re doing something that’s going to bother my brother, the wall comes down and you’re out.

Up until his second marriage, he used to keep in touch with me pretty regularly over the phone. However, his second marriage coincided with my becoming ” a pornographer” and he had less and less tolerance for me from then on. This sort of, “why are you doing this, Marilyn? Your music was so good.”

I got that from so many of the people I was close to; my writing made so many people feel really uncomfortable; they didn’t know how to process it. I barely know how. But, you know, I was just lying around in bed one morning, like, 50 years ago, wondering: “Hmmm. How I can upset everybody today? Oh I know; I’ll become a pornographer…”

Jesus. Whatever. It makes me sad that my older brother doesn’t want anything to do with me. But I still feel our parents instilled that in him. It didn’t “take” with me because I am relentlessly empathetic and fear is not going to stop me from caring about people (or animals or insects or spirits in the night).

The last time my brother had anything to do with me, was when our adoptive dad turned 70 and there was a big party for him in a fancy hotel in the city where our dad lives. And my dad was doing another one of his “let’s be inexplicably cruel to Marilyn” things (I know I sound like Jane Eyre, but this is all true), so he had his big fancy hotel birthday party the night before his 70th birthday — which was my 40th birthday — and then told me I was not invited to the party, even though I had flown in from NYC for it.

Even though I wasn’t allowed to go to the party, I still showed up at my dad’s house the following day to wish him a happy 70th birthday. Because I was always determined to ignore his cruelty. And that’s when my brother called me, really angry at me, saying, “How could you snub dad like that, in front of everybody, on his big birthday?”

He refused to believe that I was not invited to the party and wasn’t allowed to come. (And he neglected to wish me a happy 40th birthday, too!) And that sort of convoluted, parental manipulative shit, caused my older brother to not speak to me again.

Oh well. All this divide & conquer stuff — it also has a lot to do with wills & estates & inheritances. And I have no time for it. Seriously. But it doesn’t mean that sometimes I don’t get sad.

And this morning, as I was having trouble facing the idea of getting out of bed, and I was curling into a tighter fetal ball around my pillow, I heard a bird singing outside my window.

And I opened my eyes a little and saw that the sun was coming up in that way that looked like spring. And I remembered that I had put all my spring & Easter stuff out in the kitchen, and hung my Easter wreath on the kitchen door already, so I sort of suddenly felt: Wow, my kitchen looks really pretty. I’m gonna go down there right now and feed the cats and have breakfast!

And so I did. And here we are! The sun is indeed shining, the birds are indeed singing. Spring is sort of right around the corner. And two really nice guys from here in the Hinterlands are coming over to fix my toilet for me!! Without charging me a dime. I asked Kevin last night if he wanted me to buy them beer or something, but he said, “No, it’ll be too early in the day for that. All I want is to finally see one of those crazy cats of yours!”

Well, it isn’t gonna happen, because they always hide whenever he comes over — or anyone comes over, except for my birth mom now. But I went to the gas station last night and bought them beer anyway.

All righty. Have a great Sunday, wherever you are in the world, gang. Thanks for visiting. I leave you with my breakfast-listening music from this morning! (Anne Murray is my fall-back gal when my heart is a little bit broken but I don’t want it to remain that way!) Okay. I love you guys. See ya!

“Snowbird”

Beneath this snowy mantle cold and clean
The unborn grass lies waiting
For its coat to turn to green
The snowbird sings the song he always sings
And speaks to me of flowers
That will bloom again in spring

When I was young
My heart was young then, too
Anything that it would tell me
That’s the thing that I would do
But now I feel such emptiness within
For the thing that I want most in life’s
The thing that I can’t win

Spread your tiny wings and fly away
And take the snow back with you
Where it came from on that day
The one I love forever is untrue
And if I could you know that I would
Fly away with you

The breeze along the river seems to say
That he’ll only break my heart again
Should I decide to stay
So, little snowbird
Take me with you when you go
To that land of gentle breezes
Where the peaceful waters flow

Spread your tiny wings and fly away
And take the snow back with you
Where it came from on that day
The one I love forever is untrue
And if I could you know that I would
Fly away with you

Yeah, if I could you know that I would
Fl-y-y-y-y away with you

c – 1969 Gene MacLellan

More Miracles Approaching!

February 22, 2020 marilyn jaye lewis 2 Comments

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.

So.

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!!!

“Even the Orchestra is Beautiful!!”

February 21, 2020 marilyn jaye lewis Leave a comment

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!!

So.

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?”

Jesus.

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.)

All righty. I love you guys. See ya!!

Dear Diary, What A Difference A Day Makes!

February 20, 2020 marilyn jaye lewis Leave a comment

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!

All righty!

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.

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

February 19, 2020 marilyn jaye lewis Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So all is not lost!!

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

But anyway. Life goes on.

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

Honestly, why doesn’t somebody just shoot her?

February 18, 2020 marilyn jaye lewis 2 Comments

You know — like, 14 months ago, when I was sitting in that French place at that farmer’s market with Peitor out in LA, eating taste-temptingly delicious little chocolate pastries, drinking espressos, laughing hysterically…

That part where I said: “Come on, Peitor, let’s start a production company and just make these films ourselves!”

Or when, after he finally agreed because I badgered him into it, and then it became apparent that, even while both of us are creating the stories together, he is clearly going to direct this stuff — because he’s actually shot movies before, like, on real film and got awards in film festivals and stuff — and I am clearly going to be the person who gets all the little ducks in a row, because I have always been the person who puts all the little ducks in a row…

Well, somebody should have just shot me. Right then.

Jesus Christ, you know? That fucking film budget seminar this evening was intense.

ME (texting Peitor the minute the seminar was over and while my brain was still almost functioning): “Man, Peitor. That fucking film budget seminar was intense.”

HIM: “Great!!”

Jesus, you know?? I was hoping for a little more — I don’t know. Hot cocoa or something. Shit. What the heck am I getting myself into?

I don’t know. All I do know is that I’m doing it again.

Like, back when I was showing Sandra my screenplay for a TV movie based on the life of Helen LaFrance (which won a writing award at a film festival), and she said, “We should make this a play. Something simple. A one-woman show with a few musicians who can sometimes voice a couple characters; something easy that we can put on in a church auditorium up in Harlem…”

And then, right here at my little mini-desk, I turned it into this multi-million dollar budget ordeal and my accountant had to sit me down (metaphorically, over the phone) the other day and say, “Um. I’m going to send you some sample contracts, Marilyn, and I want you to read them over very carefully so that you can get a better idea of what you’re really getting into here, at the various levels…” Shit.

Somebody should have just shot me then, too. I mean, way back at that point when I thought it was a good idea to write about Helen’s life.

Or even yesterday, when I was finally talking over the phone with the director of Tell My Bones about the recent changes I had made to the script, which deal with lynchings and slave auctions during, you know, a musical number… he said, “You’ve taken a lot of risks here, but good job. You’re really brave. I’m so proud of you.”

What?

Shit, you know? Should maybe somebody be shooting me now, too? Before some sort of weird fallout hits the proverbial fan? What did he mean by “risks”?

Man. I am in need of some sort of vacation from life right now. I really am. I cannot emphasize that enough. I’m getting a wee bit stressed.

Why am I always just out here, doing this stuff? Making my life so intensely complicated, when all I really, really want to do is just sit alone in my room and write. I don’t even need to get published anymore. The writing part of it is enough. Emotionally, anyway. Why does everything always just grow into this whole other thing when it comes to me and my brain and all my marvelous ideas?

Life just fucking confounds me.

I used to date this Line Producer in NYC. And one day when I was picking her up on location, she said, “Do you want to see one of these budgets? Are you interested?” I was. So I said, yes. And she said, “These numbers are confidential, but this is what it looks like.” And then she explained what all the various numbers meant, and it all seemed super cool & interesting, because we were lovers and getting ready to go back to her place and drink red wine and fuck like little sex-starved bunnies… Cute bunnies.

Well it was 35 years ago, but maybe I can look into sleeping with her again and see if I can persuade her to do all these fucking mind-altering budgets. Because I’m sure not feeling really super cool & interested about doing it.

Christ. Life goes on, though, doesn’t it.

And my script-writing session with Peitor today was one of those tricky ones, where we had to, you know, not step on each other’s toes. And I couldn’t figure out if I had a weird attitude today or what? Where was it coming from? The tension. I mean, we got very good work done today, but it felt a little bit like work. It was just one of those days.

And I had started my day in a really frisky and cheerful mood!! Goddammit!! What happened???

Well, I haven’t done Booty Core yet today, so I still need to get that done. Actually, it will probably make me feel a little bit better. Because I am just feeling so indescribably DOWN right now, that anything will probably be a tiny step in a better direction.

I’m going to close with this, and try not to cry, and try to think instead about that man I love so much who’s as dead as dead can be and see if maybe he’ll come visit for little awhile. You never know. He might.

Have a good evening, gang. Wherever you are in the world. I love you. See ya.

“A Love Song”

There’s a wren in a willow wood
Flies so high and sings so good
And he brings to you what he sings to you

Like my brother — the wren and I,
Well, he told me if I try, I could fly for you
And I wanna try for you ’cause

[CHORUS]
I wanna sing you a love song
I wanna rock you in my arms all night long
I wanna get to know you
I wanna show you the peaceful feelin’ of my home

Summer thunder on moon-bright days
Northern Lights and skies ablaze
And I bring to you, lover, when I sing to you

Silver wings in a fiery sky
Show the trail of my love and I
Sing to you, love is what I bring to you

And I wanna sing to you, oh

I wanna sing you a love song
I wanna rock you in my arms all night long
I wanna get to know you
I wanna show you the peaceful feelin’ of my home

I wanna show you the peaceful feelin’ of my home

c – 1974 Kenny Loggins, Donna Lyn George

My Goodness, What A Morning!

February 18, 2020 marilyn jaye lewis Leave a comment

(And as May West would have responded: “My goodness had nothin’ to do with it!”)

Anyway.

Wow, I’m in a mood today. I guess you know your morning is off to an interesting start when you’re still on your first cup of coffee and you’re already flipping through page after page after page of your many collections of Baudelaire’s wide and various writings, looking for a mere stanza about the girl who is like a pal and will have anal sex with you.

I don’t even remember what got me thinking in that direction in the first place, but since I couldn’t remember if it was in his journals, or in a poem, or in his other writings, it was seriously like trying to find a needle in a haystack. I knew I’d quoted it before — decades ago — in one of my own journals, but trying to find it in one of those, is like the other haystack that the needle is within. I have something like 42 journals.

But what I did re-discover, is a stanza from “A Madrigal of Sorrow” that I used to have taped to my wall for years. I’d forgotten all about it. I think it was sort of a combination of my mantra and my mission in life. I don’t remember when it came off of my wall. Probably when I left E.12th Street and moved in with Wayne. From an English translation of Flowers of Evil:

My queen, my slave, whose love is fear,
When you awaken shuddering,
Until that awful hour be here,
You cannot say at midnight drear:
“I am your equal, O my King!”

Interesting, isn’t it? My whole life, I have always flown under the radar; Topping from the bottom. (Meaning, I’m submissive in nature and always have been, but I am always taking mental notes; always. I’m watching you like a hawk. Because the day is going to come when I am going to reveal myself to be just like you.)

Well, another poem of his that I always loved and had forgotten about: “What A Pair of Eyes Can Promise.” Also from Flowers of Evil. Basically, a poem about having sex with a woman who has black pubic hair. (Oui, c’est moi!!! Yay!) (I know — if you’ve never read Baudelaire before, what the hell are you waiting for?)

Anyway. I’m just frisky today. I have no idea why. And I have quite a non-frisky day ahead of me: finish the laundry, then do Booty Core, followed by several hours of script work over the phone with Peitor, followed by a one-time online course in the proper formatting of professional film budgets. (I know — don’t envy me for my glamorous life!!)

I woke up at 5am, as usual, and today I was singing “Higgs Boson Blues.” Not my favorite Nick Cave song. I don’t dislike it, or anything, but it’s not like — for instance, last night, I was listening to Let Love In and could not get past the first two songs without having to constantly press repeat because I love both those songs (“Do You Love Me? Pt. 0ne” and “She’s Nobody’s Baby Now”) so fucking much that I can’t stop listening to them. I never got to the rest of the CD.

Anyway. Why “Higgs Boson Blues” today? Specifically the line, “I’m driving my car down to Geneva”? I played the song during breakfast and still could not figure out why I was thinking about Geneva. Much like yesterday, suddenly singing a Pink Floyd song. (Although, except in that instance, I don’t actually like Pink Floyd, so it was even weirder.)

Still, you know. At least my curiosity got me out of bed. And then I realized that I felt quite frisky. And that seems to bode well for whatever I have to do today. Because frisky is good!

In fact, here is the tee shirt I suddenly decided to wear this morning. I’ve owned it a couple of years now, so the booty core curvy-wurvy factor has nothing to do with this tee shirt. It has always fit me like this. And I only paid $3 for it at the dollar store (or the three-dollar store, in this case). But whoever designed this cheap tee shirt is a fucking genius because I guarantee you that no other shirt I own or have ever owned makes me look quite so BLESSED!!!

Me, right this minute, just SUPER blessed

I know! I look like I could be in Playboy or something. But trust me, I can’t. It’s the darn (or should I say lovely?) shirt… (And I’m not even wearing a b-r-a; nor have I ever had any sort of surgical enhancement that keeps me looking perky. This is all just God’s handiwork by way of a cheap tee shirt, blessing me like nobody’s business!!)

All righty!

So this morning, I jump-started Mardis Gras and the beginning of the Lenten season by switching to my pre-Easter breakfast dishes. The ones from Germany that I accidentally used a few weeks back when Nick Cave was having a Conversation in Germany and for some unknown reason I was inexplicably zoning out at the breakfast table: pink with a white skull & crossbones motif, and the little juice glass with the tiny polka dots of pastel green, yellow, pink, blue, and purple.

I have no clue why I decided it was suddenly time to move forward, but move forward, I did. By way of my dishes. And it felt quite cheery at the breakfast table — skull & crossbones notwithstanding. (And “Higgs Boson Blues” notwithstanding, either — it’s not really what you’d call a “cheery” song.) However, I felt quite cheerful. And quite frisky. And I’m not going to ponder everything to death today. I’m just gonna flow with it.

(Oh, and if you live somewhere in the United States that is not Crazeysburg (and that’s not a hard thing to achieve, trust me!!), you can get tickets to see Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds on their North American tour, beginning at 10am, your time, this Friday, 2/21. Check the tour schedule here!! And Weyes Blood will be on the bill in some of the larger cities.)

Okay!! I gotta scoot. The morning is just about gone here. I hope you have a terrific Tuesday, wherever you are in the world and to wherever it takes you. Thanks for visiting, gang. I leave you with something you’re probably not expecting at all, but it’s a song I love that always enhances my friskiness factor! “Jockey Full of Bourbon”!! Off of Tom Waits’ truly awesome album Rain Dogs, from 1985. Okay! I love you guys!! See ya.

“Jockey Full Of Bourbon”

Edna Million in a drop dead suit
Dutch Pink on a downtown train
Two dollar pistol but the gun won’t shoot
I’m in the corner on the pouring rain
16 men on a deadman’s chest
And I’ve been drinking from a broken cup
2 pairs of pants and a mohair vest
I’m full of bourbon, I can’t stand up

Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone
Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone

Schiffer broke a bottle on Morgan’s head
And I’ve been stepping on the devil’s tail
Across the stripes of a full moon’s head
Through the bars of a Cuban jail
Bloody fingers on a purple knife
A flamingo drinking from a cocktail glass
I’m on the lawn with someone else’s wife
Come admire the view from up on top of the mast

Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone
Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone

I said, hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone
Hey little bird, fly away home
House is on fire, your children are alone

Yellow sheets in a Hong Kong bed
Stazybo horn and a Slingerland ride
To the carnival is what she said
A hundred dollars makes it dark inside

Edna Million in a drop dead suit
Dutch Pink on a downtown train
Two dollar pistol but the gun won’t shoot
I’m in the corner on the pouring rain

Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone
Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone

c – 1985 Tom Waits