Archive for Books & Writing

The Gift of Time (or I Shoulda Been the Queen of Sheba)

Posted in Alphabetfiend, Art & Culture, Books & Writing, I Heart Friends, I Heart My Love-Tribe, I Heart Steampunk, Mythos, punk rock, Sexy Bitch Steampunk yum, Spirituality & Religion, The wisdom of the universe with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 9, 2010 by alphabetfiend

 I’ve never been one to contain my birthday celebrations to just my one official day (Yes, that’s right, I’m her.  As if you didn’t know that already. Stop feigning horror and surprise.)  

I’m shameless so I’ll go whole hog and admit that I usually try to get myself a birthday gift (yes, I try to be this self adoring and it’s harder than you’d think! I challenge you to it. Stay posted for details.)  

These gifts aren’t about momentary id. They’re about honoring the passage of time… like a little salute to the universe or a thank-you note to the big bang. This life thing is alright. Thumbs up on that one. Havin’ fun. Wish you were here.   

  

I try to pick something for myself that honors where I’ve been and heralds where I’m going, hokey as that sounds. I try to keep the trickster in mind and transform when transformation is called for… this is how I cheat death. My stint as trickster’s apprentice has taught me that much.   

This attitude is not effortless on my part, though many see it that way. Others are 100% on to me. My senior year in college, my honors advisor called me into his office to tell me that my perfectionism would surely be the death of me — and it was unneccessary to boot. My jaw dropped. What perfectionism?  He chuckled at my incredulous reflection all agog in the shiny surface of his desk. He motioned at that shiny, stunned me as if to say, There. See. So I challenged with what I saw as irrefutable logic: “I’m no perfectionist! Why I’m forever falling short and fucking up.” And then he was howling, at first with laughter and then with fury, because he was right and he knew it. He hadn’t used the word “death” lightly.  

I later ranted to my friend Thom, stamping my foot like a child as if to punctuate my imperfection. Dr. Hoch’s a dick, y’know, cause he don’t know, y’know, cause like I’m no perfectionist. I’mnotI’mnotI’mnotnotnot.   

Thom smiled knowingly, “Oh, please. Your ‘fuck-ups’ are other peoples’ ‘crowning glories’.” Then he hedged,  

Honey, c’mon, really? Letting up a little? Not the worst idea ever. Is there any thing left to prove at this point? To who? Profs love you. When class lets out they go and sit in your seat, grinding their asses into the warm wood, moaning oh yes I’m touching her ass through magical osmosis.”  

Thom never passes up a chance to use the word “ass” or to ease my worries either so I put the issue away, for that day. But damn if it hasn’t reared its ugly head again. And again. And again. I still don’t think of myself as a perfectionist so much as a chronic self-saboteur. Even then I wonder if its all some secret fate the trickster has in store. Maybe I fuck-up to save myself from the tyranny of perfection or maybe I’m the tyrant.    

These two sides of my personality are forever waging war within me. Typical Gemini!   

One side sees my birthday as a defeat and a deadline: Oh! Woe! I was supposed to have been The Queen of Sheba by now!   

That bitch is no fucking fun at all.  

The other side sez “And just for that shit, yer ass ain’t never gonna be the Queen of Sheba. I’ll make damn shit sure of it.”  

And that cunt is the reason I’m not the Queen of Sheba.  

She’s also the one you wanna party with. Unless of course you’d rather not be man-handled by a bouncer when your date — saucy mouth, double d’s clad in a punk rock tee, rhinestone tiara — refuses to respect the fucker’s a-THOR-i-tye. But hey she’s good in bed so you go with it.  

  

Birthdays are ALL ABOUT THE PARTY so the perfectionist is a rock, a rock wrapped — like a gift! — in the paper of the fox trickster fuck-up. Rockpaperscissors. Paper beats rock. I win! I scream! You scream! We all scream for ice cream. The 9-year-old in me that expected the 36-year old to be a famous writer by now — jeesh, what have you been doing with your life you loser — must wear a conical party hat. She must bow her head to the fuck-up as the fuck-up schools her on the pleasures and sorrows of adulthood. Sex, weed, HBO, Austin, punk rock,  falling in love, this sci-fi invention called the inter-net, disgracing yourself regularly, getting lost and then found. Oh, such sweet distractions from perfectionist abstractions. Yes, that’s right youngin’, the inter in internet does stand for inter-galactic. Doesn’t it? Or not. Don’t get me lyin’!  Best grown up fuck up pleasure of all? Not having to know motherfucking everything.  

The fuck-up snaps the elastic under the perfectionist’s chin which causes her party hat to go askew. She lets it stay that way. For that alone she deserves a gift. I try to pick out something nice but clever. A talisman of sorts. Something that sez to Time, “Bring it on, bitch. I’m not askerd of you!”  

"Siamese Dream" by Studio Thirty Four

I put a lot of thought into the gifts I give myself but this year I’m at a loss. Sure I’d love that steampunk motorcycle (It’s a beaut! You’ll see it when I post the “Happy Birthday, Steampunk Seductress” page. Soon, my sweets.) But I’m not $70,000 dollars worth of worth it!  There’s more affordable options — Ringleader’s mustache necklace or clownie vest??? I’m getting a new tattoo (my sweet clownie Miss Van) and I just started back on Cream Scene Carnival so…. I dunno. I’m in no hurry to choose. I’m happy to be writing again and that’s enough for me. For now. I’ll still choose something concrete cause I’m a hedonist alive in a physical world and I fuckin’ love cool shit.  

I don’t think the universe objects to the affection I lavish on myself. If anything, the gods appreciate my gusto. How else do you explain the fact that aside from the gifts I give myself I also get birthday gifts from the universe. I do! It’s true! Every year, through some strange turn of events, a gift arrives from no where sent by no one. I was halfway through this post today when the Robot came in with a box from Amazon and began to dig through it furtively, setting mysterious treats aside for his masculine half-assed wrapping treatment. I watch as he peers at the receipt with a perplexed expression, “Did you use D’s gift certificate to get Visions from the Mechanism: The Industrial Surrealism of Jeffery Scott ??” I shake my head and his brow furrows, “No?” I shake my head again. He holds the book up, as if the sight of it will jog my memory. “You didn’t order this? No? Cause I sure as fuck didn’t.”  

I begin to clap my hands with giddy anticipation, squealing “Oh! It must be my gift from the universe! Gimmee!” and he tosses it with a shrug cause he didn’t know the universe gave gifts but turns out it does. He’s seen it enough times now to know it’s true. Thank you to The Thrones! I love it! It’s the perfect gift considering my steampunky desires of late.

Stem Sell part II by Jeffery Scott (30 pages into my new book!)

I pour over the book, licking my lips as I turn the slick pages, page after dark page of mad maxxian sexbot steampunkery. I’m so enchanted by Scott’s mechanistic vision that I don’t notice my Robot as he unwraps a just-arrived CD (The Flaming Lips doing Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon in its entirety.) He pops it in and presses play, hiking the volume. I’m so absorbed in my book that I think nothing of it until Stardeath and White Dwarfs come on strong and “Time” fills the room with it ticking, graying melancholy:  

 Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way.
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way.  

Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain.
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today.
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you.
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.  

So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it’s sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again.
The sun is the same in a relative way but you’re older,
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.  

Every year is getting shorter never seem to find the time.
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I’d something more to say.   

With the smug swish of a fox tail, the trickster’s sly smile crosses my face . I hafta laugh at my own gemini duplicity — one side, snide, saying “Not enough, more more” and the other side saying, “Oh, thank you! So much! Much much.” One twin pushes, the other twin pinches.  

Titled "I Love you Anyway" or "The Girl Makes Peace With Herself"

We are slutty siamese twins with totally different taste in men. One sister went black and swore she’d never go back but, alas, she shares a vagina with her twin (and she’s got a yen for geeky white men.) Hey, homegirl, at least she’s not a lesbian!  

To my perfectionist side, I give this — the Flaming Lips version of Floyd’s “Time” with Stardeath and White Dwarfs ringing in 2010 at a New Years eve show in the FL’s hometown of Oklahoma City. I wish I had seen this show live!!! This video is shot beautifully by professionals who had total access. Less tha 5000 people have viewed it.  

“Sweet, ” sez Sister Fuck-up, “Let’s watch this sucker like its (black) boy on (black) boy porn. Oh, hell ya! Now pass the hash pipe.”  

The Siamese Twin art above is available on Etsy. “Siamese Dream” is by Studio Thirty Four  and “I Love You Anyway or The Girl Makes Piece with Herself” is by rowenamurillo

I’m Back, Bitches!

Posted in Alphabetfiend, Intuition & Gut Intelligence, The wisdom of the universe with tags , , , , , on May 27, 2010 by alphabetfiend

So…. I’d all but abandoned this blog ages ago. Hadn’t even peeked at my dash in over a year. I was so skeeved by the no man’s land that awaited — so afraid of seeing that intimidating “blog stats” graph all flat-lined and deflated — that I might have avoided it forever.

But then I began to miss my little blog. I enjoyed being the “editor” of my own little mytho-spiritual kinkster sex-fiend pop culture cache.  I decided to start a new blog (one not associated with my name, some little anonymous place where I could wait like a spider in this sticky “web”.) So I came tip-toeing back to wordpress… but before I could open a new account, I was drawn back to the old Cream Scene Carnival… a last kiss perhaps? I wistfully clicked on “blog stats” recalling how my heart would thrill to see that people were reading my goofy media mash-up. In the 6 weeks I was doing the blog I’d had tons of fun and had gotten between 12-14,000 views but the best part of the blog (and the reason I jumped ship) is because I’d met a magical muse-mate (platonic, people! Nothing lurid!) who cajoled me into starting a new novel.

After having been away from Cream Scene for a few months I assumed I’d lost all my readers and I felt like a very bad ringleader. I didn’t want to see this carnival cum ghost town. I didn’t want to be mowed down by a rogue tumbleweed. I figured it’d be better to start anew rather than fix up an abandoned house (You know the kind.  Teenagers have dry-humped on the buckled floorboards after spray-painting pentacles and BMW insignias on the sagging walls.) I wasn’t afraid of the ghosts so much as I was one. I was creeped out by my own ghostiness.

Thank you for supporting me, loyal subjects & fellow royalty. Hee hee.

I clicked on “blog stats” just for old-timey kicks and had to blink hard when I saw that Cream Scene Carnival had amassed 50,000 views in my absence. Oh my. It was 4 in the am and I mentally pinched myself. I got my car keys and went out for a drive, turning to cigarettes and the radio for a little “Holy shit!” solace. My mind reeled with surprise, mainly because starting that spankin’ new anonomo blog now seemed like a pretty dumb move. Even dumber than dumping CSC to begin with.

“But I was gonna be all fresh and perty and anonymous” whined one inner voice.

 Another voice snarled,”What an ingrate! You love Cream Scene Carnival! They love Cream Scene Carnival.”

A third voice broke in, ” Well, whatever. Good luck with your new blog: Whiny Wench Shares Piks of Dogs Wearing Wigs while Bemoaning the Cruel World.  That sounds like a real hoot and I’m sure you’ll get mad hits.”

Said voice #2, with a rallying cry,” Oh, c’mon, Cunt-licious! Your Kinksters need you! Someone has to turn Peggy hill into a porn star. If not you, who?”

Ultimately, I feel like those 50,000 hits are a gift that can’t be returned and a message that can’t be ignored. Soooooo… if you’ll take me, I’d like to come back. I’d like to be yer cunt-licious Carnie Queen again. Say you’ll have me. Say you can forgive me for wandering off.

I’m a bit worse for the wear. It hasn’t been an easy year. I had my heart smashed to smithereens by someone I trusted (not the RobotBoy! Cause he’s just peachy.) Nothing lurid. Just basic “people suck” saddness. I’m picking up the scattered shards. I’m trying to get to the point where people sucking doesn’t leave me (shell) shocked. So excuse me if I post some cry baby boo-hoo here and there. For my part, I swear that I’ll write some yummy new stuff:  art & culture… sex & gossip… poetry & freakdom… blow jobs & cream pies.

I bet you wish this was a blowjob instead...

Thank you so much my dear, sweet kinksters. Thank you for mowing the lawn and for tossing the moldy newspapers that piled up on the stoop. Thank you for keeping my seat warm. Thank you for reading. Would you prefer a soft appreciative buss on the forehead or a nice stinging spanking that’s sure to leave a red mark in the shape of my freakishly tiny hand? Readers choice.

holy hell thank goof this nanowrimo is over!!!!!

Posted in Pure Sweet Chocolate Sense with tags , , , on December 1, 2008 by alphabetfiend

I’m fried & fretful.

I’m also done. Not with Pure Sweet Chocolate Sense but with nanowrimo. Yay!!!! And now to be in the dark with my migraine!

nano_08_winner_large

Some time soon I’ll give you some actual ABC Fiend fun again. But first I must rest and then I must dress up in a pink vinyl stewerdess outfit and play “coffee tea or me?” with my patient Robot. And then…. I’ll be back.

Blondie & Kermit Duet: Rainbow Connection (Sunday Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in Pure Sweet Chocolate Sense, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 24, 2008 by alphabetfiend

Lina and I were just talking last night about connections that happen in art without the artist’s awareness. The subconscious strings beads, the conscious wears a perty necklace. The knowing inside the oblivious. We both agreed that it’s our favorite part of making art. She with paint, me with words. I had one of these moments recently. The RobotBoy and I had a nice hazy smoke and broke into a mile-a-minute conversation about racism and homophobia. Big issues for both of us; life themes. I confessed to three brief moments of ingrained racism as a child, flashes where an adult’s fucked up toxic mindset had made its way into me and I had to then kick it out. But, I told RB, I’d never experienced a moment of prejudice about homosexuality and had this innate calm understanding of it for as long as I can remember. My mom always says it doesn’t surprise her that while not gay my life is a gay cabaret. She tells this story of me casually referring to a friend of mine as gay and she asked “Do you even know what that is?” and I told her in great detail without a hint of judgement. That kid, by the way, came out 15 years later. I do however have an attitude about gay people who are prejudice against themselves. That riles. On that thought I was led to tell a story about my aunt/cousin showing up in our living room and begging my Dad to save her from her terrible situation — she’d come home to find her husband wearing a mask with lipstick & eyeshadow, in a dress, being ass-farked by a man. Of course I was sitting there rapt, being the nosy and non-sheltered kid that I was. And of course my Dad helped her and of course she farked him over. He ended up having to evict her after she completely trashed the place he’d let her live. It took him weeks to clean it up and one day he parked a pick-up truck in the driveway that was over-flowing with ephemera from the lives of these kinky relatives. Being, again, the nosy and unsheltered kid that I was, I began to sift through it all with an archaeologist’s precision and he let me (even left it for days until I’d had my fill.) Was it the choice that most fathers would make? No. Was it the right choice for that kid who would eventually grow up to be writer-me? Hell yea! I poured over piles of love letters, deflated mylar balloons, teddy bears that were far too tainted for me to introduce to my stuffed animals and — Jackpot! — the creepy as hell translucent rubber mask with red lips and blue-shadow eyes. The fact that it had been taken with her to the new place and then abandoned with bears makes me think she was down with the kink and had played up her boo-hoo to win my father’s sympathies. Not that it didn’t suck to then be left for a man and cheated on and betrayed. I’m sure it hurt terribly, enough to abandon love letters in a house filled with cat turds. But that mask was not the trauma she claimed, that mask meant something to her though I’m not sure what. The mask was my trauma! No such thing will ever find its way into my boudoir and I’m the experimental dress up sort. OK, here’s where it gets kinda funny and little kid absurd. When I’d had my fill of voyeurism, the one thing I took away from the bed of that pick up was a 45 of Kermit the Frog singing “Rainbow Connection” (“It’s Not Easy Being Green” was the B side.)

kermit

As a kid, I had to take my music where ever I could get it. My entire music collection was comprised of a few records pilfered from alley ways on trash day and Columbia House rejects from when my dad neglected to check “no thanks” on the little card that announced it would be sending him cassette tapes by Huey Lewis, Kenny Rogers or A-HA. Thus my eclectic musical sensibilities. I must’ve listened to that Kermit record 100’s of times over the years and still have it somewhere. I sang a few remembered lines for RB and he says “Never heard it.” Never heard it? The computer was on my lap because I’d been working on my book before getting carried away with smoke and talk, so we make our way to youtube and hit play. And then it hits me — my own personal RAINBOW CONNECTION. Here I am, taking a break from the book, chatting about totally unrelated things, and ending up right back at the damn book. In  Pure Sweet Chocolate Sense, one of the characters is a cop with “blue sense” who experiences psychic visions of a girl’s body trapped in a mine and the girl is wearing a jeweled rainbow around her neck. All of the characters are dealing with “knowing” and with the feeling that there is something more to be had, to be known. My characters and their maker/writer. The lovers, the dreamers and me! I did not recall the actual lyrics or think of “The Rainbow Connection” in relation to my book but connections were happening beneath the surface and I remembered every word some where. Kermit was poking at me no doubt.

RAINBOW CONNECTION
Kermit the Frog

Why are there so many
songs about rainbows
And what’s on the other side
Rainbow’s are visions
They’re only illusions
And rainbows have nothing to hide
So we’ve been told and some chose to
Believe it
But I know they’re wrong wait and see

Someday we’ll find it
The Rainbow Connection
The lovers, the dreamers and me

Who said that every wish
Would be heard and answered
When wished on the morning star
Somebody thought of that
And someone believed it
And look what it’s done so far
What’s so amazing
That keeps us star gazing
What so we think we might see

Someday we’ll find it
That Rainbow Connection
The lovers the dreamers and me

Have you been half asleep
And have you heard voices
I’ve heard them calling my name
Are these the sweet sounds that called
The young sailors
I think they’re one and the same
I’ve heard it too many times to ignore it
There’s something that I’m supposed to be

Someday we’ll find it
The Rainbow Connection
The lovers, the dreamers and me!

It’s the perfect Punk Rock Gospel for today because it has to do with the book and thus serves the gods of nanowrimo but is still a wonderful discussion of spirit and the search for something more. Plus Debbie Harry gives Kermie some punk rock props. Enjoy!

Pure Sweet Chocolate Sense — Chapter 7 DRAFT

Posted in Books & Writing, Pure Sweet Chocolate Sense, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on November 14, 2008 by alphabetfiend

Chapter 7 has moved

http://puresweetchocolatesense.wordpress.com/2008/12/08/pure-sweet-chocolate-sense-chapter-7/

Pure Sweet Chocolate Sense (chapter 6, part one, DRAFT)

Posted in Pure Sweet Chocolate Sense with tags , , , , , , , on November 13, 2008 by alphabetfiend

Chapter Six has moved

http://puresweetchocolatesense.wordpress.com/2008/12/07/pure-sweet-chocolate-sense-chapter-six/

Dream About Flying — Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel Blog

Posted in Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on November 10, 2008 by alphabetfiend

What I really SHOULD be talking about in this Punk Rock Gospel Blog is the total human rights catastrophe of Prop 8 which is breaking my heart with its backward BS. I never dreamed that sucker would pass. I’m sick about it. And I have a lot to say on the subject of gay marriage as a human rights issue. Which I why I just can’t do that today when I’m 6 days behind in my 50,000 word marathon, having committed to the nanowrimo challenge for National Novel Writing Month. So I have no room for those words, also I have a one-track mind. So I’m going to share this Alexi Murdoch song from the perspective of Marchella, one of the characters in Pure Sweet Chocolate Sense.

participant_120x90_paper

*************************************************************************

Dear Venus —

Kept hitting replay today, listening to the song “Dream About Flying”…. I have this aching attachment to it that is off-putting. It’s as if it’s not for me. But it must be cause I’m all that I have. I listen to it and I feel the agony and frustration of a mustachioed stranger. I feel his searching and his hiding. How he opens his eyes to the ceiling and feels like futility will eat him alive. Maybe it’s because I’ve been there — I’ve been that man. Of course that must be it, some part of myself searching for me and not finding me. Trying so hard, so hard, so hard.  But I’m finally not hiding as much and hurting less. So maybe eventually that will bring that aching man that haunts my insides a little bit of peace.

Nutter alert:

Wouldn’t it be wildly wonderful if the man isn’t internal but external, meaning that he really exists out there and the reason he’s searching for me is because I’m his one true love? His peace is me, finding me. And my peace is being found. He’ll gather me up, my bones & my secrets, my hard parts gone soft in his arms, and I’ll rejoice in my organic nature, in my earthling body self b/c he’ll be — FINALLY — my soft place to fall. Not that I believe in all that hoodoo, psychic visions or soul mates but my romantic mood of late has my mind mushy and hopeful.

Oh, and go ahead and twitter all you blogosphere hipsters, cause yes I did get that “soft place to fall” from Dr. Phil — I admit it! But hey, the only reason you know that is because YOU’RE watching him too. Anyhoo. I wouldn’t mind having a little of what he and Robin have so I guess I’m not too cool for all that.

It is a great song. He sounds so much like Nick Drake! Posted the lyrics too. Watch the u-tube clip!

Looking for love, finding myself,

xoxo Marchessa

Dream About Flying

Pale light this morning
Woke me
Slow pain I feel
Will not let me be

So much work to do
I don’t know if I can
Trying so hard, so hard, so hard
But I’m just one man

Five years old I climbed up on the wall
My mother warned me but I took no heed
Like all creatures great and small
I took a fall and found out I could bleed

These days I’m afraid of everything
Suppose cause everything will die
Thought it was to love what they will lose
So much easier to lie

Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning
Actually it’s more like most of the time
But every now and then when I’m sleeping
I still have a dream that I’m flying

And I wake up crying

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