Archive for spirituality

The Mrs. Butterworth Book Club

Posted in Alphabetfiend, Art & Culture, Art Lover, Books & Writing, Cinema & Filmmaking, Goof & Glamour, I Heart Funny Fellas, I Heart My Love-Tribe, In Celebration of the Absurd, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 3, 2010 by alphabetfiend

“I’m one of the few who voted for Obama because he was a friend of Bill Ayers.” -JW    

I too am one of those few.    

 

     

My freaky filmmaker friend, Tim, and I recently started a two-person book club. We dubbed it “The Mrs. Butterworth Book Club,” after a surreal conversation we had in highschool in which Tim asked me, out of nowhere, “What would you do if you woke up and Mrs. Butterworth was at your bedside? She’d have to be on yer pillow cause she’s rather short.”    

I’ve always had a soft spot for the absurd and so I have a soft spot for Tim.    

“I didn’t have to worry about fitting in with a crowd I didn’t want to hang out with in the first place.” -JW    

 

Both fans of John Waters, we chose his new book “Role Models” as our first MBBC selection. “Role Models” — the latest of several memoirs by the filmmaker, writer and professional outcast — focuses on people who have inspired or influenced Waters. The book begins with >surprise!surprise!< Johnny Mathis then moves on to reformed Manson Girl Leslie Van Houten; later comes Commes des Garcons designer/deconstructionist Rei Kawakubo who crashes into various hillbilly heroes from Baltimore such as Ester the barmaid and Lady Zorro the lesbian stripper.    

    

“Nothing is more impotent than un unread library”   

John Waters writes about reading the way a junky waxes poetic over crack.  

I’ve just finished the chapter “Book Worm.” Love love! Waters is a notorious and obsessive bibliophile, owning nearly 9000 volumes of wordy goodness.I can’t wait until he writes a whole book like that chapter, where he’ll delve into one weirdo tome after another. That would be a fantastic book! Waters has smart, obscure taste in literature and continually surprises me with his thoughtful insights.    

The chapter on Little Richard is next. I can’t wait.    

I saw Little Richard not too long ago. It was a free show, just a few blocks from my house, in the U of TX quad, so we meandered over.    

   

I’ve seen many old greats and I’ve learned not to expect too much. I saw Hasil Adkins at The Continental Club, paid a penny too, he played maybe two longs and left the stage. I’ve seen Ramblin’ Jack where he’s talked all night tellin’ one great story after another but there was one raspy time where he sang a song, coughed, sang another song, coughed and took a bow. I think it was James Chance that left the stage in a hissy fit like he waz Fred Alan Wolf at a physics conference. (Wolf’s hissy fit worked out well for me. I chased him out and we chatted all afternoon. He set up his laptop in the shadows of a patio umbrella and semi-patiently explained to me his theory of the thalmus gland as rudimentary time machine. I Heart Fred Allan Wolf!)    

Little Richard did not disappoint.      

Little Richard glittered like an LSD rockstar. The old man rocker took that place down to the ground. Holy hell! I fuckin’ cried. Yep. I wept as Little Richard sent spasming waves of energy through a crowd of cheap, clueless college students.  Seeing Little Richard that soft summer evening was a spiritual thing. I had my own Little Richard religious experience.      

"Saint Richard" by Vicki Berndt

So far the Mrs. Butterworth Book Club mostly consists of gushing to one another on facebook about just how fucking great Role Models is and how much we love John Waters as a way of life, posting killer quotes as our status updates and generally annoying the rest of our facebook friends.    

Screw those less-enlightened folks whose only knowledge of John Waters is “he has something to do with that fat drag queen who ate dog shit in some movie that no one’s ever seen.” If that.     

Makes me wanna scream, “Divine ate the dog shit! The film was Pink Flamingos! John Waters was the director! Fuckface!”    

I’d throw in that fuckface at the end, just for extra measure, like the cherry on top of the sundae or the pretty that flatters please.    

No, I kid. Really. So what if they’re morons who wanna wait (who CAN wait) until Role Models comes out in paperback. Whaddo I care? I don’t, cause I kid, but it is funny how things have changed and yet stayed the same. Tim and I hung with different crowds in highschool. We might never have spoken if our inner freaks hadn’t had such magnetic pull and now, all grown up, I have so much more to say to Tim than to the gorgeous girls I once hung with (who are now smiling mothers posting owen mills portraits all over their facebook pages, with not one free moment to read and if they read they certainly wouldn’t read Waters’ odes to Manson girls, trannie derelicts or Johnny Mathis.)     

   

The Mrs. Butterworth Book Club has only two members but that’s more out of necessity than design, being that no one else has expressed an iota of interest.    

That’s fine with us, right, Tim? All the more dog shit for us!    

Today I went to type out a few sentences on Tim’s fb page and try as I might it wouldn’t post. Old school friends were im-ing me and I was losing patience in fine Luddite fashion. The pups were barking to announce guests and the Robot was calling from the other room. Frazzled, I copied my note to Tim and stuck it into my open wordpress window under quick-post for safekeeping….which has me thinking….hmmm. I was gonna review the book for y’all anyway so why not post my thoughts here and then send the links to Tim? Maybe some of you are reading Role Models too and wanna pipe in? Maybe Tim and I can convince you to read Role Models? Even if you’re not reading the book, please join the discussion and tell us about some of your own role models, heroes & muses. What about an infuriatingly brilliant nemesis…anyone got one of those? (I sure do. Don’t I, Sugarbear?) 

Waters sez "Read this"

If you’d like to join our very informal Mrs. Butterworth Book Club, we’d be glad to take on new members with a taste for the odd in literature and in life. We’re keepin’ it simple. See!  Here’s my fb note to Tim:    

Hey Tim! Checkin’ in to the Mrs. Buttersworth Book Club… am just about to start the Little Richard chapter on p.183, had a houseguest for a couple weeks and fell behind.    

All that stuff about the Manson’s O-MY! I never knew they’d sneak into houses and move the furniture. So trickster, I love it, but stabbing someone 16 times? Nah, not for me.    

All the Baltimore stuff in the bar chapter was a riot. I have some these “artsy hillbilly” friends from Baltimore and they tell the craziest stories ever. Plus I loved The Wire and Homicide, both set in Baltimore. Homicide was brilliantly cast by Pat Moran, whom Waters mentions repeatedly as “My friend, Pat Moran”.    

That stuff about lunatic mothers and the craziness those kids grew up with? I found all that to be just waaaay too familiar. Great reading tho. Great writing!    

 Finally, while I consider myself to be a big reader, life-long, I must confess to not having read even one of his five recommendations. Have you? Guess we know what we’ll read next in the MBBC, huh? Which one do you suggest? The pervy kid or the deluded ladies? Or pages and pages of dialogue? I’m up for any and all!    

I’m not a huge fanatic as far as his films go but as a man, as a mind, John Waters is thrilling.    

He’s also a hell of a writer and a real storyteller.    

This book has been a treat. I’m loving it. I’m devouring it.     

“Tennessee Williams wasn’t a gay cliché, so I had the confidence to try to not be one myself. Gay was not enough. It was a good start however.”    

 ** The Saint Richard painting is by Water’s soul-sista Vicki Berndt whom we’ve featured before on Cream Scene Carnival. Role Models is available at amazon and so is the Waters pick: In Youth is Pleasure by Denton Welch, with a forward by William Burroughs.    

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Tryin’ To Make It Real Compared To What?! (Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in I Heart My Love-Tribe, Music & Life & Sundays, politics, punk rock, Rock & Roll, Spirituality & Religion, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 27, 2010 by alphabetfiend

Where’s that bee and where’s that honey? Where’s my God and where’s my money?

This was one “Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel” that almost didn’t happen.  After the busiest of weeks and hours of off-line frustration in the Mississippi country-side, I said screw it all to hell and collapsed into bed with weary bones. Maybe it’ll be a Monday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel, I thought as I drifted into a deep air-conditioned slumber. Two hours later, at 4am, I awoke with a jolt to the spectres of Eddie Harris and Les McCaan. This is our Sunday, they insisted, so I reached with drowsy digits for my discarded laptop and whaddaya know?!  We suddenly (miraculously?) made contact. Now, fueled by caffeine & cigarettes, and a crazy lovely love for this song, I’m gonna knock this sucker out.

This week will be less wordy that usual, partly due to my fried-egg sunny-side up brain, but mostly because this song sings for itself.

How to introduce “Tryin’ To Make It Real Compared To What” ???

What can possibly be said about one of the greatest songs of all time?

All I can do is tell you what it means to me and urge you to form your own fibrous connection. And you will. You will. It’s that damn good.

When I was 15, my Dad and I took a long dusk-to-dark ride through the New Mexico mountains. Our headlights guided us around treacherous curves which my father — an expert driver and Motor City son — took smoothly, sweetly, safely. The moon was fat and the stars glittered like sugared candies. It was the kind of memory that sticks to your ribs; the kind of living that gives life texture, taste and deliciousness. It was the kind of  time that carves into your soul and (RE)MAKES you into a new configuration (concoction?) of your self. It was there, in that cushy comfy night, that I first heard “Tryin’ To Make It Real Compared To What.” It was also the second, third, fourth and fiftieth time. We played it over and over and over while reveling in the troubled beauty of the world.

Ten years later, my Dad was dead.

There would be no more moonlight rock-out rides; no more trading barbs over breakfast until he broke into a grin over my writerly wit; no more mounting our motorcycles at dawn and VVROOM-VVROOMing into the rising sun. 

There was no one to call when I needed to remember who it was that did that amazing fucking song. 

After all, that crazy beautiful fucker had turned me onto so many songs over the years and I figgered he’d always be around to help me keep ’em straight.

What was the song we used to play on the pontoon as we floated lazily down the Maumee River? Right. Take 5. Dave Brubeck. I remember now.

Who was it we were listening to that 3am by the fire? Ah! Buddy Holly. Duh.  

Who was it that did that kick-ass cool song that we couldn’t get enough of that night in your Lincoln, with the fat moon and her spilled candy?

Huh? Who? Hello? Dad? Where the hell you’d go? Hello?…hello…hey…hello? Daddy?

Damn that silence sucks.

Fortunately, there’s now such a thing as google. I typed in “tryin to make it real compared to what,” and was led to youtube, where Eddie Harris & Les McCaan broke my heart all over again. Then fixed it. Then broke it. It was awesome. I hit replay at least a dozen times. Oh. Such goodness. Such beauty. Such power.

My body flooded with rock & roll relief.

The song returned to me, like a gift, an act of cyber kindness, and now in the spirit of punk rock gospel, I am passing it on to you. I hope it breaks your heart and blows your mind. I hope it carves into you and sticks to your ribs. I hope it stays with you forever.

Is that too much to ask? No, I really don’t think so. Listen to it, see for yourself. Then go buy the record, download it onto your ipod, add the song to a playlist — spend some quality time with it. Let it add taste and texture to your memories… all the while striving to make it real while asking “Real?… Compared to what?”

Like a Buddhist koan, there’s really no answer but the question props your mind open.

TRYING TO MAKE IT REAL COMPARED TO WHAT

I love the lie and lie the love
A-Hangin’ on, with push and shove
Possession is the motivation
that is hangin’ up the God-damn nation
Looks like we always end up in a rut (everybody now!)
Tryin’ to make it real — compared to what? C’mon baby!

Slaughterhouse is killin’ hogs
Twisted children killin’ frogs
Poor dumb rednecks rollin’ logs
Tired old lady kissin’ dogs
I hate the human love of that stinking mutt (I can’t use it!)
Try to make it real — compared to what? C’mon baby now!

The President, he’s got his war
Folks don’t know just what it’s for
Nobody gives us rhyme or reason
Have one doubt, they call it treason
We’re chicken-feathers, all without one nut. God damn it!
Tryin’ to make it real — compared to what? (Sock it to me)

Church on Sunday, sleep and nod
Tryin’ to duck the wrath of God
Preacher’s fillin’ us with fright
They all tryin’ to teach us what they think is right
They really got to be some kind of nut (I can’t use it!)
Tryin’ to make it real — compared to what?

Where’s that bee and where’s that honey?
Where’s my God and where’s my money?
Unreal values, crass distortion
Unwed mothers need abortion
Kind of brings to mind ol’ young King Tut (He did it now)
Tried to make it real — compared to what?!

(Music break)

Tryin’ to make it real — compared to what?

A Sacred Steampunk Computer for A Lipstick Shamaness

Posted in Art & Culture, Goof & Glamour, I Heart Steampunk, Lipstick Shamaness, Mythos, punk rock, Sexy Bitch Steampunk yum, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 10, 2010 by alphabetfiend

Cream Scene Carnival would be nowhere without the magical mindful influences of The Lipstick Shamaness. How else to explain the little bits of spirit that end up in posts about celebrity haircuts, rowdy rock music, politics as usual, Ouija boards or butt plugs??  

So pass the peace pipe, peeps, as we honor the Lipstick Shamaness with our day-of-birth offerings.  

  

Surely she’d love to experiment with the pigment-dense shades of lipstick from Poppy King’s latest line Lipstick Queen.  King divides her hues into a Saint & Sinner story line which is right up LS’s alley. But saint or sinner? What the hell, why not put two tubes on my Im-Ex card (Imaginary Express — you gotta love pretend funds!)        

  

While we’re spending pastel dollars that we swiped from the Monopoly box, then we must spring for the most magical computer ever imagined by man. That man is Jake Von Slatt, a merciless tease with far too much talent. Von Slatt is a god among steampunks! One look at this cross between computer and church should explain his standing in the steampunk community.  

Von Slatt’s  machines poke at something mythic that still crouches inside technology, like the reptilian brain within the big brain.    

  

“Look out honey, ’cause I’m using technology! Don’t give a fuck about a fuckin’ apology!” (Sing it, Iggy!)  

This poet-prophette steampunk computer is a prime example of Von Slatt’s encompassing vision. Have you ever seen anything so amazing in your life? Surely the Lipstick Shamaness has never seen a machine so sacred in all 109 of her lives! Can you imagine the holy rants she might write on such a talismanic keyboard? What potent spells could come of this?            

    

If you are the tech-savvy DIY type, you may be able to have such a magical contraption for yourself. Jake Von Slatt describes this project in detail over on Datamancer, the personal art site of Richard “Doc” Nagy, Mad Scientist of steampunkery and self-described “Jackass of All Trades.”( datamancer.net)   

The Lipstick Shamaness is not exactly tech-saavy so she won’t be returning computers to their typewriterly roots any time soon. She has, however, been known to fashion some seriously witchy head-dresses. Can a woman ever have too many headdresses? Well, that depends… your average woman with a job at the bank and a boyfriend in real-estate? Yes. A kicky kook with a taste for fox fur & dream states? No, never.  

After all, a modern age shamaness must use her clothing to communicate her “otherness” in this world of McDonalds drive-thrus and reality TV. What is a modern-age shamaness? So so so so NOT a new age anything! She’s not about healing crystals, Native American dream catchers or goddess cultures. She doesn’t dwell in the dogma of the past but propels us forward into a new kind tune-in turn-on. Ontological anarchy! Punk rock spiritualism!           

  

The “Starla” headdress by magentafabulous is just the thing for a Shamaness with sparkly glossy lips.  

These converse tennies, inspired by Blondie’s punk debutante Deborah Harry, will come in handy for feverish trance-dance or for running from the cops after erecting a magpie altar on the steps of a of deep-south anti-gay church. I’m a street walking cheetah with a heart full of napalm, I’m a runaway son of the nuclear A-bomb!  

         

Sometimes you just gotta break out in song! And these tennies make me wanna sing some Stooges. I’m a street walking cheetah with a heart full of napalm! Now let’s rock some more as Iggy Pop takes us to our final gift idea.   

I’m a street walking cheetah
with a heart full of napalm
I’m a runaway son of the nuclear A-bomb
I am a world’s forgotten boy
The one who searches and destroys
Look out honey, ’cause I’m using technology!
Ain’t got time to make no apology.
Soul radiation in the dead of night
Love in the middle of a fire fight
Honey gotta strike me blind
Somebody gotta save my soul
Baby penetrates my mind
                  

The Oracle

  

Wasn’t that the perfect segue into this penetrating piece by J.L. Schnable?    

Schnable aka “babyfangs” says she paints “ladies of magic & doom.” Those ladies have fox faces, pointy crowns and shipwrecks in their hair.  I’ve got my third-eye on this babyfangs cause she’s speaking my language. Know a lady like Cream Scene’s Lipstick Shamaness? Got  someone ESP-ecially lovely in your life? Treat them to a print of “The Oracle.” (available on etsy, along with six other gorgeous prints.)   

And now, for your patience, I have a little reward: back-in-the-day Iggy Pop singing Search & Destroy live at the Phoenix fest in ’94. The footage is intercut with scenes from a surrounding carnival which makes it extra ESPecial perfect for us here at Cream-Scene. Peaches covered Search & Destroy sometime back so if you like this, then check out her version.            

Elvin Bishop’s “Fishin'” (Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in country music, Lipstick Shamaness, punk rock, Rock & Roll, Spirituality & Religion, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 30, 2010 by alphabetfiend

This is my first Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel since my return to Cream Scene Carnival. The night I slipped back in, after posting my first new piece, I went out for another one of my dark highway drives. I listen to late-night fm and come up with absurd destinations. A pitch-dark dog park. The pink neon of the nighthawk diner that sells egg custard pie by the slice. A bundle of brand new socks for my RobotBoy. Sometimes the dogs join me, hanging their heads out the window and surfing through the cool moon-sticky breeze.    

I give myself over to the Radio Gods.

They unwind me from my bandages and wash my open sores with a warm sudsy cloth.  

 The Robot doesn’t care for radio.

Why, he wonders, would a grown ass person, with advanced tastes and an extensive music collection, ever choose to be at the mercy of radio again? 

His dial stays at NPR.  But never for long, not when I’m around. Cause I am an omen-seeker and as an omen-seeker, I worship the randomness of radio. I love that jolt of joy & recognition as my hand jumps to the volume dial. I love being suddenly enveloped in old skins. If the 80’s band “When in Rome” comes a-tinkling with their one hit — The Promise — then I’m 15 again and falling in love with Anthony Castro.

What does RB say of that?

He says, “Promise me I’ll never have to hear that shitty song again.”  

Radio is my own cosmic jukebox… colliding with the cosmic playlists of others. I often turn to radio for comfort and for guidance.  

Charlie Daniels once sang about "Elvin Bishop sitting on a bale of hay...he ain't good looking but he sure can play"

When they played Elvin Bishop’s “Fishin’ ” at 3:23 am, the tune clamped on my barbed hook like a cartoon carp. It was the only choice for today’s Punk Rock Gospel.

Elvin’s right. We should be spending our Sundays doing whatever makes our spirit soar or whatever brings our weary hearts some peace. For some of us, that involves a church with song & sermon. Others look elsewhere for their song & sermon. They don’t need pews and gory stained glass to make their symbols resonate. That’s what the Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel is all about …. it wants to celebrate that elseswhere, it wishes to be that elsewhere.  

Elvin Bishop’s elsewhere is a quiet creek side spot:

I got me a nice little spot picked out down there on the crick.
Boy, them perch is bitin’ like crazy. Yassuh. Powerful. 

I’m goin’ fish-fish, fish-fish, fish-fish, fishin’.
I’m goin’ fishin’… hook, sinker, an’ line.
I said, fish-fish, fish-fish, fish-fish, fishin’….

Now some folks say that fishin’ on Sunday’s a sin.
If a fish bite my line on a Sunday, I’m gonna reel ’em on in.
Believe I’ll take ’em on home, fry ’em up good an’ have a ball

Cause I don’t see nothin’ wrong with fishin’ on Sunday at all

We ought to all go fishin’, want to have a nice time, fish fish fishin’… hook sinker & line….

I’ll take my pole an’ my jug down to the river,  set up on  the bank.
Every time the fish start to nibble, I’m gonna take me another drank.
  

Speaking with church choir modesty, Bishop said,

“My voice is very plain. It’s better suited for Blues. It’s been good for me, because it’s made my songwriting strong, because to really get over with a voice like mine, which is not a thrill in itself – the quality of the voice – you have to have a strong story and really good words to capture people’s imagination.  (Songfacts.com interview with Bishop.)  

Wish I Had One-na Dem Willy Braids

Posted in country music, Dork Alert, Fame & Celebrity, Goof & Glamour, I Heart Tricksters, Lipstick Shamaness, Mythos, punk rock, Rock & Roll, Spirituality & Religion, Star F*#ker, Style & Fashion, The wisdom of the universe, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 29, 2010 by alphabetfiend

D’you hear the news about Willie and the missing piggies? Yep. He snipped ’em. Willie without braids? What is the world coming to?

 I had a dream around the turn of the millenium, amid all the doomsday mumbo jumbo, that the world was coming to and end… except that it was more of a Michio-Kaku-style metamorphoses or Fred-Allan-Wolf-type transformation. Like Wolf’s idea that the universe has been expanding ever since the Big Bang but will start shrinking eventually and… yea, anyway, back to Willie. In the dream, my friend Rita (a talented psychic) had a pub, where she’d called a special meeting for people who were supposed to help “save the world” (more like guide the world through its rebirth.) Rita was a fine hostess/bar-maid, taking drink orders & zipping around the pub in a pedal surrey with a fringe awning. (Real life Rita, in true shamaness style, was a childhood victim of polio. So my un-consc’ gave her a more fittingly glamorous wheel chair.) The pub had a frenetic bustling energy as people summoned their muster and opened their third eyes. Willie called the meeting to order. I wasn’t surprised to see him with the conch.

Whether savior or city-icon, this is BIG news here in Austin. In our neck of the woods we consider Willie’s smooth nape to be our business.

There was some initial speculation that Willie took to the say-lon so that he might save the gulf with a crimped contribution to the hair boom project. Thank Goof that wasn’t true! Don’t get me wrong, I used the hair booms as an excuse to take my baby wookie to the groomer and I felt righteous doin’ it. Hey, wookie’s  are fur-bombs.

I even have an appointment to see my own stylist next week cause well, we all gotta do our part.

I wanna believe in the whole hair boom thing and I kinda do. But it hasn’t been implemented on the gulf although I hear they’ve had luck in the past. I didn’t want Willie to have cut his braids for some bullshit thing we’re doing just to make ourselves feel better and justify wookie grooming.

The best reason for Willie to cut his trademark tresses is because that’s what Willie wants. Which was the case. I suspected as much. Long hair is a pain in the arse. I saw that infomercial guy on 60 minutes a couple Sundays back and he said he’d love to cut his stupid ponytail but can’t ’cause,  like sex, ponytails sell.

No matter. Willie’s the Big Kahuna whether he’s got braids or not. I’m supportive. Chopping off one’s locks can be an act of freedom.

I only wish that I could have just one of the famous plaits. I’d attach it to the end of a whittled birch limb, joined by a cluster of cardinal feathers and ribbons like kite-tails. I’d bathe the whole gris gris in silver glitter & Eshu spit. It’d be one hell of a talisman — capable of big and small majicks.

Willy! Gimmee gimmee!

If not to further my power as high priestess of tom-foolery, if not in sacrifice to the Saint of Red-Headed Step-Children, then it should go to The Country Music Hall of Fame. Or even the Smithsonian. Can I hear an AMEN?

Willie looks like he joined the cast of Gilligan’s Island but he’ll be much more comfortable in the heat of the Texas summer.

I wonder if Willie’s piggies tried to cry wee wee wee all the way home….

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.

A Ghost (in the machine) Story

Posted in Art & Culture, Books & Writing, I Heart Tricksters, Intuition & Gut Intelligence, Mythos, Psyche & Sexuality, Romance, SPOOKY KABUKI with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 25, 2008 by alphabetfiend

“Sarah Wolfe is about to fall backwards. The thick walls that seperate the past from the present are crumbling, but she doesn’t know it yet.”– Nick Bantock

While plotting out a properly eerie week of SPOOKY KABUKI, it was always my intention to follow up the steampunk post with a GHOST (in the machine) STORY. But I’m all the hungrier for The Venetian’s Wife  after a recent jolt of Indian myth in the movie “Sita Sings the Blues.”  The Venetian’s Wife is one of many disturbingly beautiful books by Nick Bantock. Bantock specializes in mythic image-laden visions, crossed connections and mysterious correspondence. Bantock is the bastard child of the trickster god Eshu who has haunted the machines of man for as long as we’ve been trying to communicate through wires.

The Venetian’s Wife is about communication, connection, art and Hindu spirituality. It’s about the past & the present. It’s about a spiritual and sexual awakening. It’s a lush soulful story that makes your cells hum. It’s a romance, a travelogue, a voyeuristic peek into the communications between the living and the dead. But mostly it’s a ghost story.

Ghost is a very broad term and although I have met no others of my ilk, I am assuming that is what I am.

This is no joke. I am deadly serious. After I was struck down by lightning back in 1469, I found myself drifting aimlessly without a real comprehension of time. I was neither in nor out of the physical world; I had no memory, only a vague consciousness that took succor from any source of electricity I came across. One day I encountered a new conductor and became hypnotized by the vibrating electrical pulses. I tried to get closer to the charge — I pressed myself toward the heart of the glow, and, without warning, I became saturated with light. My memory returned.

This beauty is a feast for that third eye and an oddly perfect October read. Published in 1996, The Venetian’s Wife is worth a (re)visitation. Pull it down from the shelf and blow the dust off the spine. Borrow it from the library. Hunt it down at Amazon. Enjoy!

Bantock is a beasty of mystery.
Bantock is a beasty of mystery.

Check back all week for more SPOOKY KABUKI. There’s more tricks and more treats to come.

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