Full Moon Fever

Hi to all! It's a super full moon fever weekend, my birthday, Joan on Mad Men's birthday, and an awesome day all around! I'm most grateful for all the friends, family, and love in my life. And that I'm alive. Here's the birthday drink for this year -- cheers! Full Moon Fever 1 part champagne 1 part lemonade garnish with sugar and lemon zest

Workers Unite!

It's been since Easter since I have posted on this blog for which I am as sad and glad as these little salt shakers. Now that I'm in the home stretch, I will resume semi-regular blogging and such exciting activities like laundry. It's two more days until I celebrate my and Christina Hendricks' birthdays (Joan on Mad Men) and here's the updates. I've made good progress on my new novel, The First Rule of Curses. What is, you ask, the first rule of curses? I read a book as a child on this subject. It said that the first rule of any curse is that you must believe you are under one. Other signs include accidents, mental sickness, affliction, barreness, and loss of livestock. While I've had my share of these ailments, the first rule is the one that intrigues me. Why do we choose to believe we are cursed? My grandmother, in between smoking and reading romance novels, told me a story about a man who had been cursed by a voodoo priestess on the island (New Caledonia) where she lived much of her life. His skin began to consume itself. Gnarly as we used to say in the eighties. My own lineage certainly had its share of curse-like affliction -- my great grandmother was orphaned after her father, a prison guard, hanged himself and her mother was stabbed to death by a released prisoner who had fallen in love with her. My great grandmother had four children, three of whom who died long before she did. My grandmother, her surviving child, found herself in an abusive marriage with a violent alcholic. She herself was always an alcoholic. My mother spent much of her adult life battling various forms of cancer. My dad died in a plane crash. If nothing else, we have fallen under the traditional Chinese curse-- May you live in interesting times.

But I try to confine my interesting times to the page. For the past few months, I've been writing a book about internal curses, the ones we put on ourselves. I hate to brag, but I know a little about the subject. I've also been blessed with interesting times, with adventures, with a pervasive sense of hope. Despite our best efforts, good has a weird way of sneaking into our lives even in the saddest of circumstances. On this May Day, I send the happiest of wishes for all my nearest and dearest who are struggling. I also implore you all to start watching Nurse Jackie and Mad Men, my two favorite pleasures of the moment. Nurse Jackie in season four finds herself in early sobriety, a woman who carries both suffering and joy into her world, played by the flawless Edie Falco. Mad Men, in its current season, introduces us to the challenges of a changing world. One of the earlier episodes referenced the Richard Speck case, the source of the title for my poetry collection, Make Yourself Small. Glad to be on the cutting edge of that curve! My favorite character of all time, Tony Soprano, once said he was participating joyfully in the sufferings of this world. My wish is that we all do the same. Happy May Day -- summer is coming.

Johnny Cash - I'll Fly Away

Happy Easter! See you all soon . . .

Diving Into The Wreck

Hi everyone! I've been absent from regular blogging to focus on writing a novel. It's been a lot of fun, but it also reminds me of my Biology II class where we disected cats. The dead cats lived in boxes, and each day my partner (a girl who was pregnant -- I don't know how she managed each morning without vomiting on said cat) and I would pull the cat out of the box and disect a new part. Each day, the cat got a little harder to pull out of the box, a little more rotted, a little more decimated. By week three, it took all my fortitude to look at it. A long project feels a big like opening up a dead cat every morning. But if you miss a day, it just gets harder and harder to look. So I force myself to work on it every day without fail. Other things have fallen to the side. But not the cat. Like a screenwriting book I once read said, You must save the cat!

We've lost two wonderful writers in the last week, Adrienne Rich and Harry Crews. I can't imagine two more different people, but I read them both religiously and loved Rich's poetry and Harry Crews' macabre sense of humor. Check out Feast of Snakes -- it's awesome! Hope everyone is hanging in there. The new age types tell me we are in a difficult cycle. I wouldn't doubt it. Stay safe and more soon!

Hi readers! I'm still writing blogs, albeit somewhat sporadically. I've got a big project that is eating up a lot of my time (trying my hand at a new novel -- wish me luck). I enjoy all the short forms, but I've been working hard on plot and want to do something new that challenges me.

In much more important news, please send lots of healing thoughts to Lana and Charles Gramlich, both bloggers, artists, and writers I respect and adore. Lana was recently diagnosed with throat cancer. She's a wonderful visual artist (both painting and photography) and you can check out her work on the link to The Dreaming Tree. Sending lots of love to both her and Charles.

Happy St. Patrick's Day

Hey guys, Happy St. Patrick's Day! Hope everyone is having a great day. Baby Grouchie plans on having a green beer, but just one since his time in Promises. My drink for today comes from my dear friend Angela . . . enjoy!

Black Velvet
1/2 Champagne
1/2 Guinness

Cave Full Of Ghosts

Well, dear readers, it's March! We made it through the collective terror of February. And now what awaits -- St. Patrick's Day and the beginning of spring. A few things about which to be excited --

The return of Mad Men. Don Draper comes back to the screen. Last we saw, he was engaged to his young secretary, the strains of Sonny and Cher playing as Don looked positively befuddled and disturbed by his alarming quick engagement and said secretary peacefully asleep. Joan is with child (albeit not her husband's -- let's hope he can't count when he returns from his tour of duty), and Betty unhappy with her new husband who has realized that despite her incredible beauty, she's an evil harpy who can't be pleased. Bring on the drinks!

The new Billy Bob Thorton memoir, Cave Full Of Ghosts. Co-written by the always brilliant Kinky Friendman (my favorite of his songs being the one about Charles Whitman -- There was a rumor about a tumor/ nestled in the base of his brain). The foreword is written by Billy Bob's ex-wife Angelina and the book promises to explore Billy Bob's poor southern gothic childhood and weird phobias. What more could a reader want?

Cheryl Stray's new memoir, Wild. Love her essays in Best American Essays over the years. Honest and searing and completely disturbing in the best way, the book tracks Stray's long hiking journey across the Pacific Trail. Can't wait to see how she takes the reader through her paces.

The Streets Of Philadelphia

Ten years ago, my dear friend, Hank D. Ballenger, pen name Dr. E. Amer died in a hospital room in Philadelphia. Unlike those old Medical Alert commercials, he'd fallen and he did get up, just not for very long. Felled by black ice and a banana or orange peel (his poor sight made it impossible to identify the evil object), he carried for a few days with a leg broken in several places. This happened despite his reassurances to me that a fall would never hurt him. He wrote this in a letter a couple of years before the fall. Could he have known on some level? It seemed to me from a very young age he always knew everything.

At least he knew a lot of stuff before I did. He was always ahead of the curve, telling everyone about the latest writer, music, or newest gadget. He could quote reams of poetry. He held diverse social groups together. He played guitar and practiced Akido. He even fenced. While I spent hours listening to Simon and Garfunkel's "Richard Corey" in a vain attempt to pull depth from the lyrics, Hank translated the Ovid. Effortlessly cool in the way that people who don't give a shit about being cool or how others see them, he had a wicked sense of humor. Did he have flaws? The dead often don't. Hank did. He had many of what he referred to as "blind spots." When a blind man tells you about his blind spots, it's both funny and true. At this point, Hank himself would instruct the readers to do self-service humor and make up their own jokes. He loved the wrong women or the right women at the wrong time. He had a temper, a righteous anger, and could hold a grudge longer than the IRA. He ate too many meals that were listed under the scary words, Value Menu.

But these flaws were ever so minor. Ten years after his death, he still remains my Virgil, leading me through this crazy, beautiful, difficult world. Especially during dark times, I look to Hank for a sign of how to proceed. Hank would laugh at this tendency and say, You're counting on a blind man to lead you through darkness? But yes, I am. Who better to know what to expect?

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"I seldom recognize an opportunity until it has ceased to be one." Mark Twain

Cocktail Hour
Documentary suggestion: Dig

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Tuesday!

Happy Valentine's Day!

I Will Always Love You

Another sad day in the always tough month of February with the death of Whitney Houston. I never thought too much about her music one way or the other, but I remember having debates over the song "I Will Always Love You." Dolly Parton sang the original, but Whitney's version became incredibly popular in the nineties. I always stuck by my feeling that Dolly's version was the best, but my friend Hank disagreed, much to my surprise. "I prefer Whitney's. It doesn't make you feel like taking out the razorblades." In this assessment, I had to agree. Whitney managed to take this terribly sad ballad to lost love and make it seem hopeful, rather than tragic. Dolly's verison evoked the trauma of always loving someone whereas Whitney's interpretation gave room for hope. Maybe it wasn't so awful to have that spot in your heart for someone. Dolly made it the listener feel as if she didn't have a choice -- that's the purity of Dolly. But Whitney makes the listener feel as if it's okay to always love someone, that it might be a good thing.

Now Whitney has passed, much earlier than anyone might have guessed, even with her array of personal demons. She started as a beautiful cheerleader type of singer, a singer who could just get so emotional, baby and lead us into happy worlds of pop joy. But as time passed, we saw Whitney struggle with the vices that grip so many -- drugs, alcohol, difficult love. We saw her transform into what the kids call a hot mess. And still, she was beautiful with the voice that nobody could quite replicate. Alas, rest in peace, dear Whitney, the neon-colored outfits that marked your best years, your prime, the one where you will always love and be loved.

Don Cornelius -- The Hippest Train In Town

Rest in peace to the wonderful Don Cornelius -- creator of my favorite show of my entire childhood! This is a sad, sad day.  I'll be writing more about the wonderful Mr. Cornelius later today!

The End Is Near

Heidi Klum and Seal have decided to divorce. What can this possibly mean, what with their annual renewal of vows and constant talk of a super hot sex life? It can mean that showing the flag means the ship is in danger of sinking. Like the Titanic or that new Italian cruise ship. Like a punctured water wing. I know. I've showed the flag. Once. My early brief marriage was failing, failing, failing. It was once upon a time, many years ago. We didn't have four children, multiple houses, or extravagant Halloween parties. Okay, we did have Halloween parties in July in our two room apartment with decorations that I couldn't really afford from Michael's. I mean, I overspent to the tune of about twenty two dollars. This was in the 90s when twenty two dollars really meant something. But I digress. We, my ex-husband and I, were on the brink of splitsville. So I put a picture of us posed at a party on my desk at work. We looked good, perfect in fact. We smiled, all dressed in our party clothes. Dear gentle reader, I was wearing pearls. God help us all.

So the picture in a cheap frame from Pier One sat in view of all. My soon to be major ex-boyfriend (then only the wacky guy who had an office across from mine) put a post-it note on the picture that read "Quit flaunting your happy little love affair. It depresses the rest of us." This made me laugh so I kept the post-it note on the picture. It covered up our faces and made me feel oddly sane. My friend Hank grunted when he saw the picture and said, "The end is near." Hank, that motherfucker, could see some shit like an ancient Greek oracle. He was legally blind which makes the above sentence all the more strange and true. By the summer, his prediction had come to pass, and the picture went into the drawer along with the post-it note, a modern art statement. Hank always said when someone was really adamant about something, "Who are you trying to convince?" which is something I always consider. Unlike many internet commenters who act as if the Heidi/Seal break-up is shocking, I don't think so. Most people barely survive one wedding, much less annual vow renewals. And if you have to keep saying it, well, I channel my favorite Mineral Wells oracle -- who are you trying to convince?

Installation Continues In The Next Room

The new year has begun in earnest. The Mayan calendar suggests this could be it, so I'd better get to work in doing whatever I need to do to as the great Tim Gunn says, to make it work. I just read my dear friend Laura's blog on her new year's resolutions (check it out -- http://laurabenedict.blogspot.com/) and got inspired in terms of thinking about change. Now I've always contended that change is difficult, Paul on the road to Damascus type stuff. The fact that the Bible itself posits change as a miracle gives me pause. Even so, I can say that time itself has changed me. Best changes over the last decade -- less worry, less guilt, better health habits, less concern over what people think about me. The last one is a great liberation. As Ray Drecker said on the great (now cancelled -- WAAH) Hung, "When you're young, you spend all your time worrying about what other people think about you. That's the great thing about getting older. You don't care what other people think about you. Fuck that. It's what you think of yourself that matters."

I used to be so afraid of looking stupid it was hard to actually learn anything. Do you know what I mean? I fooled myself into thinking I knew more than I did, that shallow knowledge was good enough, that if I admitted how little I understood about how certain things worked, I'd look foolish. Waste. Of. Time. Epic waste of time. Death to good writing. Now I start at the beginning. Beginnings are good. And you can begin anywhere. So this year I give myself permission to look stupid. I do it anyway so I might as well enjoy it. And I think I might actually get somewhere.

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Wednesday!

The New Year

My mother took down the Christmas tree every year on December 26th, early in the morning and spent the rest of the day eradicating any sign of the holidays. I've kind of inherited this way of being, but this year, I've been reluctant to let the holidays go. I formed a half-baked theory about this phenomenon which goes something like this -- when I've had a rough year, I get rid of the holiday stuff as soon as possible, start with the calendars and planning and make the Carver line (This time, next year, things will be better) my mantra. When I've had a pretty good year, I'm not as eager to be done with it. So by those signifiers, 2011 was a pretty good year.

I've always kind of hated New Year's Eve, but I didn't this year, another good sign. At the strike of midnight, I took to heart the feng-shui tip of saying something you want to usher in the new year, you know, the generic blessings of good health, money, love, and for us writers, publications! I felt strangely hopeful for someone who published two books about death, rape, incest, and other less cheerful subjects last year. I remembered my first New Year's Eve in Detroit, when I heard the guns going off all around me at the strike of midnight. I didn't know that happened, so it was quite a shock as I spent the night alphabetizing my books in the midst of periodic gunfire. I knew something was happening, but I didn't know what, just like now, but I'm a lot more comfortable with that emotion.

Cocktail Hour
Movie suggestion: The Descendants

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Thursday!

Merry Christmas Eve!

Merry Christmas Eve to you and yours! 2011 has been quite a year, but here we are at the end of it. Hope all my dearest are having a wonderful day and sending lots of love to you all! XO, Michelle

Loading Mercury With A Pitchfork -- A Review Of Young Adult

Young Adult, starring Charlize Theron and Patton Oswalt, is the best movie I've seen in some time. Written by the fantastic Diablo Cody, Young Adult follows the ill-conceived plan of Mavis Gary to return to her hometown of Mercury, Minnesota to regain the love of her old high school flame shortly after receiving a birth announcement telegraphing his happy life with his wife and infant daughter. She's a ghost writer of young adult novels, a series about the most popular girl in school, but more importantly, she's a stunted alcoholic that spends her days in a hungover stupor and her nights in a haze. It's hard to make Charlize Theron ugly, but she manages to pull off the morning after many too many with just the right details -- guzzling Diet Coke, ignoring her tiny little dog, watching reality television. The movie makes no judgement on her lifestyle, but presents her as is, a lonely woman on the verge of forty who doesn't play nice with others or herself.

Upon her return to Mercury (she lives in Minneapolis, presented as the big glamorous city), she runs into an old high school acquaintance, Matt, who was the victim of a brutal beating in high school for his perceived homosexuality (he's not gay, hence the dying of interest in this hate crime) and recognizes her soul sickness as a fellow traveler in the margins. He serves as witness to her crash and burn in her pursuit of her old love and provides a soft landing spot for her pain. We see his acerbic kindness as she does -- an antidote to the brutality she inflicts. Unlike Matt, life hasn't forced her to live with her pain so she develops a massive addiction to anesthetize it. We end with Mavis finding no easy answers, no reform, no moment of hope. Instead, she finishes the final book in her series, a voiceover that gives a sense of a new beginning. But Mavis is twenty years out from high school. She's at a crossroads of her professional life, but without the hope of turnaround. But it's not bleak either -- she's been given a view of her past through various lenses (the most affirming to her is Matt's sister who glamorizes Mavis' life much like reality television gives a viewer a glimpse into the stars' "real lives") and allows her to leave feeling good. It's not what we or even she knows of her actual existence, but this pretty mirror gives Mavis the courage to continue, a great insight into the way life is right now -- if it looks good to others, it's fine. We need not worry about the actual in our virtual age. We know ourselves through how we appear to others, through a glass darkly, a dynamic Mavis knows a little too well.

Benedictions and Maledictions
Yes, Heff -- Hung is cancelled and I am weeping! I can't believe it. Why, oh why? (rending hair right now). Enlightened is still here, thank goodness, but why did they take away Ray and Tanya? Sadness. Sigh. Blah.