I feel naked as well: naked and empty. My mom thinks it has something to do with the fact that I'm writing about some painful experiences and sharing them on the internet, hence the naked feeling. She believes the feeling of emptiness is due to releasing some of these past hurts through writing. The idea is that if you walk around long enough with certain feelings, no matter how unfortunate they may be, they become part of you, and working through them can leave you with the feeling that something is missing. It makes sense to me. So, in an effort to feel less empty, I'm going to try to accumulate more painful shit. (Just kidding.)

I wonder how long it will last, this emptiness. I was just informed by my partner in crime that in a couple of days we are going to catch all the latest freaky-ass scary forget-all-your-problems movies out in theatres at the moment. And I had that feeling of looking forward, so things are already less gloomy. Two nights ago my friend dreamed we were on the beach and I was luminously happy, frolicking in the translucent turquoise water. We were celebrating the book I had written. Last night, My Love dreamed we were out celebrating with a bunch of people the success of my book, and I was glowing with happiness. I need to stuff these futures into my noggin at once. And write that book.

I hope my words come back soon. Every sentence is a chore at this point. I hate when this happens. I fumble for words and often don't even remember their meanings. My thoughts feel like blobs of dust in my eyes. Well, there's some drama for you. You should have seen the shit I was attempting to write the other day: that entry would have come equipped with razor blades or hemlock tea—your choice, of course.

How about a list? Lists are always good. Here's a list of some stuff I love.

I love...

• toasted marshmallows

• the way some cats rise up on their hind legs to meet your hand with their head, like little bucking ponies

• Ron Sexsmith

• curly hair

• the moon

• that I will never know everything

• the piano

• not being a kiss-ass

• the way the pavement smells after the rain

• freakishly soft white pajamas 

• when my hair looks good

• lip balm

• Nina Hagen gigs

• Carson McCullers

• cats

• 80s movies

• making up character names

• black and white movies (I find them comforting)

• Pippi Longstocking (even though as a child I always had the stomach flu when those movies aired—those and Pinocchio In Outer Space)

• skeleton keys

• dragonflies 

• frogs

• Dorothy Parker

• Saturday mornings

• tits (assorted)

• integrity

• laugh lines

• my butt

• when Bette Midler sings high notes (I can't explain this)

• candles of the unscented variety, because the really smelly kind are just wrong on too many levels to count or mention

• stones and crystals

• incense (the good shit)

• shrimp cocktail  

• Cassiopeia

• the night sky

• the sound of tap dancing

• the artwork of M. C. Escher

• the painting "Night and Her Train of Stars" by Edward R. Hughes

• conversations I never want to end

• lightning

• tribal drums

• that rare sensation in bed where it feels like I'm melting into the mattress due to some intoxicating level of comfort

• dreadlocks 

• this rubber policeman I used to carry with me in my pocket to protect me when I was a little girl (I shall devote more time to this wonderful rubber man at a later date)

• homemade cake 

• the song "The Night the Lights Went Out In Georgia" sung by Vicki Lawrence of The Carol Burnett Show fame.

• not having heartburn

• creativity 

• mangos and papayas

• the idea of ghosts

• the movie Lust In the Dust 

• the name Sipsey

• slow cookers

• the words tapestry, fruition, and harbinger

• Sandy Dennis and her toothy smile

• Madeline Kahn

• watching cats wash their faces

• Photoshop

• Newcastle Brown Ale

• the creaky, squeaky sounds of the interior of my dad's old Peugot

• kindness as opposed to niceness

• IKEA

• rendering idiots speechless

• a firm (but not bone-crunching) handshake

• cilantro

• scarves

• every shade of blue

• Claude Debussy

• Miles Davis

• tea parties

• reading in bed

• succulent plants

• good manners 

• Roald Dahl

• rocking chairs

• dreaming about UFOs

• flying in my dreams 

• dark chocolate

• cello and violin music

• Carole King's smile/voice/music/attitude

• Gilda Radner

• washable pillows

• Albert Einstein 

• having plenty of Kleenex

• having plenty of toilet paper

• having plenty of everything necessary

• Fannie Flagg (in my opinion, one of the most imaginative storytellers ever)

• dancing (when no one is looking)

• taking walks

• bare trees 

• watching doves through the window, imagining how soft they must be to the touch

• gum

• olives

• pickles

• Volkswagen Buses

• making lists

• the Oxford dictionaries

• being different

• talking in crazy accents

• people-watching

• Schoolhouse Rock

• rain

• Tin Pan Alley music

• popcorn

• vintage handbags

• detective work

• responding with this when certain emails don't deserve a proper reply: "Hi! I'm Suzie Slammerton and I sell cupcakes by the seashore!"

And that's just for starters.

Well, holy fuckout. When I went to the IMDb to make sure I was spelling Carol Burnett's name properly, there was a story on the front page about Stockard Channing being arrested for drunk driving. I don't know what the laws are these days, but I'm guessing one glass of wine would put a petite woman over the limit. It's weird to find that story, because earlier today I thought about mentioning the time Stockard Channing came to one of my gigs.

I saw the movie Grease when I was a kid, and unlike my friends, didn't think the movie was all that fabulous back then. I couldn't figure out for the life of me why Sandy still wanted Danny after he treated her like a three-week-old sandwich. But the movie had some redeeming qualities, one being that it contained the adorable, feisty Rizzo, who really sort of rocked the Casbah. She had the best song in the whole movie too. From that day forward I was a Stockard Channing fan.

So, you can imagine how bloody thrilled I was to discover her in the audience at one of my shows. Rizzo, man—dig it. She and her two male companions wandered in from the restaurant part of the club, sat at a table and stayed for the entire show. Afterward, she told me how much she enjoyed my performance and wished me luck. Yay!

Earlier today, something reminded me of the time my parents left me for dead. We were in Arizona visiting my mom's side of the family, and one blisteringly hot day (a rare occurrence in the desert) my parents had plans to go someplace with my grandparents, aunt, and uncle. But what to do with the girls? My sister and I clearly would have been tagalongs on this journey, so we were to be disposed of somewhere, which ended up being a daycare brought to my parents' attention by my aunt. I begged my mom to take us with her, but it was as though she had fallen under my aunt's spell: Take the little bitches to the witch's castle and be done with them!  

OK, so here's the thing: I was a seriously sensitive child. I had an ongoing fear that my parents would die or abandon me. I didn't sleep at other kids' houses due to these fears (I got over that eventually, thanks to my cherished friend Suzie and the insane amount of fun we used to have when we had sleepovers). So, the idea of going to that place for any amount of time sent me into a panic.

The daycare ladies were nice as hell in front of my mom and dad. I have to mention that I had no fucking idea my parents were ever coming back to collect us. My fear of abandonment seemed on the brink of realization. I couldn't believe my mom was leaving us there; she had never done anything like that. As soon as their car pulled away, those ladies turned into Queens of the Twat Parade.

My sister could not stay with me because she was slightly younger. She was carted off to another wing of the nasty castle. She did not share my fears: I think she actually enjoyed her stay. I remember one of the hags grabbing me tightly by the wrist and giving it a good goddamn squeeze when I was trying to hold onto my sister's hand so we could stay together. I was escorted to the play yard, where kids who all seemed to know one another were running about, screeching and laughing. I stood alone leaning against a wall. Sad little fucker. I looked at the yard, the sandbox, the monkey bars, and wondered how many days or weeks or years I would have to look at these things. I couldn't imagine how those other kids could be so happy, having been abandoned.

Then it was naptime. Scary. I did not like to sleep anywhere near people I didn't know and love. I wasn't sleepy. I would never sleep and they could not make me. There were beds lining the walls, pushed up against each other. We were to lie on those beds and sleep. The window shades were drawn and the room was as dark as shaded daylight permits. We lay there for a while, a few of the children intentionally coughing, some snickering. The twatty castle witch queens were off somewhere, probably eating the real food that was intended for the kids, leaving the crap that was served later. One girl, obviously starting very young on her career in popularity, stood up and started jumping on her bed. Her skirt flew up, covering her face every time she descended. She wore a bandage on one of her scuffed up, dirty knees. I remember thinking this: She's the leader; I'll never be friends with her and I'll always be completely silent with no one to talk to. A boy followed her lead and began jumping on his bed, and soon others joined them. They whispered loudly as they jumped—breathy sentences flying through the air. I watched them from my horizontal position, thinking this is what I will see for the rest of my life.

And then it was time for lunch. I was seated next to a girl who was sensitive enough to feel my discomfort in being there. She told me it was OK, and asked me if I liked mushroom soup, because that's what we were having.

"I don't like it either," she said, "but it's all we're getting. You can pick them out like I do."

Some horrible hagcrap scolded me in front of the other little kids for not eating the soup. I'm pretty sure it was the same devil-slag who squeezed my wrist. I had never known mushrooms to play any part in soup and found the idea of it unsettling.

I am delighted to report that my parents did indeed come back that day to collect us. And, as angry as I was at them for leaving us there, I was the happiest girl in the world to see them. I was also happy to see my sister again, and glad she hadn't been eaten by one of the witches.

Quote From My World

We should just become perverts! You wanna?"

Well, I'm off to watch Grease and scold that bastard Danny for treating such a sweet babe like Sandy so badly. I shall enjoy Rizzo: dear, tough-mouthed Betty Rizzo. After I saw that movie for the first time as a kid, I wondered for days how the hell they were going to land that car and if they'd be killed in the process. Yes, I was a stress-free child.

Thanks for reading.

Linda