Verb.

I have shit to do.

Michele is a verb.A doing word.

The minute that I get the right tools together to construct a list my brain goes as blank as a wall.

Picture a balloon animal in the Macy’s parade deflating while red nosed children howl in terror below,a candle being snuffed out,flooding the engine because the car won’t start,static rolling drunk on a TV set in an empty room that smells of loneliness,mildew and burnt nachos. My brain is Swiss cheese and thinks of nothing but chord progressions that need mastering,my lost ones,the ones I love who don’t love me or themselves for that matter,my shitty vanity and nasty narcissism and running from adulthood like someone lit my feet on fire and my ass is starting to catch.

Pen in hand,paper before me and duhhhhhhhhhhh.….Not an interesting wall covered in priceless Keith Harrings or Andy Warhol’s either.Oh no. More along the lithium lines of a wall at Bellevue psychiatric hospital,splattered with crazy persons fecal matter,a sponge painted feature wall in a bogans living room complete with a huge print of a frangipani. Elvis,I feel nauseous. Or,even better, I write the list half asleep with my eye mask still on and upon awakening it looks like a first year psychology students attempt at avant garde poetry.

Barf.

I have to go out there.To do things that must be done.

Shit.

Hence the absolute abortion of an attempt at making a list

I wake up at six am and try to get back to sleep.No joy.I was dreaming that I was having lunch in a low end  Texan strip-club with the actress who played Beth in the timeless 80’s film classic “Better off dead” staring the ever lust worthy and forever fatally cool John Cusack. ( “Sorry your mom blew up Ricky.”)

That vacation is becoming more necessary by the day.I am addled.

Onto red-bull number two and dreading wading through the rain and the ugly-as-fuck day dwellers to achieve all my missions in civilian meantime  today.I am guessing that my higher self,my delightful evil half will chose to reward me with a large bottle of perfume for surviving my mission so it will be worth it.Shoes are never nor will they ever will be out of the question either,I want,nay,need to be compensated for my suffering.

Lilli busted me lugging huge stacks of books out of my room this morning and piling them all over the place,literary jenga towers.”I am looking for my floor” I mewled looking most fetching in my bright blue silk kimono,Twisted sister Tee shirt and a pair of new,well ,new for moi but inherited from Miss Nina ,black terry toweling hot pants complete with drawstring sides.Score!

“Fair enough” she muttered darkly,her red hair sleep-tossed and urgent and went to have a shower.

So much for laundry.

I figure if I hit all my marks nice and early I will be able to come home and pass out all afternoon then spend all night up and writing.

I can’t imagine living by the constraints of other people’s time management. Being told what to do and when to do it.Slow suicide with a meager wage? I think bloody buggery not.It would confound and then destroy me.I wouldn’t last a day.I get cramps just thinking about it.I have been carousing round the world like a Sinatra happy retiree since I absconded from the nest at a drastically non legal age complete with a song in my heart and my head up my ass.( In the year of our Lord1712 fact fans)

I have no idea what anyone else was aspiring to be at that rather tender time and age but I was living in a 6th floor cold water walk up garret on Crown street,chain smoking Marlboro’s and  imagining that Truman Capote would think I was a bonafide heroine,that he would write slow southern tales about me. Signed to a monster modeling agency that did not have the slightest clue what to do with me and my non-salable -but- oh– so -intriguing look,I starved and went on many,many castings where then ,as now and always,I was the most unusual creature in the room.

So I got a fake id and went to work in a bar.

Unusual is great,make no mistake but it did not feel like a blessing at 15.North shore blonds abounded and I wanted to be Beatrice Dalle. It was doomed from the start. Predators,perverts and pederasts made big eyes at me, got me high,fed and watered.I took what they offered and turned on my heel and sauntered away.God looks after drunks and children,both categories that I happened to fit. I danced all night,took leave of my scant senses like a baby of Bacchus beneath an air conditioning duct in my favorite club while free drinks made their much appreciated way across the bar.I flew over the city.I hid behind the music and the make up.

Who ever said it was right.You can never go home again.

Everyone else, as far as I can recall ,were busy finishing high school, doing accounting courses or childcare diplomas while I slept the clammy days away in a nest of foam mattresses and quilts in the dormer beneath one of my two windows.The other had a sink in it that I would pee in rather than leg it down four flights of dark stairs due to the junkies stealing the light-bulbs,to use the rank communal bathrooms.

I played the Spanish guitar that had belonged to my dead aunt  and ignored my bitter booker when she called me to go for jobs I knew I would not land in a month of sundays.Rising again in the twilight after long nights of voyeurism and being a brat as only a fifteen year old can be .I spent hours watching drag queens fall down the stairs at the taxi club.

And that is that.

Still considering selling a kidney to fund a trip home to California. In that tender moment between asleep and awake I think that I am going to wake up on the floor next to Leizel’s drum-kit with my hound snoring and farting contentedly on top of me. I miss my friends. I really do.First and foremost this album must get done so I have something to present on my travels. I would tell you the name of the platter ahead of time but I know that some knob would steal it so my lips remain sealed.

Miss Ashley bird,milliner to moi, is letting the white tiger and I shoot all of her stunning creations so so I must channel Lisa Fossingrives-Penn and think of swan-like necks , projecting  my bones and lashings of snotty hauteur.All in deep black and white naturally.

Oh quel moody!

I cried outside of a rockabilly store yesterday.Sobbed. The poster in the window informing my disbelieving eyes that the one and only Roky Erickson is coming to Sydney.The gay James Dean-esque shop assistant minced out of the shop and gave me a tissue,bless his Levi 501 clad self. Just when faith is running oh-so-low Elvis sends me a sign to keep going.ROKY!!!!! I am going to be a mess.I just know it.Waterproof mascara that night. Ah, the sounds that tie you back to what you wasted your love on until you plum ran out. Time flees but the scars still itch like a bitch.

Viva la solo album Miss M….

I have eleven smashing songs done so far.I change the music every time I play them though,not real promising but they will settle soon enough.Going to air a few new ones at the next show.I think that I will keep to myself this Big Day Out. Unless one of my angels sees fit to bestow laminates upon my hallowed head it is just not going to happen.And that is ok.I am planning on my new band being on it sooner rather than later.

Looks like my fine feline self will be surfing the waves of what was and now is again with my dear Miss Emma .Soundgarden it is then.

Training is going well.Lots of clean eating and enough sit ups to twist me so hard I could shit a croissant.I have to be up to run again in what feels like five fucking minutes.I have pictures of the Victoria’s secret Angels next to my shrine of Iggy Pop featuring a red votive candle,the bass tablature for “Dirt” and that black and white picture of him with his nob out. Lean and mean is the order of the day and much like Sir Henry of Rollins ,my will is iron.

So there.

Anyway…..

Who needs a list when you have a gun?