Wait.

I want answers.I want to hear your voice.I want to touch base.

My twin,my lost boy.We are the same animal…..

Patience is deaths waiting room and my oft abused heart is doing a shifty red-bull assisted two step every time my old Nokia lights up.

(the picture that comes up as my screen saver is us post-fuck and happy i rub salt in my own wounds i am down with self sufficiency)

I lose my shit on stage.( C’mon down and watch little-Shelly-car-crash!) I fucked up my favorite Johnny Cash song with a  pitiful lovelorn rambling introduction that culminated in me begging the audience for their prayers on the 13th.The thought that I will never see you again chills me to my worm riddled core.I’m finding it mighty hard to get on with anything not hearing from you my adored felon.So I wait for smoke signals and I pray to my beloved and all powerful Elvis that you are ok.

My shaken soul feels like something feral and sharp clawed has been using it as a litter box.I dream of my wayward friends with their gangster lovers.Human pincushions,homeless and careless.The ones who throw themselves away on cheap whores and ram raided doors.The democracy of desert bleached degenerates and long time losers.I search for clues and sleep as much as I can.Dreams are gold dipped and populated with the conversations that I am not privy to in my waking hours.

Sad isn’t it?

I am far too awake and not sure what I am trying to impart.If I am writing I am not attempting to chew my fingertips off? That will do….I need them to play my craptacular guitar for the next five weeks at my rather splendid residency.Any excuse to get to play with my big brother.He is the real reason that I took the shows.I don’t have an album to push or promote,I have never really been that good at this to tell the truth but when I think of all the people who didn’t stick around after I played to listen to him at a show we did together not so long ago my pitch black blood boils.How dare these cock-sucking hipster fucks disrespect a national treasure! Half ,if not more of the filthy upstart musician’s that I know would not have even considered being in a band with out The Hard-ons leading the flannel clad way.

Fuck that.

If this forces people to listen then this is what must be done.

The 1st show on Wednesday night was magic.

Clad in 15 miserable pounds of excess weight ,camouflaged under a ton of dirty hair and my Gram Parsons tee shirt profanity laden entertainment was delivered to a cosily full room of reprobates.Like I said,magic.If you were there this is no surprise to you.Candles and Easter eggs everywhere and due to Keish throwing down the gauntlet with Led Zeppelin’s (“Does anyone remember laughter?) “Immigrant song” (and bare in mind that this was acoustic) I ended my shabby set with “Stuck in the middle with you” by Steeler’s Wheel.I know,I know ok?….don’t say it…..

I am very grateful to all my friends for chipping in and helping me make this fiasco tangible week in and week out.From Miss Lilli constructing flyer’s and ruling my FB profile to Miss Emma setting up a You Tube channel under the name of “Whitetrashcowgirl” (Tres-of fucking-course) Then you have my great mate Rickards from the punk rock upstarts Skinpin picking me up from my suburban squallor loaded down with disco balls,fabric and other miscellany armed with naught but a fully loaded staple gun and a dream….

Its not a bad way to spend a Wednesday night……

I just have to hold myself together.Sly and the Family Stone doing “Que Sera Sera” sent me howling to my messy bed for an hour today sobbing my baby blues almost clean out of my skull.Oh me and him….I’m so logical and cold but when I think of such matters of heart thumping panty wetting greatness? Well, I adhere to fate.I can see my therapists hand just itching to peg the stapler at my head when I voice such ungrounded-in-science-and-safety opinions.I cant fucking help it.You know when some one is an utter fuck-wit but their your utter fuck-wit? Yeah? Well ,welcome to my world.

Its oh so teen-aged but its just so damn nice when someone who makes your pussy spit like a camel “Gets you” You know,speaks your language and turns your crank? I know that you know so wipe that look off your face and hand yourself over to the best feeling that there is…(sigh,sigh,sigh).I have been reassured that this can happen more than once in a cowgirl’s life but truth be told? I ain’t holding out much hope on that front.One rather stunning man went to great flirtatious pains to tell me over many moon mauled hours that he, among others apparently, appreciated my Amazonian paint peeling hotness and great taste in boots.”Like you?” I meekly peeped “Yes, just like me ” he growled eying off my knee high brown leather stack heeled numbers . I nearly passed out with gratitude,long latent horniness and fear as we spoke late into the wee hours about how he could not  “Handle a girl like you Michele…” all the while looking like he wanted to lick me till I shivered with Bon Scott and co wailing in the background.

That kinda sucked but anyway…..

This is a muy shitty reoccurring theme.Not that I was ready in any way shape or form to be *ahem* “Handled” but gee wiz! Should I join a nunnery equipped with a jam room and a recording studio? …..

No point pondering all that rubbish right now.I am booked solid for shows all the way into July and I have an album to write and hopefully make at the same time.Cant wait to see Marcus next week.Not only do I get to watch him play but we get to bang on endlessly about our band post show! Yes! I’m thinking of selling a kidney to get my new bass rig.I am all in favor of taking fiscal donations so if you come to a show you are spending your money on me not having to go under the knife and another new scar for my collection.

Its coming up to 5am and another 24 hours has rolled over and still I get no word from the coast. Wrote a song that I want to do this week but I think that it will end up a St Cecilia track.Its called “Indio” and I would give it to Lannigan to sing in a heartbeat.I keep crying when I try to do it so if I get to play bass and give it to Marcus to sing I’m safe. At least then I can hide behind my hair and remember sitting by Dee-Dee’s grave and having my hand held and neck kissed.

I remember everything.The writers curse.

A friend sent me a great picture of my lost-boy rocking out shirtless on stage somewhere in Europe-land and there is my name carved into his arm for all time.He sent me a picture of the same ink a while back.”We are stuck together” it read. “No shit Sherlock” I thought smiling to myself and looked down at the stitches that adorn both of our wrists no matter how far apart and for how long.That is something that no one can come between and although separated by distance and circumstance?

We are still us.

Read it and weep.

Back on the door tomorrow night with a fist full of flyer’s and a mission to covert my infants to the glory of mid-week rock.

As for dispatches from Lotus-land borne on the Santa Ana winds to curl at my feet after their million mile journey?

I can wait.

Just watch me.