Mialoveshenrymiller – Letter 50 – Je T’aime Mon Amour, Henry Miller – Journeys and Mysteries
(This is the last letter in my first book of letters to Henry Miller)
I am writing this letter at 12/10/2012 at 3:06 PM
“One thing I learned as a writer,” I charged at Victor, “is to be unyielding true to myself and my characters. An author should write for his conscience alone with a sense of eternity, as if he were writing his testament. There will always be an audience—bigger than you think—for those you suggest I should suppress, the honest reader will appreciate me for.” – Corneliu Mitrache, A Marquise Of Our Time.
I apologize for not writing sooner, Henry. I have felt lost inside the metaphorical world of Dante’s Aligheri’s blazing Inferno. My inner demons have been nightmarish – my nights and days happened to be filled with heartache and intense headaches that made me feel dead to the world. I have felt this way for more than six months. This is why my letters to you are not consistent. I have roamed aimlessly through midnight dark, frightening forests and the poetic nine circles of Hell. I am now finding Dante’s Paradiso, slowly minute by minute and day by day. If I had the time to paint, I would create a portrait of the angel Beatrice, who would be guiding me out of my agonizing darkness. For many months, weeks, days and minutes, I refused to write to you until I had something worth writing about. I wanted to end this book with a positive ending.
After trying many headache medications, over the course of many months, I found one that would permit me to live a quality of life. It’s a seizure med that dulls my physical pain, keeping me feeling alert and non-foggy. If I remain active, I feel relief. My days are now filled with Tai Chi and physical therapy and multiple Tens Units glued and pulsing like electronic drums upon my body. My soul feels reawakened. I am happy and dancing burlesque again on Ground Zero Night Club’s stage. To me, it feels sensational to my mind, body and spirit. As long as I keep moving forward, I feel better, minute by minute. As long as I look towards the future, or simply remain quiet in the moment, instead of revisiting the past, I instinctively know that I will find more adventures and eroticism, moving onward and upward as I forge forward upon my path in life. I am fighting for life once again – this time with extreme determination and my utmost passion.
I never imagined writing this last letter to you would be so difficult. It is time for me to let you go for awhile, and move onward, step by step to finish this book. I still have much to do. Would you believe that this is the fourth attempt for me to compose this letter to you? It has been way to long since I last wrote to you. (My sincere apologies to my readers who follow this blog) I have missed you, Henry. After my sudden break up with Mr. B. – I have existed in a hopeless, dark and dreary season that lasted for many months, as if I lived in Seattle in the rain – I am grateful to have Mr. C to love me unconditionally and help me pick up the pieces after the break- up of a long, polyamorous love affair, and understand my bereavement.
Before I became so lost in the depths of the Inferno, Mr. C tugged me out of the darkness before I withered like a flower out of bloom. There was the point in my life, during the last few weeks of my utmost darkness, when I was attempting to fight my way out of Hell and push onward through Purgatory, when my husband demonstrated his genuine love for me.
He said with strength, love, confidence, conviction and understanding, “Enough Mia, you are no longer you. I love your passion to live. It is time for you to live your life with passion, once again. Move forward baby. Move forward. I want my Mia back.”
Prior to that specific moment in time, for many days and nights, I was plummeting into a dim, Aligherian world. My soul was tossed into the blazing Inferno, unexpectedly. There were many days of roaming in fear inside dark forests. I had to find my inner strength to slay my emotional and metaphorical demons. For over fifteen years, I have always tried to live my life to the fullest, regardless of what comes my way. I have never imagined to surrender to weakness because I had to overcome so many emotional dramas and obstacles that I have recently encountered, as I neared the end of writing this first collection of letters to you.
I have always imagined you, Henry Miller, fitting somewhere into my life as if it was destiny. I fantasized every moment of my waking day about writing this book of letters to you for more than one decade. I could not get you out of my blood, my mind, and from the depths of my soul. Regardless of what people may think of me as share my liberated experiences with the world, I honestly do not care. I had to write this book – I have been captivated by an erotic spell. I have greatly desired to write these honest and open letters to you about my amorous life, for a very long time. I have traveled with you, within my heart, soul and imagination for over a year now – writing and documenting my past and present memories, and telling you with written words about my provocative life, whenever I found the time. I wanted to fulfill your wish for letters which derive from pretty Asian woman.
Happy Belated Anniversary Henry! I started writing you letters on December 4th, 2011. That is when I began this blog. I was encouraged by my step daughter to start a blog and to write about what I know. Please pardon me from being so late to write to you my last letter in this book. I never believed that my past one year of writing fifty letters to you, would have me climbing large, metaphorical rocky mountains, lowering my soul into the depths of darkness and uncertainty. I have journeyed upon the paths of life’s unexplored valleys, and learned to walk peacefully on mid – level terrains. I have fallen in love with my unexpected dramas and the erotic escapades that I have explored and which I have experienced as I have lived my life as a strong, confident, liberated, and passionate woman. (We also have over ten thousand hits on our blog in just one year – I feel so lucky!)
I say (we) because it is what you have left behind in your enlightening literature, your sexual books, and your words written in letters to your friends around the world and America. You have inspired me to write these letters to you, about my dramatic life. Anais Nin was a great influence to me, as well as many other prolific authors. Thank you for being my muse and departing behind beautiful, wise written pages about your journeys, adventures, erotic escapades, your life’s mysteries, your knowledge and sharing your merry and bright mind, soul, and heart. I have learned so much from you, Henry Miller. I have fantasized for a long time that you and I would exchange our energy, knowledge, incite and erotogenic visions, choreographed with written words, from one cosmic plane to the other. What would living be like if we did not use our imaginations?
Your spirit often reminds me of a poem which I wrote a very long time ago. It reminds me of you, because your spirit is like wind. I can feel you, but I cannot see you. I hope that you will like it.
They Call Her Wind
She whistles when aurora crawls upon a pink horizon
She caresses when the night licks upon a starry eventide
Her airy kiss hithers when she dances passed Orion
An existence with a name
Yet, her presence hides.
She moves a tree’s leafy arms with her fluttered breath
She moves through my hair with a whirlwind breeze
She feeds the earth with Mother Nature’s Chinook breasts
She talks in whispers to the willow tree.
At times her temper rattles upon a window pane
Her anguish can scream upon vast prairie land
You cannot see her
Yet, you may feel her pain
They call her Wind
And she’ll touch you with a tempest hand.
You’ve never seen her
Yet you feel her near
Her breath touches you most of time
She’s an existence who has a name
But no face
To the eyes invisible
Yet, to the heart sublime. – Mia
I started reading another one of your books this morning while I was taking a long, hot bath, The Air Conditioned Nightmare. I am finished with CM’s book, A Marquise Of Our Time. The poor book appears abused, but remains close by me. I want to feel the energy of this author’s imagination and visually see how I devoured his story word for word.
I am at my artist loft, lavishing in silence and self reflection. I have been here for a couple of days. I fondly think of your past charisma, your wisdom, your bravery, and the acquiescing trust which you possessed when you and your artist friend, Abe Rattner, began your adventure upon the black tarry roads, barely knowing how to drive, with hardly any money in your shallow pockets, and daringly began your American Adventures. Your words are significant and profound to me. I can trust moving forward in life, even if I have no clue how I will make my dreams materialize. I just have to believe in my purpose and acquiesce to life as it moves so quickly forward. I will just do it and permit the Universe to find a way to give me what I require, in some kind of way via object, book, or a life experience. I might make a warm connection and absorb the knowledge which I learn from another person. A friendships might be bonded, if only for short moment. And, if I am aware enough, I might be capable of experiencing the love from another human being – and make a deep connection. I want to remain open to life and to whatever might cross my path as I move forward.
I find the beginning of your book intriguing and hypnotic. I crave to take a hot bath all day long, just so that I can enthrall myself into your story and rattling opinions. To me, your written words have a strong voice. Your words captivate my soul, mind and heart. I read about your bitter sweet moments, as I travel across America with you. Your words and phrases and long running paragraphs are full of passion, opinion and honesty. That is what I like most about your writing. I love how you openly love and you hate America. I get it. The United States are not perfect, but we do have our good moments and people. We are all not wasteful, egotistical idiots. Some of us do live life to the fullest. Mr. C and I are all about making our lives count. We don’t get much quality time for each other, yet we have the liberation to live our lives the way we were intended to live – happily, passionately, and intensely. We feel it is important to have purpose and love what you do in life – this is the only life you have at this particular moment in time.
I felt your panic as you wrote about how wanted to run away from your fears and flee to Paris once more – in a city that intoxicated you. I often loathe that state of Minnesota, especially the hard winters and I do love NYC, while you hated that city. We all see life differently. And if you step back far enough, you see everything as a Universal whole. I love much of the U.S. and I love to take road trips – especially with Mr. C. Where was your sense to let go and just enjoy your adventure, and view it like the artist you were? Henry, America may suck. But for me, it is better than living in the severity, control, hate and bitterness of North Korea. I love what I see, regardless of the ignorance of some people and how they see minorities. Every part of the world has its flaws and perfections. Every piece and imperfection fits somewhere upon an over sized piece of canvas. There are so many intricate sizes, shapes, forms, depths, shades, colors, and images artistically choreographed and created with great, human imagination. Where you see ugliness in America, I see things as they are, nothing more, nothing less. I see the beauty and the ugliness. We see it everywhere we travel. It is life and life is drama. I learn to love everything just the way it is, much like I view every kind of person.
I made the mistake of bringing a first edition of this book into the tub with me early this morning, as the sun was continuing to rising slowly upon the Midwestern sky…silly me….I won’t be ravishing the vintage book in the tub anymore. I found another used copy of, The Air Conditioned Nightmare, sitting upon my IKEA book shelf in my loft. It’s a book that I have permission to ravish, much like the younger gentleman from San Francisco, who erotically enraptured me for hours one winter evening in Downtown Minneapolis, many years ago, prior to giving me this book, and several others of your books, such as a First Edition copy of your book, Stand Still Like the Hummingbird, which he bought in a San Francisco book store, and then brought them to me in the Twin Cities, as gifts for me. I will tell you more about this intriguing, stimulating encounter in upcoming letters.
I have not told you yet, that Mr. C bought me one of your rare books about a month ago. It’s your book, “The Nightmare Notebook,” which is a book containing your notes before you wrote, The Air Conditioned Nightmare. I love it because only 700 copies exist. I always hunt for the HM books I don’t have. I am so delighted when I do find one that I don’t already possess. In your book, The Nightmare Notebook, many of your words are ineligible and written with sloppy, quick squiggled handwriting, much like my handwriting is, but there is a unique kind of energy to your book, when I hold it and delicately flip my fingertips through the vintage pages, trying to read a word, here and there, which you have scribbled down upon paper. My impressions and emotions in regards to your book are difficult to explain in words. It is a feeling – a nice, spine tingling sensation. I know that I will cherish it because it was the beginning to your American journey. I will also cherish it because it was a very romantic gesture from Mr. C.
I received your rare, limited edition book, as an anniversary gift from Mr. C. – the man whom I love deeply. I think my husband is charming, handsome, sound, serene, intelligent, charismatic, and a wonderful man, who loves me and would do anything for me to make me happy. I would gratefully do the same for him. To me, my husband seems to me to be simular to Anais Nin’s husband, Hugo. Mr. C has always been there for me, arriving right when I needed him the most, especially when a love affair with a rich, older man has abruptly ceased. It reminds me of the end of the erotic movie, by Phillip Kaufman, Henry and June. Only I don’t like to keep secrets from Mr. C. I openly write these letters as he remains alive. He gives me the greatest gift of all, love and liberation. I don’t require a large diamond ring. What Mr. C gives me is something that cannot be purchased with money, and I feel rich for the love and experience. We have never had a monogamous marriage. I have always been a free spirit. And, I truly believe that Mr. C genuinely loves me for who I am.
“Midway in our life’s journey, I went astray
From the straight road I woke to find myself
Alone in a dark wood, how shall I say
What would that was! I never saw so drear
So rank, so arduous a wilderness!
Its very memory gives a shape to fear
Death could scarce, be more bitter than that place!
But, since it came to good, I will recount
All that I found revealed there, by God’s grace.” – Dante’s Inferno, Canto I, lines one through nine.
I recently finished the remarkable book, A Marquis Of Our Time, by Corneliu Mitrache. I stretched out the last, several pages of his book for as long as I could confine my curiosity. I did not want his story to end. I adore his writing. I ravished his book as I took many hot baths at my loft, twice per day, for several weeks, to sooth my aching feet after long hours of dance rehearsals for my burlesque shows. The pages of CM’s book are badly water stained. I feel almost ashamed about how bad I ruined this author’s book. I could not help myself. I loved the words, the phrases, the paragraphs and the chapters. Everything that I loved in this book, are now underlined in ink. Even the front and back cover are severely curled. The book looks like an artistic mess. I call this piece, Ravished Upon Russian and Romanian Snow.
I want to tell you how this passionate author has been like my Virgil – a guide in my poetic world – my metaphorical pilot with written words, to fly me out of Hell. I felt CM’s spirit through his love story in Paris, as well as his prolific imagination. His phrases and poetic lines joined me on the river banks of Acheron, his Romanian heart and English words, leading me through the depths of darkness, fear, and fire. However, due to heartache, I departed for awhile, taking the dismal ferry alone. I paid my coin to Charon, floating and drifting in a foggy, painful existence, ignoring this author’s book for quite some time. I weakly gave into self-pity. I also felt too depressed to even send an email to my new, European, email friend. I will explain more about this gentleman who I met upon my journey, as I was writing my letters to you in the next book. I have met a wonderful friend as I journeyed with you over the past year. I am grateful. We have been communicating to each other via email for many months. He is also a writer like I am and loves the theater probably more than I do.
For many months, my soul was stuck in limbo, ignoring CM’s book as I continued to sulk in desperation and silence. On the evening when my husband spoke his amorous words to me, I found the inner strength to grip onto life once again, and to plant my feet steadily in the dark, moist dirt of the earth. I can recall falling deeper into the depths of Dante’s poetic world, and found a way to immerse myself in deep examination and self revelation. After my bereavement ceased from my parting from Mr. B, which lasted for too many months, I took a self-inventory of myself and decided to fight for life again. I did not want to live in the legendary Dante’s Inferno and poetic world any longer. I screamed and searched for a metaphorical escape. I picked up Corneliu Mitrache’s book once again and Virgil was at my side, leading me to the ninth circle of Hell – CM’s written words became my almighty sword to slay my inner-demons.
Here are the last emails Mr. B and I recently exchanged. We don’t communicate often. He cut me off like an opiate. I give you my sincerest apologies to you Henry and to my readers. I cannot expose everything in these emails. I need to keep the mystery in these letters.
December 6, 2012
Dear Mr. B.
Happy Holidays! I wish you another successful and happy year! I just wanted to let you know that I am feeling stronger and better every day. My headaches are subsiding. I am on a new medication that gives me a quality life that keeps me fairly pain free. My headaches are minimal if I keep active. I am eating again, trying to gain some weight. I am starting to feel like my darkness has ended and I am ready to kick ass on life and success.
Thank you so much for everything! You will always have a special place in my heart! Even though our ties are severed and our journey has ended.
I thank you so much for the wonderful, erotogenic excursion! I thank you for everything you have given and offered me. I thank you for loving me.
I had to mentally and emotionally say, “Goodbye,” to Mr. B, silently in my mind as I ended my email letter to him. Slow and salty tears dripped with melancholy down my cheeks and the muscles in my jaws unconsciously trembled, twitched and tensed. I could not get the muscles in my face to relax. I could not halt my fleeting thoughts and emotions. I had to find a way to surrender to the moment before a massive headache overwhelmed and exhausted me. I had to let it all go. I finally came to terms with that there would no longer be an affair with Mr. B.
Mr. B’s Reply, Dec 6, 2012
Hi, Mia —
Happy holidays to you! I’m so pleased you have found something that helps and you’re feeling stronger. That’s the most important thing.
Thank you to all that you gave to me. You will always be with me.
My life has changed a lot. My sex drive has plummeted, as has my ability to perform. I’m spending loads of time on work. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx, blah blah blah blah. But it’s good sweat.
I hope that you have a happy holiday season and get all of the success you deserve!
The charming father figure who I used to call, my Nabokov’s Humbert, had once filled my life with love and extreme eroticism. Our torrid love affair has slipped away like water slipping through my hands. It can never be re-lived. The story has ended. There is no sequel. It was a nice, long, adventurous journey with Mr B. It’s time that I put my passionate memories of our time together away, and tuck them deep inside a black velvet box. I will put it away for awhile on a cosmic shelf somewhere high in the Universe. After I put my love affair to rest, I found myself opening up like a flower in the early spring, welcoming the warmth and the sun. Soon, I became closer to my pen pal paramour. The hundreds of words, phrases, paragraphs and sentences which he and I have privately sent in emails somehow had awoken me and now I presently observe my life differently. I found myself purging some of my dark, childhood memories without an audience, to a man an ocean away. I was personally slaying the monsters and inner demons in Dante’s Hellish dimension, which poetically floats like a fictional star in space and time.
I knew by my pen pal paramour’s written replies, as I neared the end of CM’s book, that I needed to let go of everything that I could not control in my life. Once again Virgil, my guide in my Divine Comedy, was by my side, with the companionship of CM’s story and written words. I was nearing the end of a beautiful, bitter sweet, Romanian/Russian/Parisian love story. His dramatic characters walked with me as I struggled through the marshes of the River Styx. And they told me it was okay to let go and enjoy the bitter sweet in life. To view all the emotions of an intense love affair which has abruptly ceased, much like a chapter in a book or an unexpected ending. Basically, it has been said in many written novels and books that life is full of journeys and mysteries. CM’s bitter sweet, straight to the heart story was written by a virile man who has lived an amazing life. (his bio is quite astounding) I admire him, as well as his work. His charismatic story made me laugh, sigh and even cry, as I finished the very last page of, A Marquis Of Our Time. My journey with this author has ended. My journey across America with you Henry is a new beginning and another adventure.
I have been reigniting my love life with Mr. C. It feels good to occasionally fuck him and play our kinky, bondage games in the privacy of our loft! We sometimes spend our nights there, our soul – mate bodies wrapped tightly around each other, our hearts beating upon each other’s naked, heaving chests, after experiencing intense, sexual activity. And we still passionately embrace, after we have mind- blowing sex. I sleep in his arms all night long without four dogs to crowd us. Our sexual life continues to be amazing. I am grateful. I wish Mr. C and I had more time together. My husband is still very busy with work, helping to build a global company. I still have my loft in the city for the time being. It is my private tower full of paint, books, canvas’, brushes, and a myriad of glorious pieces of vibrant art work decorating many of my walls. And, I have my computer to use to write letters to you or do show business stuff, or to just watch a favorite movie. I also have an abundance of light – rays of sunshine glimmering through my large, picturesque windows and a warm, welcoming fireplace. Mr. C and I are only a few miles away from each other, as we each work throughout the day. On a warm day, I will sometimes walk to his office to surprise him. I’m looking forward to the light rail. I wonder when it will be finished?
I am unsure if we will renew our loft’s lease for another year. When I question Mr. C about it, he says with a smile in his eyes, “Mia, darling, I’m not saying at this point in time, that I want to give up the loft.” There is a small flutter of hope in my heart. There is a spark of happiness in my deep, chocolate brown eyes. I am savoring my pleasures of my loft, at this moment in time. It’s sinful! In this very minute, I am so happy! My future is a mystery as I continue forward with my life. I love mysteries and I love being married to my private gumshoe.
My artist loft is deeply loved; it’s my intimate love nest, my serene sanctuary, my own art space, a private place to share with my husband, or to possibly share with an intimate lover. It’s a place where I can bask in bright rays of sunlight. I am aware of the sounds of the city down below, which enlivens me like caffeine charging through my soul. My heart pounds hard for the future – as if a wild herd of buffalo charging over the Dakota Mountains.
We had an amazing burlesque show this past Friday Night – 12-7-12 – at Ground Zero Nightclub in NE Minneapolis. We had a high energy, appreciative crowd. THANKS TO ALL OF OUR BELOVED FANS! I love nights like this. Our show was full of entertaining talent and sizzling hot, sexy drama and passionate energy! I love that stage more than anything! I love the messy dressing room, the burly- girl drama, the hard work, the creativity and the amazing passion, which is produced onstage one time per month by a cast of many talents! I don’t have a car. I don’t go shopping. But, I have invested in an adventure. I have a story to tell. I have experienced producing a quality burlesque show on a large, familiar stage, which I had fantasized about for many years as I danced my nights away high on a catwalk inside Ground Zero Nightclub. I will not give up just yet. I look hopefully to the future that my show will continue on.
I wanted to share an email I sent to my pen pal paramour, after the show. I felt so high afterwards – I could not sleep. I had the incessant urge to write to my European confidante. Every performer appeared on top of their game, and a high profile, Twin Cities Entertainment Magazine, The City Pages, came to photograph behind the scenes of our show, as well as what was being performed on stage. They graciously exploited Dr. Farrago’s Burlesque Theater with a gorgeous internet slide show, compliments of RMD from B-Fresh Photography. It makes for a nice, happy ending to this book – a little taste of success can go a long ways. It is encouraging to me.
(To my readers of this blog – if you would like to see a slide show of our cast and Dr. Farrago’s Burlesque Theater show…Please check out this slide show. Photography done my RMD at B-Fresh Photography –
Dr. Farrago’s Burlesque Theater: Behind-the-Scenes [NSFW], 12/7/12 – Minneapolis – Slideshows
For MJ’s Milk -n- Glitter Number, which I am describing below in an email letter to my pen pal paramour, at 3:30 am, after I took a shower to remove the glitter and milk from my body)
MJ is quite the woman! I laugh and I’m entertained as she enters back stage, beautiful and larger than life. She brings a huge blow up; kiddie pool to the burlesque show last night, arriving after cast call, gives it to my stage managers and says, “Blow this up.” I can’t believe that several of the guys backstage accomplished this enormous task by the end of the night. MJ’s number was the last number on the show roster. She and HZ and CS, had performed the cutest number to the song, Coin Operated Boy, earlier in the show. I was highly entertained. It tickled me to see some of the performers in my old burlesque costumes, which I had passed down to some of the girls who I have known for a very long time. MJ’s last performance was the finale of our show. It took approximately three hours to blow up this inflatable, colorful, plastic pool by mouth and human breath. I felt sorry for the guys who worked so hard to please and assist her. However, her performances onstage tonight was memorable and astounding. No one really seemed to mind.
I admire how MJ is still so full of life. My eyes can never tire of her stoic and graceful performances. I love when she comes out on stage in a red Geisha robe and matching Asian parasol. My eyes drink her in deeply – she is sensuous, intoxicating and sizzling hot! Next, she undresses slowly and artistically. Her robe falls like a silk fountain to the floor. MJ is so bewitching as she dips herself gracefully and glamorously into the pool. She’s now very scantily clad in black and red, Asian lingerie. The crowd gasps as she finishes stripping. Their eyes are wide and their mouths are open, cheering or gasping. Some of the audience member’s are dropping their jaws, low and wide, because they are stuck in a state of awe. Neither the audience’s eyes nor mine could stop from staring as she elegantly poured vintage, glass bottles of creamy white milk down her body slowly and provocatively. MJ’s performance was flawless and entrancing. She appeared so sumptuous performing her Milk -n- Glitter number. I never tire seeing her perform this.
Suddenly, the crowd grows wild. A small crowd of happy people storm the front of the stage with tips of money waving in their titillated hands. MJ desperately wants to please them, but continues on with her dance – to remain in cue with her music. She has her own personal cues and her erotic music will end soon. The people near the stage are MJ’s friends and they stretch their bodies as far as they could, mid-stage. Anxious hands tug on the top of the colorful, kiddie – pool, which tips in their direction, splashing milk and saturating themselves and the Ground Zero stage. MJ is laughing and hooting and giving the people near the stage the attention they seek and taking the time to take their tips, as graciously as she can.
When MJ quickly escapes her fans and friends, she eventually gets the opportunity to finish her number. MJ dances and moves so lasciviously, pouring the remaining bottles of thick milk down her long, lean body. Soon, it began to shower sparkles which appeared to flit in the air around her luscious body like happy, tiny fire flies. A rain shower of sparkles poured over her glamorous, glimmering, wet, milk laden body, with a downfall of beautiful, shimmering, eye catching, gold glitter.
The music ends. Her number is not finished. I can see on her face that MJ is not happy. She is continuing onward with determination and disgust, pouring milk down her glossy black locks of glamorous hair. Milk is dripping quickly downward and blinding MJ’s eyes. Before she is completely canopied by what American Television ads and glossy, magazine ads portray as Milk – It Does a Body Good, she is glaring and snarling at the DJ booth hoping that they will re-start her music. I am on the catwalk, where I used to Go-Go dance, dangling my head downward and staring so hard in the direction of the DJ booth, hoping that they could telepathically hear my thoughts, “RESTART THE MUSIC!”
Somehow MJ finds the energy and her zone to get past having to do the rest of her number in silence. Suddenly, the roar of the crowd becomes her music and inspiration. She appears so sexy when she finishes with a big finale, pouring the last bit of glitter down her tall, elegant, stoic, long and lean body. The lighting is perfect! Thank you to the GZ crew and my show manager! I often think that the smoke machines smell gross, but the appearance of them appear as if come-hither like fog – as we all perform on stage. It adds a sense of mystery to our show. On this most recent show night, I thought MJ appeared so glamorous under the rays of well staged lighting and puffs of fake, chemical fog – the crowd grew so animated and enthralled!
When MJ’s act is finally finished, she is full of milk and glitter and she rubs her shimmering, wet body all over everyone who encounters her path, as she makes her way back stage, including my husband. She and he are close. I am okay with that. He is generally the first to be inflicted by Milk –n- Glitter by her, and he always loves it. He does not mind that he is now covered with an overload of gold sparkles, which plaster him from his black fedora, to his happy face, and upon his black leather coat. Mr. C does not even mind the small splashes of Milk –n- glitter upon his worn, black leather shoes.
When the show ended and I rushed offstage after curtain call, to remove the tables off the dance floor, run clear plastic cups, some still filled with melting ice, diluted liquor, and thin, colorful, plastic straws, to the bar. Rapidly, I was assisting my show staff with the large task of removing our red table cloths, which we have to pull quickly from each table. The red table clothes, which took Mr. C hours to launder while I rehearsed at the loft for several weeks. After cast call, I recall my mind and body rushing like a Greyhound dog chasing a mechanical rabbit around a race track. I was in such a hurry. I helped some faithful staff refold them, so that we put them away in a large storage container. The night club employees and the Farrago staff are often rushed after a show, removing the tables as rapidly as we can, so that the remaining guests can dance, until the night club closes. When I was done with clearing the floor and packing up my stuff, I practically crawled up the stage steps, entering the back stage area. My legs trembled as I descended the back stage, dressing room steps. I still had much to do. My night was not over and my mind was racing with my internal task list, which I need to remember in order to end my show and send my tired cast home.
Suddenly I was spellbound. Before I knew it I was trapped like a glamorous spider catches a vulnerable fly. I was hypnotized, strolling past MJ, who shimmered so brightly in gold glitter that it hurt my eyes. She is appearing frisky and fierce in her simple white cotton bath robe, hoping to contain her mess until she can take a shower. She’s riding the high of her performances. And she should! I always love to see MJ perform. She graces the stage with her unique energy, talent, and burlesque beauty. She is a Minneapolis, Burlesque legend. She is the Queen of Ground Zero! She and I were doing burlesque at GZ before the burlesque revival began in Minneapolis.
I often feel cosmically connected to MJ. She’s been a huge inspiration for me for over a decade. I often adore her. On this night my passion and free spirit could not be confined. I felt adoration as I observed MJ’s beautiful face sparkle with thick coat of gold glitter when I sauntered past her with aching legs and feet, so that I could talk with my dependable, show manager, J.M. We needed to figure out our show payout. It’s now after one a.m. My performers are exhausted and are continuing to wait patiently to get paid. The dressing room is full. Without warning, MJ stretches out on the ragged couch back stage and grabs me firmly with her long, lean legs and holds my body tightly against hers. Her skin, which is smooth as silk, peeks out from her white, cotton bathrobe. My eyes sparkle like her gold glitter and my heart races with raw stimulation. MJ’s determined and her strong legs are presently wrapped salaciously around my fatigued body. My rubbery legs and weak body attempt to struggle and fight for release – attempting to escape and move onward with show business. However, her long, lean, muscular legs are strong and steel – like. Her legs are a vicious weapon – an impossibly strong vice. I cannot escape like Houdini from intricate handcuffs beneath water.
Once more, I observed my remaining cast who are impatient and want to be paid their small fee of 35 dollars per number. That is all that I can afford. I actually gave them five dollars extra for the Holidays. I normally can only afford to pay 30 dollars for one number, sometimes only 25 dollars for a majority of my cast. I also pay for the crew, guest performers, higher paid performers with bigger names, and advertising out of my personal budget. I sacrifice and work hard at what I do. And I love living the life as a passionate woman who has lived some of her life on stage being a Minneapolis, burlesque star. I’d rather have this experience than high fashion clothes and fast, fancy cars. I am never bored. I like life this way.
I’m returning to my story about MJ in the dressing room, backstage. This amazing woman who is renown around the world as a top Dominatrix and an icon in the fetish film and photography industry, is down to earth tonight, and is suddenly extremely intimate with me. Mr. C observes from the top of the back stage stairs, containing his hard-on with class and respect for MJ, whose behavior is much like a sensuous cat in heat. I love to please him with unexpected, carnal visions. I love MJ when she is larkish, wicked and insousiant. On this particular evening, my body swooned with ardor and salacious energy, when I felt her playful hands press my body so firmly against hers. I no longer cared about her Milk -n- Glitter mess. I was in shock when she wantonly pressed my head so firmly and dominately to her glittering breasts. I now have glitter in my eyes and in my mouth and it is inescapably in my ear canals and dark curly hair. I daringly call her a bitch a few times as I try to escape…she is calm, yet stern. I am pushing buttons I probably should not. Impulsively, I bit her right nipple with erotic instinct and human nature. It was delicious. I did not care if I would be punished.
Now her hands are firmly gripping my ass. We stare at each other with female rapacity – the Dominant against the submissive. My zipping atoms and rushing blood cells explode inside my body with fervid emotions and unleashed desires. I felt an arousing sensation of warm, rushing tingles, when she tells me she has a new toy she wants to try on me. I raise my eyebrows with curiosity and grin so naughtily. Much of my cast is still waiting for pay and I can’t escape. Eventually MJ releases me, bored I cannot provide any more entertainment for her. I can’t go further, I have business to tend to. I am no longer useful. I am grateful and I rush off with a horny ache in between my fatigued, yet, overheated sex. My black lace panties were soiled from this late night. It was a titillating, fleeting moment with MJ. I stain those moments into my memory when they occur. I finally pay my cast and begin the large task of taking down the show, and out loading our equipment. Yet, my aching feet floated on air with a large grin on my face, spreading from ear to ear. I am so very high from show! I absolutely LOVE nights like this.
Good night, Mon Ami, must sleep, Mia.
I must emphasize again, it was a great show to help make a happy ending to my book! Prior to my reawakening, I went into recluse for many months, battling demons and monsters, moving beyond obstacles and climbing upwards again towards a new look on life. My life is an amazing journey, which I may only have a short time to experience. I intend to live intensely. I refuse to give up living my life with purpose and passion. I have passed this philosophy down to some of my children. I feel good about that. I may not have the most glamorous attire, or fancy car, but I live a race-y, artsy, amorous and glamorous life! I am looking forward to my next adventure. I still have so many old adventures to tell you about my life, Henry. My letters to you, ma chère Henry, are not over. I am just taking a little repose, before I start Mia Loves Henry Miller, Book Number 2. My life is all about journeys and mysteries. I cannot wait for another mysterious adventure to begin.
As I have been re-reading the letters which I have been writing to you, getting them ready for editing, I observe that I converse about my headaches often, or sometimes an illness. I almost thought about deleting all of my sentences and paragraphs which communicate about the flaws in my body and portray only a perfect type of healthy woman. After many hours of deep thought, I decided that I don’t want to be portrayed as perfect. I just want to be portrayed as me – the real me. We are all made of the good and the bad. It’s what gives us character. If my readers will step back far enough and really observe in their mind’s eye – they will see that I am like a beautiful, Frida Kahlo portrait, full of pain and pleasure.
Now, that the show is over, my exhaustion overwhelms me. My body aches and my feet throb uncomfortably. I am soaking in a hot, bath tub, in the silence at my loft, a few days after our show. I have another burlesque show to rehearse and perform in on this upcoming Thursday night. It was nice to be invited by another local Burlesque troupe. I’m in my artistic tower which crowds the Twin Cities’ skyline – my view is balancing between St. Paul and Minneapolis. My thoughts often drift in between the pages of the book I am avidly reading. Soon, I find myself drifting into a very nice day dream. The hot waves of water are accompanied with large doses of Baking Soda to soothe my aches and pains from dancing and writing for long hours. My body relaxes, submerged in water, and I imagine, “Paris 2013.”
I fantasize about getting off the plane at Charles De Gualle airport. I feel a bit lost. It’s been a long flight. I am dressed comfortably in faded jeans, black, worn and comfortable, Nike tennis shoes, and a colorful layer of several shirts beneath a short, smooth, black leather coat. I am trying to find my way to the luggage area, following people I do not know. My eyes digest the assortment of people who are walking hypnotically, attired in a variety of American and European fashions. French, the language of love is spoken all around me, echoing like poetry in my ears. The myriad of people are in a hurry, their assortment of colorful, fashionable shoes shuffle, skip and scurry forward, as if they know where to go. I follow them and I finally find my way to the luggage area. And I wait for my bags to appear upon the airport carousel.
Prior to the plane landing, I had been reading a compelling story sent to me in a PDF file, which I had printed upon many sheets of paper, days prior to departing Minneapolis/St. Paul. It was written by a good friend, whom I met upon this amazing, literary journey, as I was writing my letters to you, Henry. He is also a big fan of yours. Everyone around the world seems to be. You have departed wonderful literature behind, imprinting your soul into our future. This author’s story has completely entertained me upon my long flight, distracting the discomfort of sitting too long. My thoughts kept flashing to the main character in this story. I’m intoxicated and I am enamored with this significant and prolific author’s written words. I cannot escape how I feel.
Suddenly, an amorous whisper blows gently past my ear, and I hear a handsome gentleman softly speak with a European accent, “Bon Jour, Mon chère, Mia.”
I turn slowly, inhaling the musky scent of Drakkar Noir. My heart races – it is him – my pen pal paramour. I am breathless. I want to fall into the depths of Paris’ artistic and literary world with him. I want to breathe in his ingenuity and his passion for literature and theater. He can show me things that I have always fantasized or read about in novels. I want to experience a journey filled with romance, if only for a small segment in time and space. I desire to live my adventurous life for as long as I possibly can. Experiencing mystery and new journeys in life is what life should be! I am so glad that I am feeling stronger every day and my dark travels have ended. I feel merry and bright for taking this journey over this past year with you, my spiritual paramour – my dear Henry Miller. Thank you for your inspiration and this passionate, literary journey.
I must end this letter and take a long, hot bath. It is now 11:41 p.m. on 12/11/12. I feel a rush of accomplishment. This first collection of letters written to you, is finally complete! My muscles are still sore from Friday night’s show and for writing for long hours over the past few days on your last letter. I felt determined to live my dreams and finish this first book of letters, written to you,Henry. This past Friday night I danced onstage with great strength and new energy. I feel balanced emotionally. I am at peace again. I look forward to performing my dance number again on Thursday evening for another burlesque show. Your book, The Air Conditioned Nightmare, is waiting for me. Are you ready for me to ravish your words?
I will miss you as I get this manuscript ready. I will write ASAP.
Je T’aime Mon Amour, Henry Miller
Avec tout mon couer – with all of my heart
but mine were not the wings for such a flight.
Yet, as I wished, the truth I wished for came
cleaving my mind in a great flash of light.
Here my powers rest from their high fantasy,
but already I could feel my being turned –
instinct and intellect balanced equally
as in a wheel whose motion nothing jars –
by the Love that moves the sun and other stars.
– The Divine Comedy
The Divine Comedy art work was created by Gustave Dore – 1832- 1883
Dr. Farrago’s Burlesque Theater art work by the talented Timmah Pacello
Photography by Charles Jennings, Corrine Standish, and Rebecca McDonald from B-Fresh Photography. Thank you City Pages! We love your support!! ❤