mia loves henry miller Letter 6 – He’s Married to a Mafia Princess, Crazy Cunnilingus, and Extreme Intoxication at the Palomino Club

(I am re-posting an old letter that has been greatly edited. I believe I posted this letter once before – years ago – on my blog – I’m getting ready to publish an e-book soon.  I hope that you will enjoy reading this particular letter if you are a new reader.  If you are a long time follower – be patient – I’m working on some new letters and will post some in the near future.)  Thank you. – Sincerely, Mia Malone-Jennings

“Miss Nin is not in the usual sense, trying to tell a story.  Her object is to reveal experience directly….she exalts love as the exclusive goal of living: and she can be fulfilled only by that absolute and total union with a lover which, intellectually she knows beyond the reach of human nature.  It is, of course, one of the oldest subjects in literature, for it springs from an awareness of the ultimate isolation of every individual, against which the human spirits permanently rebels.” –Lloyd Morris, New York Herald Tribune, March 12, 1950

 

Dear Henry,

Today, I’ve been painting relentlessly for an upcoming art show at a Minneapolis art gallery.  As I paint I have been listening to one of my favorite authors, J.D. Robb’s Timeless in Death, on audio book.  Lieutenant Eve Dallas kicks major ass! I listen to J.D. Robb’s books over and over again.  I never get tired of her talent and the person who reads her intriguing, ingenious detective series. Susan Erickson has a multi-talented voice!  She mesmerizes me, sucking me in, making me lose track of time as I paint away.  She is seriously iced!  Being seriously iced is a good thing in Lieutenant Eve Dallas’ gritty, crime-ridden realm and part of this futuristic world’s sci-fi lingo, which I love.

What I love most about the fictional character, Lieutenant Eve Dallas, is that she’s a survivor in life.  Eve’s my fictional hero.  She talks straight from the heart and gut. She is straight to the point.  Lieutenant Eve Dallas is direct and not afraid to be herself, regardless of her flaws.  I’m not afraid to live my life as myself, greatly in part because of Lieutenant Eve Dallas’ courage and inspiration, and her ability to use her unfortunate circumstances in her childhood, such as severe physical, psychological and sexual abuse, to her advantage as an adult.  I think Lieutenant Eve Dallas kicks some major ass in NYC in a fictional, futuristic world of 2059.

I’m going to be spending some long nights at the loft, painting, over the next few weeks.  I’ve already been here for several days.  In this letter I wanted to tell you about an awkward moment in my life, when I was dating, before meeting my second husband, Mr. C.  It was over fifteen years ago when I used to chat in the evenings online and I met this gentleman from Long Island, New York several months after I returned from California and experienced my adulterous affair with Mr. California Man.  I will name this gentleman, Mr. Mafia Man.  We began by conversing in an IRC chat room regularly and sending private emails back and forth.  We progressed rapidly into having very hot cyber-sex.  My fingers typed fast and furious over my computer keyboard, horny and lost in our cyber- sexual tension.  I was a single mother with two young children.  I didn’t have time to look for dates at nightclubs or singles events.  At the beginning of my separation from my ex-husband, cyber-sex felt safer for me to explore.  I love to arouse the male senses with erotic words.  It gives me quite the rush.  To me, it is great masturbation material.

Soon after Mr. Mafia Man and I discovered our comfort zone via online chat and private emails, we eased our way to talking on the telephone.  We conversed with each other almost every afternoon for several months.  I loved listening to his thick New York accent. He pronounced the words, coffee (cawfee) cigars (cigahs), and water (watah).  I remember back then how much I longed for New York City, even though visiting this magnificent city was then only a dream for me.  I felt intoxicated by Mr. Mafia Man’s deep, charismatic, straight to the point, heavily accented voice.  To me he was dreamy.  I envisioned him to be tall, dark and handsome, which made me extremely aroused and my black lace panties very wet.

Our telephone conversations, heavily laced with phone sex, eventually led to our first and only meeting in downtown Minneapolis, many months after we first communicated online.  I wore a classic, form-fitting, short black cocktail dress – the thick, black straps elegantly crisscrossing in the back.  I put my hair up in an elegant up do to accentuate my smooth bare shoulders.  Mr. Mafia Man was running late.  I grew impatient after ordering a Perrier on ice, waiting for this mystery man at an upscale hotel’s bar.  As the minutes ticked by, I pondered if this man was for real.  “What if this was all a joke – and I’m waiting for no one?” I thought, frustrated, impatient and bewildered.  Suddenly, my eyes narrowed in upon a tall, bulky gentleman walking into the fancy hotel bar, with a dozen white roses gripped in his hands.  I was a little dumbfounded because he wasn’t as handsome as I had imagined him to be.  But he did recall that I like white roses.  I had to give him a plus for thoughtfulness.  I thought Mafia Man’s appearance was a bit awkward and he appeared to me a bit like the cartoon character, Fred Flintstone.  Yet, he had a distinct and diabolic way that he carried himself which intrigued me.  So, I didn’t run when he wasn’t exactly what I had envisioned.  Yet, I was intrigued enough by his initial charisma to remain on this date and discover more about this new person in my life.

“My apologies for being late,” Mr. Mafia Man introduced himself to me, appearing genuine, flashing an apologetic smile.  Next, he astounded my naïve eyes by doing a quick, yet simple magic trick for me.  I felt like a little girl again when he made his cigar ashes disappear from the top of my hand and reappear into the bottom of my hand.  This was back when you could smoke inside Minneapolis bar establishments.

“You have a certain je ne sais quoi,” he told me after he brushed the ashes from the palm of my hand, turned it over and kissed the back of my hand like a gentleman, causing my face to flush, hot and pink. At that time in my young, naïve life, I was unfamiliar with the French language, so I stared blankly at his statement. I did not know if what he said was a good or a bad thing.  I just smiled, like I do when my Korean mother is talking to me in her quick, heavily accented dialect and I don’t understand a word she has just said.

After our introduction, Mr. Mafia Man indulged in a strong alcoholic drink at the bar.  I ordered another Perrier, sipping on ice cold bubbly water as we talked, before he invited me to his room.  I thought to myself, “What the hell?  I haven’t been intimate with anyone in months.  Why not live a little and experience life?”  So I followed him to his hotel room.  I was quiet, not knowing what to say, my thoughts spinning in a million directions.  “What if he murders me once we get inside this room?  What if he wants to fuck?  I didn’t bring condoms.  I hope that he did.  What if he sucks in bed and I have to fake my way through this?  What if he doesn’t like a shaved pussy?  What if his penis is super small and I can’t feel a thing?  What if he’s weird and kinky?  And would that be the worst thing?  What if?  What if?  What if?”

“Mia, I have something important to tell you.  My name isn’t really _____, it is ______ and I’m not really who I say that I am.” Mr. Mafia Man told me just as we entered his elegant hotel room.

“Oh shit,” I muttered in my head.  My panic sped up my heartbeat, thumping fast and hard. My dark brown eyes suddenly went blank and then turned hazy with confusion.  It took me a while to register what he was saying.  “I have to protect myself, Mia.  My wife is a Mafia princess.  If her family finds out about this affair, I’m in big trouble.”

I saw nothing but the color of red before my eyes.  Rage filled me.  My youthful temper triggered easily.  At that time in my life, I lived in a small Minnesota town and was lost in my own world of fiction and art a majority of the time.  I didn’t get out often and I didn’t comprehend what Mr. Mafia man was telling me.  This seemed too fictional to me.  “No one really lives a life like that.  Do they?” I thought, utterly perplexed.

“We have to keep our affair a secret.  No one can know.  Understand?”

I nodded my head, thinking that I did understand.  But I didn’t.  Not really.

“I want to take care of you and your children financially.  I will give you a week at Club Med once per year, a generous allowance, and a college education for both of your children, if you become my secret mistress.  Please don’t be angry with me for not telling you my real name.  I couldn’t tell you this on the phone.  Sometimes my wife has her goons listen to my phone calls.  I’m surprised that I’m not in trouble already, for all of the time I have spent with you online and talking with you on the phone.”

I had never been propositioned like this before.  I desperately needed the money to help support my children.  My ex-husband was incapable of doing so.  But, could I really do it this way?  I honestly didn’t know.

I was shocked by Mr. Mafia Man’s offer.  Shortly after we entered his exquisite hotel room, I was still stupefied by what he had just told me.  I could only go with the flow.  I didn’t have time to think about my next move in this intense, erotic chess game.  Mr. Mafia Man moved with a great sense of urgency, commanding me to spread my legs wide after I fell upon the plush, king size bed.  He gripped my black lace panties, pulled them down, abandoning them to dangle upon my right ankle.  He hiked up my short black dress high above my hips. His wanton tongue licked salaciously upon my stiff, saturated stem of pink flesh and darted in and out of my creamy aperture like a tiny, wet cock.  My nipples felt stiff as diamonds – completely erect with arousal.  My toes curled and uncurled from a rushing, intoxicating flow of ecstasy.  All of my atoms, skin cells, and senses were humming and buzzing with an incandescent energy.  My soul was on fire!  My eyes blurred and unfocused.  My fingers gripped tightly at the soft bed sheets.  My low, soft, sensual moans grew louder, transcending into desperate cries and ecstatic screams as he ate my apple like Adam devoured Eve’s in the Garden of Eden.  My back arched high off the bed when Mr. Mafia Man sucked, nibbled and licked up and down my glossy, soaking wet clit like a rapacious wolf, who had not eaten in days – the sounds of his animalistic growling and moaning were muffled by my slick, quivering sex.  I had to cover my mouth a few times, screaming into my hand, to soften my voice.

My body quivered in a lust-filled frenzy.  My head wildly thrashed from side to side.  My back arched high off the bed whenever his fingers deeply plowed into my convulsing slit.  The sensual sensation curled my tingling toes.  It felt so fucking good I could hardly withstand my mounting pleasure. My aroused hunger was being slaked.  It had been a long time since I had felt this good.  Mr. Mafia Man’s technique was not gentle and romantic.  It was quick, mind-blowing, raw, animalistic and rough.  Part of me enjoyed this, and another part of me was shocked with surprise.  I was panting like a dog on a hot August afternoon.  My tongue was parched.  My throat was dry.  I couldn’t believe that I was here, having my quim eaten by a man I hardly knew – a man with a dark, dangerous background.  I had never been aroused to this level before with this kind of rough, indelicate skill.

When we finished with our sexual escapades, I went to the bathroom and cleaned myself with a white cotton washcloth, and matching soft hand towel.  I winced, feeling sore between my legs, as I re-pinned and smoothed my hair.  My hands and legs trembled after receiving such a hard and delicious orgasm.

When I exited the bathroom, I sat down on the messy bed, avoiding the wet spots, to relax and calm my trembling legs.

“Do you mind if I smoke some pot before we go to dinner?” I asked, hoping he wasn’t an uptight Republican.

“No, not at all,” he replied.  “Do you mind sharing some with me?”

Together we smoked a long fat joint full of premium weed.  I didn’t realize that my date had taken a tranquilizer when he was on the plane, later mixing it with the strong alcoholic drink he had downstairs in the elegant hotel bar.  I regretted smoking my pot with Mr. Mafia Man, who wasn’t a regular pot smoker, by the time we took the elevator to the hotel lobby and exited the large glass doors.  Mr. Mafia Man was very euphoric and boisterous in the taxi.  I could tell he was extremely intoxicated when we arrived at an upscale restaurant on Hennepin Avenue – The Palomino Club.

I had never been to this exquisite dinner club, above a micro-brewery on downtown Minneapolis’s Hennepin Avenue.  Up until this point in my life, my budget never permitted me to enjoy this kind of extravagancy.  The wording on this dinner club’s fancy menu appeared foreign and frightening to me.  However, the peculiar behavior I was observing from Mr. Mafia Man was even more horrifying.  He had just finished his second strong drink of alcohol, soon after we were seated at our table.

When we received our order, I cringed with distress, dropping my fancy salad fork, which dinged loudly upon my plate.  A few heads rapidly turned in our direction and then went back to their conversations. I was shocked by total disbelief.  I couldn’t believe what I saw.  Mr. Mafia Man was transforming into the hilarious cartoon caricature, Fred Flintstone.  His awkward, cartoonish mouth grimaced largely, and then he grossly spit out his salad as if his mouth was a fancy salad shooter being sold on late night television.  Part of me wanted to burst out laughing.  The adult inside of me did my best to compose myself and desperately pray to the gods above that no one was observing this ridiculous scene.

Mr. Mafia Man’s eyelids were extremely heavy and droopy.  His eyes were tiny slits on his large face, appearing more like Mister Magoo than Fred Flintstone, as both of his large hands were shoveling food into his mouth.  I can’t recall what he ordered, but it wasn’t finger food.  My mind was screaming, “GROSS!  REALLY?!  Pinch me.  Am I dreaming?  This can’t be happening.”

I was feeling kind of buzzed from the marijuana which Mr. Mafia Man and I had smoked in his hotel room, and I was doing everything in my power to control the deep down, silent belly laugh, that trembled and quaked in my pit of my gut.  I quickly sobered up when Mafia Man pushed himself away from the table and began to stray through the elegant restaurant.  He had no balance as he clumsily walked, stumbling over his large feet.  He appeared as if Barney Rubble has just hit this image of Fred Flintstone with Mr. Magoo’s eyes over the head with a large wooden prehistoric club.  I imagined that I observed little cartoon birdies flying around his head as he stumbled in circles throughout the restaurant and the entrance area.  It must have been the pot and my overactive imagination.  I was seriously concerned and completely embarrassed.

 

I was grateful for my past experience in working with people who were severely mentally ill, and in detoxification centers with alcoholics and drug addicts. As quick as a fleeting second, I regained my composure and acted on impulse.  I retrieved Mr. Mafia Man, who had been wandering the elegant mall area attached to the restaurant and guided him back to our table.  He was still dazed and stumbling on our way to his seat.  His large body slumped in his chair after I guided him down into his seat as best as I could.  His head was bobbing up and down with sleepy nods.  The mix of a tranquilizer, two strong drinks of alcohol and marijuana had pushed this dazed and confused man over the edge.  I wouldn’t have offered to smoke pot with him if I had known about the tranquilizer that he took on the plane.  He was over the top inebriated.  I didn’t understand why someone would mix alcohol, marijuana and a tranquilizer together, especially if you wanted to make a good impression on someone.   Life is often full of funny, awkward moments.  It definitely makes a humorous memory and great material for a hilarious story.

“Waitress,” I spoke loudly, catching the attention of a beautiful waitress.  “Can we have the check and if you have a dessert with chocolate, can we get it to go?  Also, would you please call us a taxi?  Thank you.” I smiled as graciously as I could, attempting to cover up my embarrassment, as Mr. Mafia Man remained semi-conscious in his chair.  His tongue was now sticking out of his mouth, with bits and pieces of food stuck to it.  I wish I would have had a camera phone back then.  It was a sight to remember.

“Did that same tongue lick my ‘who–who’ just an hour ago?  It doesn’t look so appealing now,” I thought to myself while waiting for the check and dessert.  I didn’t think about who would see the credit card bill when I signed my name.  I didn’t know there might be repercussions for doing so – a consequence which Mr. Mafia Man would pay for when he returned to Long Island.  Honestly, I just wanted to get this date over with.

After I signed the bill, I managed to get Mr. Mafia Man back to his hotel via taxicab.  His large unbalanced body kept wobbling back and forth and swaying in small circles.  When we arrived at his hotel and were riding the elevator, I attempted to get my intoxicated date to remain still.  I sheepishly looked to the three older ladies in the elevator. They appeared very conservative, high class and amused.  Suddenly, I hear a loud, large “BURP!” expel from Mr. Mafia Man’s mouth.  On impulse, I scolded him like a mother would her child, “Don’t be so rude!”  Instantly, I heard the three older ladies burst out in laughter, which only made me join them.  I almost fell on the floor from laughing so hard when the elevator door opened onto our floor.  My maternal instincts kicked in again, guiding Mr. Mafia Man off the elevator, leading him down a long corridor to his hotel room.  I must admit it was difficult because of the inebriated state that Mr. Mafia Man was in, and because I was still laughing pretty hard from the weird, humorous scene in the elevator and about how absurd this entire date had gone.

“Come on.  You are almost there,” I encouraged Mr. Mafia Man, attempting to silence my laughter, as we entered his hotel room and I managed to get his slumping, limp, heavy body onto his hotel bed.  My empathetic soul couldn’t leave him alone in this inebriated condition.  He was a mess!  So, I remained the night and slept upon a small decorative couch nearby his bed.

When I awoke the next morning, I was still angry and embarrassed.

“I don’t want your allowance, your Club Med, or college educations for my children.”  I hissed at Mr. Mafia Man, whose thick, dark Italian hair was an absurd mess.  My anger flashed dangerously in my eyes.  “I won’t be your secret Mistress.” I would not listen to what Mr. Mafia Man was trying to say, as I packed my overnight bag and exited his hotel room.  That was the last time I saw Mr. Mafia Man.  He did call a few times after he made it home to Long Island, New York. He said that his wife, the Mafia princess, found out about our encounter and that two of her goons beat him up and gave him a black eye.  I’m unsure if his story about being married to a Mafia princess is even true.  To me, it seems too absurd to believe.  But it makes for a good story. Even if this man’s wife was not a Mafia princess, I enjoyed the belief of it being possible, and writing about my silly, sexy adventure.

Good night Henry.  I have a busy day painting tomorrow.

Bisous, Mon Amour,

Mia

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Mia Loves Henry Miller – My Mary Godmother, Mistress Jeaninstein, Shegor, and Halloween Skits at Ground Zero Nightclub in NE Minneapolis

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(These letters are in raw – rough draft format – please pardon errors…Oh well ;)…thanks for being a patient supporter if you don’t really give a shit… enjoy the read. I’m getting ready to release my first 15 letters in sequence. Many are letters that have never been published online. I hope to publish near the end of January 2017 – Thank you again for your support – Mia)

 

 

10/29/16

 

Dear Henry-

People living deeply have no fear of death.- Anais Nin

 

There are two seasons in Minnesota which I generally enjoy – the spring and the autumn season.   What’s ironic about these two seasons is that the temperature outside does tricks with a Minnesotan brain. When it is spring and 50 degrees outside, we wear spring coats, shorts and t-shirts, relishing in the warmth. When it is autumn and 50 degrees out, we put on our winter coats – shivering from being so cold.

I enjoy observing new life bloom in the spring – witnessing all of the vibrant, new colors blanketing the thawing earth as if it were a painting that is coming alive.  In the fall, the ground and trees appear as if they are on fire, blazing with orange, yellow and reds, right before death – when the sadistic, winter blankets our state with thick sheets of frozen, white snow.

Indian Summer

The earth is dying while I witness

Leaves falling from the trees

The Northwinds kiss the southern

Which chills my trembling knees

The October wind is howling

The Universe closes begins to close its eyes

Until the sun starts to beam again

For Indian Summer’s on the rise

The Earth re-awakens

Yet, only for awhile

The sun offers its last rays of warmth

In gratitude I smile

The bees are buzzin’ before the winter

The flowers bloom one last time

Before the northwinds kiss again the southern

And the sun no longer shines. – Mia Malone-Jennings – Whispers of Gold

Halloween used to be my favorite holiday – before I decided that dressing up, pretending to be anyone I want for one day is over rated. I want to dress up on any day of the year, and be who ever I wish to be.  I want to grow up to be much like the fashion icon – Iris Apfel.  I bet that I sound like Mrs. Curmudgeon…right?  I actually stopped celebrating Halloween when I stopped being a Go-Go Dancer at Ground Zero Nightclub in NE Minneapolis, and a Burlesque Performer/Show Producer.  It’s been numerous years after my departure and I still haven’t really felt like celebrating one of the best American holidays of the year.

I recall the years when I couldn’t wait for Halloween to arrive.  My dearest friend – who I nickname my Mary Godmother owns a costume store in a suburb of Minneapolis, where I love to spend any extra cash and time.  I would pick out my costume at the costume shop usually in July when the Halloween shipments first come into the store and put my elaborate costume on the layaway plan.  My first costume was a white and gold, Greek Goddess gown.  It took me five weeks to pay for it – paying a sum of 25 dollars each installment.

I call the store owner my Mary Godmother because she has supplied me with the most gorgeous Go- Go and burlesque costumes for over a decade – making me always feel like Miarella.  Some girls only dream of having a Fairy Godmother.  I’ve had the real deal.  This woman has been a mother figure to me.  She is my mentor and one of my dearest friends. I can count on this female friendship to always last.  My Mary Godmother is always there for me, never judging how I live my life.  She is there for me- always. I am lucky for have such a wonderful person in my life.  I will write more about her later.

I wore my Greek Goddess costume on the evening I performed in my very first Ground Zero Halloween Skit at Ground Zero Nightclub in NE Minneapolis.  There are two notorious Gothic nightclubs in Minneapolis – First Avenue Nightclub and Ground Zero Nightclub.  I’ve performed at both and love them dearly.  I have a fondness for Ground Zero. It’s my home, where I loved to dance and perform as a submissive. My name’s even immortalized on their nightclub wall and in the dressing room.  However, First Avenue is where I got my start in fashion design (upcycling clothing) and Dr. Farrago’s Burlesque Theater.

Back in the day, GZ was notorious for their Halloween Extravaganza’s and the skits produced by the owner, MW.  I had been performing as a Bondage A-Go – Go Dancer for at least two years. I believe this is the very first skit I performed in and I was so fucking nervous.  It felt as if a dozen bats were set loose in the pits of my bowels, fluttering their creepy wings deep inside my lower belly.  My anxiety rose like vomit up my stomach and esophagus, but I swallowed it down as I read the intricate, short, skit that the owner wrote.  I was not good at recalling the exact details of the skit in a very short amount of time. I had about 20 minutes to digest it. I feared that I would disappoint everyone because I had one of the main characters – Shegor.  I was re-creating Mistress Jeanenstein.

I’m going to try to recall the precise sequence of events during this gruesome, electrifying Halloween skit. It’s been a very long time since I performed it onstage. I remember how my heart raced so fast – my thoughts whirled inside my brain, nervously attempting to memorize the order of the script I was reading during rehearsal.  The stage looked eerie and amazing.  An evil genius named Sparky and the owner designed the set – appearing as if a dark and creepy laboratory.  There was even an electrifying Jacob’s Ladder – created by Sparky, and a medical gurney with a tray of gruesome, female, body parts made of rubber behind a white screen.

An hour prior to Ground Zero’s doors opening for patrons, permitting them to enter the nightclub’s big Halloween extravaganza, we rehearsed the skit.  As we ended it in rehearsal, and I was pretending to do naughty things to Mistress Jeaninstein –  the bra she wore pierced through my cheek, causing real blood to drip down my body and onto the stage floor.   Her bra wasn’t any ordinary bra. It had been made for MJ by a person who welded it for her. It was made of iron. Each cup had several points which were very sharp.  MJ’s bra appeared gorgeous but was dangerous if anyone got too close to it.

On very special nights at Ground Zero, such as Halloween, New Years, and the infamous Rubber Balls, the DJ always played the very best of Electronic Dance Music.  I was always the first performer to begin dancing on the catwalk, or stair landing and the last one to finish at the end of the night.  I had passion, a creative soul and stamina.  I lived breathed and dreamed of music and dancing.  On nights like Halloween, I fed off the high energy of the crowds like a vampire does on blood – especially when these patrons were just as excited about Halloween as I was, cloaked in the most creative costumes.  The people who attended Ground Zero on Halloween loved the holiday as much as I did. They didn’t give a shit about a costume contest – as long as they could dress up. GZ never hosted any Halloween costume contests when I performed at this nightclub as a Bondage A-Go-Go Dancer.  People arrived dressed in the most wicked, creative costumes – arriving for the dancing and to see the midnight stage show, which was always spectacular.

It was most likely near midnight when I finished performing with MJ as her submissive upstairs in the loft. I scurried down the steps in a pair of black, thong panties and black, electrical tape covering my large, round, brownish-pink nipples. My ass was flaming red from the spankings I had just received.  It kept my body warm and my blood tingling with a mad rush of endorphins.  I felt high on pure adrenaline.

“It’s time to get ready for the skit,” I heard someone tell me when I entered the dressing room which was scattered with numerous duffle bags and little suitcases which carried their costumes for the night, an array of cosmetics bags, boxes, stage make up, fake blood, curling irons, hot curlers, and cheap plastic glasses that were partially filled of alcoholic drinks.

“Shit!” I exclaimed to MJ as I put on some small, black, fancy lingerie, a corset, and a white lab coat.  “What if I don’t recall the exact sequence of how to put you back together again?”

“Don’t worry,” MJ responded wearing a small pair of black, thong panties, with an overlay of pointed metal panties,  as well as the beautifully welded bra and panties a patron of the club had made for her, months prior.  I feared her bra because the side of my cheek still throbbed from where it had pierced through it during rehearsal.  “I’ll be behind the screen.  If you forget, just ask me.  Just go with the flow. You’ll figure out what to do.  I always do.”

“Who is this Shegor character anyways? “ I was so nervous and full of apprehension that I pronounced Shegor as Shygor inside my head during rehearsal.  I had no clue I was playing the female equivalent to Egor – the mad scientist’s assistant.  This could’ve ruined the entire skit.  But, because I didn’t know, I added my own style to this version of Shegor.  I was supposed to wear my hair all messy and perform with a bad limp.  I couldn’t afford wigs at the time and my hair was too thick to put under it.  My hair was too dense to keep it appearing messed up with hairspray.  Back then, I had the Bettie Page hairstyle.  I didn’t know that I was the equivalent to Egor, hence no bad limp either – just sexy hip bumping, hip grinding and hip gyrating.  It was so much fun! (There are times when I’m grateful to be an idiot savant)

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“Art teaches nothing, except for the significance in life.”—Henry Miller

When the curtain went up at midnight and the naughty, eerie, sexy skit started, everything became a dreamy blur.  I was so nervous I wanted to puke on stage.  But, soon, Shegor became my own creation.  I was grateful that I was too busy to stop to get something to eat on the way to GZ. I wasn’t going to puke a hamburger and fries all over the stage.  That would’ve been disgusting.

On stage there was a gruesome table full of rubberized, female body parts, soaked in fake blood.  I pretended I was evil and very interested in each piece.  I started with the hands and feet, strutted and dancing naughtily, until it was time to take them back behind the screen.  MJ’s body was silhouetted by dim light behind the large white screen. The borders facing the audience flickered with electric lights. The patrons can visually see me piecing this gorgeous creature together again behind the screen.  When it came time to put Mistress Jeaninstein’s va-jay-jay back inside of MJ – I strutted on stage sexily, before creeping behind the screen, teasing all the girls who plastered their bodies against the stage.  They stared at me with starry eyes when I demonstrated how my fingers would tease and taunt a pretty pussy like the eerie, bloody one I was handling.   I believe that was my favorite part of the skit.  I love to make others feel something when I’m dancing on stage, in a cage, or high on a catwalk.  I love to make others feel something when I’m creating art, sewing, sculpting, writing, or performing on stage.  It’s a large rush for me. It’s the reason I am an artist.  I definitely didn’t do it for the money.

No one had any clue that MJ had been talking to me behind the silhouetted screen, telling me which order the body parts go into her.  I had never acted on stage before, nor given a complex script which I had to memorize in about fifteen minutes.  I was pretty much performing with an impromptu spirit – going with the flow when I forgot how the script went. The Halloween skits each year, only lasted approximately ten minutes, so I didn’t have a lot to recall.  However, to me those ten panicked moments felt like an hour.  However, once I found my zone – abandoning every my sense of my nervousness, I discovered my theatrical flow and went with it. Once I did, time flew past quickly.

Soon, Mistress Jeanenstein had been recreated.  Shegor beamed with pride when she led her new, lovely creation out from behind the screen.  Moments later – Shegor and her monster were lasciviously bonding on stage.  This time, no one’s cheek was pierced by the monster’s pointing, metal bra.

The curtain comes down – lights go dark – dance music begins to play- end of skit.

I must admit that it was the skits that interested me the most at Ground Zero Nightclub.  I arrived as a Dancer/submissive when the GZ players performed a skit every Thursday night.  I adore dancing.  Yet, it was the naughty skits produced on stage that made me a dedicated performer for so many years. It took two years of dedicated Go-Go dancing and being a performance submissive, much like the character, Mimi, in the infamous book by Steig Larson, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, to get to perform in my very first skit.  If I hadn’t befriended the notorious Jean Bardot, I do not think my time at GZ would’ve been so eventful.

I wish I could go back in time – stop it for a decade – when I could remain in my 30’s forever.   If you are a young woman reading this – live your thirties well.  Make the memories last forever.

Actually we are a vulgar, pushing mob whose passions are easily mobilized by demagogues, newspaper men, religious quacks, agitators and such like. To call this a society of free peoples is blasphemous. What have we to offer the world besides the superabundant loot which we recklessly plunder from the earth under the maniacal delusion that this insane activity represents progress and enlightenment? —Henry Miller

 

 

 

A Box of Chocolates for my Mistress – A Mouthful of Grossness for Her Submissive

October 29, 2016

Dear Henry,

I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing. – Anais Nin

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I want to tell you about a hilarious time when I brought my Mistress at Ground Zero Nightclub a big, yellow box of Whitman chocolates.  I was feeling very naughty. I felt the desperate need to prove just how much I wanted to get into trouble.

(Many of my readers have been following my blog for a very long time. Some of you are familiar with my years as a Bondage A-Go-Go Dancer at Ground Zero Nightclub in NE Minneapolis.  I used to write about my experiences for a column called the Lady M diaries at MindCaviar.com( Jamie Joy Gotto Houck). I used to create all of the erotic art for this e-zine and for Peacock Blue (Oceania) and Custom Erotic Source – which was owned by Sage Vivant.

I was a performance submissive at Ground Zero Nightclub. I began submitting to a Dominant named Daddy on the main stage, before becoming Mistress Jean’s aka International Fetish Models Jean Bardot’s submissive in her torturous lair in the upstairs loft. It’s been a very long time, since I’ve performed at Ground Zero as a submissive.  Please forgive me if my details are foggy and laced with fiction.  I’m sewing fact and fiction together to create a memorable story as content for my blog.  My letters are raw – these are rough drafts for upcoming books.  I like to think of them as raw journals or diaries.  I’m catching glimpses of time before they slip completely away from my memory.  These letters are more for me than for my readers. If you enjoy reading them  – it’s a bonus for me.

Because it’s near Halloween,   I thought of candy.  I’m hoping to post memories of some of the great Halloween skits that I’ve performed in at Ground Zero Nightclub in NE Minneapolis very soon.)

 

“Life is a box of chocolates – you never know what you are going to get.” – Forrest Gump

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I had been a Bondage A-Go-Go Dancer at GZ for approximately two years prior to becoming Mistress Jean’s submissive, who performed regularly upstairs in the loft.  Today, the loft no longer exists.  I didn’t really know any of the performers until MJ befriended me, taking me under her wings and making me the submissive she opened her show with every night GZ hosted its Bondage A-Go-Go nights.  I hadn’t been Mistress Jean’s submissive for long before I trusted her enough to do something that might get me into serious trouble.

“I’m feeling really naughty tonight,” I said to my husband, Mr. C, sitting in the passenger seat of our vehicle, on our way to the nightclub. “Can we stop and get a box of chocolates on our way to the nightclub? I have a sinister idea.”

The cold, frigid, Minnesota Fall weather had my body feeling achy and tired. The muscles in my low back and neck screamed in pain and my nerves felt like they were on fire.  I wanted to do something that would get me in big trouble with my Mistress. I craved for a large, endorphin rush created by punishment.  My sick mind required more physical pain than what was normally inflicted upon me by MJ on a normal GZ night.

“I thought you were giving that box of Whitman Chocolates to your Mistress?” My husband asked after we exited Walmart – entered our car again, finishing our journey to the nightclub.  I had removed the cellophane wrapper and opened the top of the large, yellow box.

“I am,” I replied, poking my fingers into the yucky chocolates, taking half bites out of some of them, and spitting them back out onto a paper napkin.

“Why are you destroying all the chocolates which you don’t like? I don’t think it’s a very good idea.

“It’s part of my plan.” I smiled wickedly.  “I feel so naughty tonight. I’m itching for trouble.”

We both laughed.

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea,” Mr. C interrupted – his voice now sounding more serious than ever. My wicked laughter trailed off into nervous giggles.  Yet, I’m still headstrong and go forward with my nefarious idea.

It was close to midnight when I brought them upstairs to MJ torturous lair at GZ. It was the time she generally summoned me upstairs to begin the BDSM show.  This is when numerous patrons would flee upstairs to see me get punished by Mistress Jean.  We always had a large audience for the opening BDSM act of the night.

“I brought you a gift,” I told my Mistress, presenting her with an opened box of Whitman chocolates.

MJ appeared happy and pleased when I presented her with my box of destroyed chocolates, until she opened the lid. I recall hearing MJ expel one of her wicked laughs that sent chills down my spine.

“Mia, why is there chocolates that look as if you poked the bottoms out with your finger or some that appear as if you took a bit out of it?”

I shrugged my shoulders as if I knew nothing. My lips curled upward in a naughty grin.  I quickly averted my eyes away from hers, peering down towards the floor.

“Sit down.”

I nervously gulped down air as I sat down upon the tortuous, vintage, dentist chair.

“Open your mouth.”

I reluctantly did as I was told.

“Why are all the chocolates in this box ruined?” MJ appeared tall and gorgeous wearing a tight black corset, a small pair of black panties, a beautiful black bra, fishnet stockings and gorgeous, black, fetish boots.

“Because I wanted to find out what chocolates were good and which ones were bad.” I replied sheepishly.  My heart pounded with apprehension as MJ began to shove all of the gross chocolates into my mouth one my one.  My mouth filled with sugar, caramel and other gross goo like cherry and walnut cream – Gross.  I gagged as a multitude of gross chocolates were being shoved into my mouth.  I didn’t want to swallow.

Not too many people know that the worst kind of punishment for me is having sugar on my teeth and being tickled.  I welcomed physical pain, but sugar on my teeth and tickling could make me cry.  I also hate having food in my mouth that I don’t like.  To me it’s like having an uncircumcised cock in my mouth that hasn’t been washed for a month.  My plan for receiving intense, physical pain back fired.

I had to sit with melting chocolate in my mouth for what appeared to me to be a long time.  I appeared like a hamster with its cheeks stuffed full of food. Regardless of how hard I tried, I couldn’t make myself swallow the goo and sugary substance down.   I could tell that MJ and Mr. C were enjoying that my evil, wicked plan to bring MJ chocolates on this night didn’t work the way I intended. They both were hiding their sadistic grins as sheer panic widened my eyes and disgust deformed my face.  I recall how the chocolate, caramel, and other grossly filled chocolate irritated my teeth.  The sweetness of numerous gross chocolates mixed in my mouth made me want to violently vomit all over my Mistress’ gorgeous shoes. I knew if I did this vile, horrible act, my little joke would become a terrifying nightmare.

To me, it seemed to take forever to swallow them down my constricting throat.  I wished for a glass of water to help dissolve the sugar in my mouth.  My stomach wanted to regurgitate, my face cringed, and my heart beat raced with fear and disgust.  My mouth felt slimy with chocolate, caramel and crème goo when MJ secured my hands in leather cuffs, bounding them above my head.  It would’ve been the same if I had a month worth of spoiled, rotten cum in my mouth.  I pushed my discomfort from my mind as I jutted my buttocks outward, anticipating my punishment.  It was difficult to grunt, groan and moan with a slimy, sugary bunch of chocolate in my mouth.  This was the worst of the punishment.  I could hardly enjoy the spanking part because my mind was so obsessed with washing my mouth out with water and brushing my teeth. I couldn’t slip into the zone.  I couldn’t focus. My naughty plan backfired on me. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t slip into a calm, surreal subspace as my ass was being beat by a sturdy wooden paddle.

This was the last time I thought of purposely getting into trouble with my Mistress by bringing her a box of ruined chocolates during my long duration as a submissive at Ground Zero.  My idea to be punished severely back fired.  I couldn’t really enjoy the spankings, but MJ and Mr. C sure enjoyed my suffering, chuckling to themselves after I was liberated from my punishment – grateful that I pack a toothbrush in my purse.

We laughed for years after this crazy dilemma I got myself into.  I never have truly enjoyed eating chocolates every since.

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Everyone has his own reality in which, if one is not too cautious, timid or frightened, one swims. This is the only reality there is.”
― Henry MillerStand Still Like the Hummingbird

 

 

 

Sista Monica – Live your Life – Brave and Bold

Note to my blog readers – I write a majority of my blog posts when Mr. C is still sleeping – very early in the morning. They are written fast, prior to me beginning to work on various, creative projects for my upcoming boutique. These letters are in rough draft format.  Please be kind when reading them. I thought that I’d show the world a peek inside of the process of imperfection prior to something transcending into perfection. I would much rather start somewhere, correcting my mistakes as I go, than never starting because I’m fearful of showing the world my imperfections. The support of my readers encourages me to move forward upon my journey towards greatness and fulfilling my dreams. Thank you for supporting me.  For those of you who have followed my blog for numerous years, thanks for remaining with me as I continue to adventure onward on this journey called – Life.

 

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5/13/2016 –

 

Dear Henry,

As I’m recalling all of the great people who I have met and have greatly inspired my life, as well as living through some of my most frightening moments in my life, I am reminded of an amazingly, talented woman – the late, great, blues legend, Sista Monica – 1956-2014.

During this time in my life, when I wrote the Sista Monica reviews, I was very young – my thoughts were continuously lost in my own world, my feet dancing to the unique beat of my own music.  If I would’ve known more about Sista Monica’s history, which has made her a legend in blues music history, I would’ve been much more frightened than I already was, prior to interviewing her.  I had to walk boldly where very few souls have gone before, moving forward, courageously, one step at a time, to get through my interview with a woman of vast greatness and the intense power of a Lioness.

I recall being terrified, as I was being led to the green room to meet Sista Monica, after she performed so vivaciously on stage. My entire body trembled like a high strung, Chihuahua.  I can still feel the tightness and trembling in my throat as I interviewed a woman with a strong, fearless presence, and how my voice quavered with apprehension.  I could hardly swallow the remainder of spit in my mouth because my throat felt very dry from nervousness.

I wrote this music review after meeting a powerful woman who continues to greatly inspire my life.  It was the beginning of my career as a published writer and my marriage to Mr. C – RIP Sista Monica.

 

Sista Monica

Live Review – Famous Dave’s

November 24, 2000

Mia Jennings

 

The week prior to Sista Monica’s live performance at Famous Dave’s in Calhoun Square, Uptown Minneapolis. I had just finished writing a review about her newest CD,

“People Love The Blues.”

 

Instantly, I fell passionately in love with her rich, sultry vocals long before I observed her perform magic live on stage.  The day that I’d finished writing Sista Monica’s CD review – our furnace had broke, only weeks after our water well pump had broken. To fix each – cost over sixteen hundred dollars. Needless to say – I wasn’t feeling very grateful the week of Thanksgiving.  The only thing which helped soothe the pain was the sound of Sista Monica’s voice, which played on her CD repetitiously, while I cried the blues.

A ray of light emerged when I was asked to write a review for Sista Monica, after she played live at Famous Dave’s in Uptown, Minneapolis.  I was thrilled.  At this point, a little bit of gratitude began to warm my ice, cold heart.  By the time I walked through the doors of Calhoun Square, on that Friday night, the feeling of appreciation was all around me and I could hardly wait for the evening to begin.

Sista Monica opened strong wearing a leopard print garment to match her ferocious style, as well as her deep purrs and seductive growls.  On stage she vocalized her extreme energy, her amazing spirit, and even revealed the most vulnerable areas of her soul, to many cold, Minnesotans on this particular, autumn evening – warming our souls.  Sista Monica brought a bit of the Santa Cruz, California sun with her. She overwhelmed and captivated the audience with her passion. She was so hot that she could’ve left sparks on forgotten, rustic, train tracks.  Eventually, each one of her sweet, soulful notes made me forget all about my troubles. They vanquished into the night, like ghosts at dawn.

In between Sista Monica’s vocals I could hear her joyful soul in the echoes of her deep bellied laugh. She performed with great animation, instinctively knowing just how to involve the crowd.  Her passion was exposed to all who watched her on stage and indulged their ears and soul with her music. Sista Monica’s a storyteller, informing her audience about her roots, her Mama, and her mother’s crock pot.  She sang, “Mama whatcha cookin’ in the crock pot?”  Mama says, “she’s cookin’ soul food.” Sista Monica vocalizes, “Good, because I don’t like Tofu!”  I don’t blame her, bleh.

Sista Monica sings with passion and sweat dripping down her face.

“Soul is just soul, it’s a feeling in your bones.”

That’s precisely where her music hits too – deep in the soul.  So deep you feel a good kind of ache in your bones.  Her music is sometimes the roots of the blues, sometimes the roots of Gospel, sometimes the roots of funk, and many times quite a bit of all each.  Sista Monica even had the ability to put tears in my eyes when she sang beautifully and passionately in acapella.  Her sleek, sad yet triumphant voice – wrapping her musical notes in a soft, velvet melody, richly bellowing out the words to, “Amazing Grace,” in remembrance of her past tenor/saxophone player, Ken Baker.  Her heartaches reached out, grabbing me with intense emotion – often stopping my heart – leaving me breathless.

This Blues Lioness drew in a great crowd, on this particular night, as well as a couple of well-known musicians.  Chubby Carrier was in the house enjoying the show, as well as The Steele family, who joined her up on stage towards the end of the evening, entwining their spectacular vocals together to make a memorable moment in music history.  To remind me that I shouldn’t worry and be happy, Bobby Mc Ferrin graced the room with his presence. I wasn’t supposed to make a big deal out of it, but since the shows over, I can let the cat out of the bag.

(I was unaware at this time that they were most likely other great Minnesota musicians in the house at Famous Dave’s on that evening in Uptown, Minneapolis – possible musicians such as… Jamecia Bennet – The members of the Sounds of Blackness – Ann Nessby – Paris Bennet – Toki Wright – Cynthia Johnson -) I didn’t learn of their greatness until I began creating the art work for the Minnesota Black Music Awards 2010 and 2011. )

The buzzing energy at Famous Dave’s was intense!  The service was wonderful.  Ron Healey, the head of security was an absolute angel, and Pat Nelson was very accommodating.  By the end of the night, I had my opportunity to interview – Sista Monica.  Her presence was warm, and so was her hand, which she shook with mine.  Because I’d just written a CD review on her, and had done quite a bit of research on Sista Monica’s roots, I didn’t want to ask the basic questions that I already knew the answers to, and waste her time, as well as mine.

(To be honest, Henry – Sister Monica’s indomitable force and strong presence scared the Mother Fucking shit out of me, much like riding the Big Shot Ride at the Stratosphere Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas). I could tell that the evening’s performance had taken quite a bit of energy out of this blues legend.  So I proceeded to tell her about how ungrateful I’d felt during the week, feeling blue about my furnace and water pump at home had broken.  I told her how her music on her CD eased me through my difficulties in life.  I told her how she’s touched me with her music that evening. I thanked her graciously.) 

The main question that I asked Sista Monica was, “How does it feel to know that you’re touching so many people with your art, and making a difference in so many lives?

Sista Monica’s response – “That’s the whole purpose of performing – touching others and making a difference.  When my band and I go out on the road, we never know who we’re going to meet, who we’re going to make a contribution to, but we always hope and pray that somebody out in the audience will enjoy the music, get a message out of it, listen to the music beyond just the groove, and get into the lyrics and what we’re saying.  When I write the songs I write from my own experiences, and I hope someone else can go through a process while listening to it.”

I don’t know how many other people who listened to her music beyond the groove and felt what I did after her performance on stage.  I don’t know how many people went home with a grin on their face as large as mine, and new hope ignited in their souls.  But I do know that this magnificent, blues legend – Sista Monica’s purpose – being a singer/songwriter – was met when I listened and witnessed her perform on stage at Famous Dave’s in Uptown Minneapolis.  Every one of her delicious notes and atoms of vibrant energy hit me deep inside with immeasurable intensity.  Her music, soul, as well as lyrics had the ability to move me beyond the grim and into the light.  Thanks Sista Monica for such a fantastic evening.  It’ll be a memory I won’t forget!

If you want to learn more about Sista Monica, check out her web site at http://www.sistamonica.com.  If you want to pick up her CD, “People Love The Blues,” you can purchase it at any Best Buy store, or Bestbuy.com, CDNow.com, as well as Amazon.com.

I was an extremely young – fresh as a published writer. I had never interviewed anyone until I met with Sista Monica, after her heart stopping performance.  I had walked forward with blind courage into a realm where people of greatness reside. Until this unexpected chapter in my life, I’d only written poetry. Soon after I met the highly, talented, Minneapolis musician, Ross William Perry, I began writing music reviews for the TwinCitiesbluesnews.com.  It was this young man with amazing talent, who encouraged to begin my life as a published writer, writing for the Twin Cities Blues News.

My great cousin, who is very special to me, is paralyzed from the neck down.  He has always had a great passion for blues music, ever since I can recall.  He plays harmonica just like my older brother.  I’ve listened to stories being told about how he has played his harmonica with some of the great blues musicians in Minneapolis.  I didn’t have an education in music.  I learned a little about music history when I was in choir – my junior and high school years.  When I began writing for the Twincitiesbluesnews.com – I didn’t know much about the history of blues music.  I only knew about poetry.  I felt that music and poetry have much in common.  Each took the pain in life, transcending it into something golden and timeless.  I didn’t spend my time researching the depths and the history of blues music, each genre, or the richness of where our music today got their roots.  I could only relate to the pain it took to create something timeless with words and rhythm.

I felt out of my league when I entered the green room at Famous Dave’s in Calhoun Square, Minneapolis, where Sista Monica was wiping the large, beads of dripping, salty, sweat from her exhausted face.  I sensed that she was on guard – and that she really wasn’t up for dealing with an interview from the media.  I didn’t blame her. I wanted to run, or stand there shaking in my shoes, speechless – peeing my panties like a small dog in fear.  This legacy, who has entertained millions all over the world, including ex-President – Bill Clinton, was staring at me as if to say, “If you start asking me stupid questions, I’m gonna beat you with the last bit of energy I have.”

I had just experienced the worst week ever.  I knew that if I could brave through a domestic nightmare, I could move forward, completing this interview.  My body melted into Mia Mush when Sista signed the cover of the CD which I had listened to, repetitively, time and time again, when our interview was complete.

It was Sista Monica’s music and her voice which comforted me, as I cleaned up ankle deep, water filled with shit in my bathroom, due to a broken sub pump, crying with frustration.  I listened to her CD relentless, as Mr. C and I did whatever we could to come up with enough money to fix our furnace.  I knew that I had to find the courage within me to finish this interview.  This was my one and only chance.  I knew that I had to ask this woman of greatness something that other interviewers might never ask.

I haven’t read this interview in over a decade. I was embarrassed to look at it, because it wasn’t written like other music reviewers have done. I felt ashamed that I didn’t know much about the music scene.  I wrote what was in my heart and gut. I didn’t know if Sista Monica’s music was the Delta Blues or the Chicago Blues, at this early age in my life.  All that I knew was that I loved her music, and that it greatly inspired me. I had reviewed numerous CD’s from blues musicians from all over the world before I received Sista Monica’s CD, People Love the Blues.  Her music was what I’d been craving for. It was the reason I was inspired to write reviews for blues musicians.  It hit in my soul, filling my darkness and vanquishing despair.  Her music was so rich and deep, like expensive, Swiss Chocolate melting on my tongue – savoring it as such – note by delectable note.

This morning, after re-reading the interview I wrote for Sista Monica, so long ago, I’m glad that I found the courage inside of me to ask this past, blues legend, who has shared the stage with numerous greats like Etta James and Koko Taylor – one of the most important questions I could ask – I will repeat it because I feel it is important.

“How does it feel to know that you’re touching so many people with your art, and making a difference in so many lives? 

Sista Monica’s response – “That’s the whole purpose of performing – touching others and making a difference. When my band and I go out on the road, we never know who we’re going to meet, who we’re going to make a contribution to, but we always hope and pray that somebody out in the audience will enjoy the music, get a message out of it, listen to the music beyond just the groove, and get into the lyrics and what we’re saying.  When I write the songs I write from my own experiences, and I hope someone else can go through a process while listening to it.”

 

Sista Monica’s words lit my dreams to become a better writer and successful artist, like an Olympic torch.  Unfortunately, this blues lioness is no longer with us on this plane of existence. Her memory remains vividly inside of her my mind – her words remaining to resonate deep in my soul. She died in 2014, from Lung Cancer – Synovial Cell Sarcoma – the same type of cancer my stepson was diagnosed with, years ago and is now in remission.

My next paragraph’s difficult to write, because once I do, I have to hold myself accountable.  It’s been difficult to smoke a cigarette, ever since I did a Google Search – Sista Monica – learning of her death.  It’s been an interesting 24 hours for me.  I’ve been working my way towards quitting for numerous months – it’s time that I take the jump – quitting this horrible habit of mine – for good.  I’ve done it once before – I can do it again!

I’m unsure of which road I will travel upon when I get to the fork in my main road, with the signs nearby reading, Smoke or Don’t Smoke – guiding me onward during my journey in life – my direction remaining my choice.

I’m uncertain if Sista Monica would’ve liked me when she was alive, because of her Gospel roots and deep passion for God.  Numerous people who believe in religion don’t really care for me.  I’m okay with this. I am also a big enough person to realize that deep beneath our differences, we are all the same. We realize this once we as humans, move beyond our fears and differences, and find something to converse about on common ground.  Do our fears keep us from being united – especially if we come from two, entirely different view points from such strong individuals?  I would like to think not.

Near the end of this chapter in my life – writing music reviews for blues musicians from all over the world, I experienced an incredible opportunity. Throughout my career as a music reviewer, I never really comprehended the importance in the words I wrote.  I felt like my reviews didn’t measure up with other music reviewers and other highly established, blues magazines.  I wasn’t as knowledgeable about the blues music scene as others. I wrote how the music made me feel deep inside – not about historic facts or musical terms and genres which I didn’t understand.  When I was faded from this chapter in my life, moving towards another, new chapter in my life  – Go – Go dancing at Ground Zero Nightclub in NE Minneapolis – an important publicists from Martin Scorsese’s office contacted me via email, asking me to review Scorsese’s documentary on the history of blues. Soon after, I receive a PR packet and a stack of videos in my snail mail.  I had the opportunity to watch several, but not all, of them, prior to airing on PBS in the palm of my hands.  I felt like the luckiest woman alive!

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I might not have written my music reviews in a conventional way.  I may not have used the correct terms, grammar, or proper language when my series of music reviews were published at Twincitiesbluesnews.com – but, I must have done something right in order to receive the opportunity of a lifetime.  I never wanted to read the pages I wrote, when I was at the beginning of my career, cringing at my errors.  I felt ashamed of my beginnings. I wanted to leave them and my past far behind, like a hitchhiker with a creepy disposition, along the side of desolate highway.  Presently, I look behind me for awhile, at all of the metaphorical miles I have adventured upon – the twisting roads, hills, rugged mountains, flat terrains and deep valleys.  I smile, appreciating the beginning of my journey, and all of the fabulous people who I have met along my way, much like the little girl from Kansas, Dorothy, in the story book by Frank S. Baum – The Wizard of OZ.  I feel an intense rush of warmth thinking about the individuals who have offered me wisdom, insight, their time and intelligence,  shared their stories about courage and adversity, their compassion, guidance, generosity, and most of all the courage to live my life being the person that I am – the person that I’ve always been – Me.

To me, Sista Monica was like a brave, yet compassionate lioness.  As I type this letter to you, Henry, I can hear her singing the blues, her voluptuous body appearing in a thin, opalescent vapor ( FYI – I don’t really see this – don’t fill my blog comment box up with how you see ghosts).  Sista Monica bellows out rich, musical notes with a maternal scold on her face –

“Put that smoke out – I see you – uh huh – don’t pout

If I was alive I’d swipe that cig from yer lips

As fast as my hands moved from my earth shaking hips

You don’t wanna mess with this Lioness – uh huh – that’s right

I’ll sing to your soul –  All day and all night

I’ll sing ‘til you can’t stand no more

When you’re up late at night – pacing the floor

Be true to your words – follow them in what you do

Live your life bold – don’t sing the – I can’t win blues

Stay young in the heart – don’t let it grow cold

Live life out loud – live it bravely  and bold

Or I’ll sing to your soul at twilight, dawn and in the hot afternoons

Don’t mess with this mama  – don’t mess with this mama – don’t mess with this Mama blues.  

My brother recently moved to Chicago where Sista Monica’s roots are as a blues musician. I believe that she’s originally from Evansville, Indiana (please don’t kill me if I am wrong about this). – I’m looking forward to getting to adventure and eat my way through the heart of Chicago. My older brother’s a passionate, harmonica player.  Some may have heard him at Grateful Dead type festivals.  I think I recall my bro telling me that he’s learning much more on his harmonica from some of Chicago’s finest musicians.  I love his new girlfriend, who he recently moved in with. I hope to see him perform on stage in Chicago in the near future.  I’m my brother’s biggest fan.

I wish that I was a restaurant reviewer or food critic – so I could afford to eat at the wonderful restaurants in Chicago – upscale to low scale – except Mc Donald’s.  I’m dreaming of dining at Chef Graham Elliot’s Bistro – even if I have to save for a year to afford it.  I enjoyed watching Master Chef and Master Chef Junior (My favorite)- and viewing the culinary world through Chef Graham Elliot’s artistic glasses, when I was feeling the most ill from my hyper-thyroid condition. I wanted to eat anything that wasn’t glued into my fridge and cupboards. I think Chef Gordon Ramsey and I would get along well.  Can you image the interview, Henry –

I’m ending this letter, Henry – I am excited to start working on the Picasso Project.

Bisous, Mon Amour,

Mia

Don’t Think – Just Do

Don’t Think – Just Do – Mama Mia Mantra

Curiosity will conquer fear even more than bravery will.
James Stephens

Note to my blog readers – I write a majority of my blog posts when Mr. C is still sleeping – very early in the morning. They are written fast, prior to me beginning to work on various, creative projects for my upcoming boutique. These letters are in rough draft format.  Please be kind when reading them. I thought that I’d show the world a peek inside of the process of imperfection prior to something transcending into perfection. I would much rather start somewhere, correcting my mistakes as I go, than never starting because I’m fearful of showing the world my imperfections. The support of my readers encourages me to move forward upon my journey towards greatness and fulfilling my dreams. Thank you for supporting me.  For those of you who have followed my blog for numerous years, thanks for remaining with me as I continue to adventure onward on this journey called – Life.

 

 Dear Henry,

Good morning.  I went to bed last night, completely exhausted, thinking about my life – past and present – my dreams, individuality, perseverance, and doing really brave things in my life, and never knowing just how brave my journey through this part of my life really was, until long after my acts of courage.

Before I speak about a wild adventure which I had in Las Vegas,  a long time ago, I read about this contest Cyndi Lauper and Boy George are doing on Instagram.  If a person donates $10 to their cause, one can win VIP back stage tickets.  I recall my occupation assisting people with disabilities to locate and maintain employment. I worked with this very, unique, colorful individual – who possessed energy which shined like a star.  I am going to name her –IWant2be-Boy George

“Sometimes we are here to lift up the lesser.  We are not here to think that we are greater than anyone else.” Quote by Mr. Curmudgeon – from this morning’s deep conversation.

“She’s probably in denial that she’s a great big ball of insecurity and I’m quite well aware that I am one. – Quote by Boy George – 

Some would say that Miss IWant2be – Boy George, was delusional, strange, very colorful and bizarre, as well as completely out of her head – coo coo for coco puffs – kind of strange.  Her passion for music and for 1980’s controversial, music sensation – Boy George.  This young lady glowed so bright, like the sun at high noon, that it scorched everyone who was in close proximity – especially the pious, conservative ones. Miss IWant2be – Boy George lived in a large, group home, where numerous individuals with disabilities live in the heart of Minneapolis.  A majority of the staff who worked at this large, residential facility were completely burnt out – not having much to offer anyone, including themselves. Their work load was high, so were their student loans. There pay was low and so was their passion and dedication for their occupations and clients on their large caseloads.  Their vacant eyes and non – joyous, blank faces appeared to me like exhausted, empty vessels.

My young, vivacious client had a huge passion for music – preferably if it had anything to do with the unique and charismatic – Boy George. I was very young and extremely passionate about my occupation as a  vocational, case manager.  I worked harder than some of my co-workers with advanced degrees from top colleges.  I had my life experiences, much hands on, job experience, compassion, empathy, intelligence, and a Korean Mother who spoke very little English.  It taught me to use my gut instinct and intuition – educating me to read body language in others and in animals, which I will tell you about later in another letter.

I was only the age of twenty-one, a very young, female, minority, who didn’t have a college degree. I knew that this young lady would never become famous like Boy George.  I admired her passion and persistence. Why couldn’t I locate her some type of occupation doing menial tasks, like sweeping the floors in a record store, instead of working at Burger King?  This client’s passion to dream big ignited my passion to dream big, continuing to do so in my present life. I have always enjoyed helping others achieve what they want, or to come close to it.  I recall how draining my occupation could be, feeling as if I’d left the car headlights on, long after being parked, advocating for others struggling their way through the system.  Most often it was much easier to give up and go with the flow of the norm. It didn’t take as much of my energy, courage, fortitude and inner strength.

Every time I had to write a rehabilitation plan about Miss IWant2be-Boy George, and discuss what her goals would be for the upcoming year, I attempted to bring up a plan that helped her inch towards her dreams.  The team would shut me down, informing me that it was wrong to help a person who was delusional, mentally ill, mentally retarded, follow their dreams.  I was told by a large team of highly educated professionals, who carried their HUGE ASS cell phones (early 1990’s) with self – importance, that I shouldn’t be fueling a crazy dream for a crazy person.

I wasn’t suggesting that Miss IWant2be – Boy George become a famous singer, or work directly with Boy George – or even work the cash register in the music section at Wal-Mart.  I was just suggesting that we get her a job in an occupation that was more suitable to her passion – such as sweeping the floors at the Electric Fetus in Minneapolis, where she loved to be.  No one would move an inch on this subject, speaking to me in bland, dispassionate, condescending tones.

“It’s not good to encourage her. Please remove that goal from her Individual Vocational Rehabilitation Plan, we do not support it.”

Near the end of my career as a vocation rehabilitation case manager, I gave up on my ambition to assist Miss Iwant2be-Boy George.  My passion to change the world fizzled like a damp sparkler on the fourth of July. I succumbed, becoming one of the ordinary people who worked hard in an occupation that I didn’t enjoy, with vacancy in my eyes and heavy chains of regret weighing down my soul.  I had become part of the collective – the fear based   – BORG.  Their negative toxins poisoned my soul, dimming my passion for life, devouring my self-motivation. The more that I told Miss IWant2be – Boy George, that she couldn’t pursue her dreams in the music industry – the worse her obsession to be Boy George or to meet him, became.  Numerous years later, I greatly admire this person for remaining true to her dreams and never letting go.  She has taught me so much.

I recall how burned out I felt after a long day at work, dealing with a large caseload of the worst clients in a non – profit agency.   I remember one, late afternoon when I was driving home after a very long, exhausting day – listening to my favorite radio station during this time in my life-  KDWB. Suddenly, my jumble of thoughts were interrupted when I heard a familiar voice, coming from a caller to the radio station, “Hello….will you please play Boy George…I want to meet him someday…someday, I’m going to be just like him.  Can you tell him I called, please?  Please play one of Boy George’s songs?”

I knew that familiar voice – very well. Back then, I became furious when I overheard Miss Iwant2be – Boy George’s voice.  My face reddened with fury, every muscle in my body tensing with stressed out, irritation – my jaws clenching down like vice grips on metal, my teeth grinding in frustration. This morning, as I write this letter, I grin large – thinking fondly of that daring girl who let nothing stop her from achieving her dreams. I hope that she never stops dreaming big.

I wish that I had her brave spirit to imagine anything I want to be, without any fear – which reminds me of a very daring time I had in Las Vegas.  I was celebrating life and turning the age of 30 – the beginning of the best decade in my life. This was my second trip to Las Vegas.  I treated my boyfriend, during this chapter in my life, to a memorable adventure in a highly creative destination. It wasn’t a lavish vacation in an all exclusive resort on a Caribbean island. It was what I could afford.  i made the best of what I had.

My boyfriend was a gentle, quiet man, who worked in the computer industry. He believed in science – not in a great, almighty sky fairy.  He was the first person who made me search beyond what I had been told, brainwashed and believed by religious individuals for so many years.  I think that he was a computer programmer. He loved the solitude of the deep, northern, Minnesota woods whenever he wasn’t working.  A few months prior to our trip, he almost tragically died from a bee sting in the beautiful, Nemadji State Forest, near Duluth, Minnesota. My quick thinking, my ingenuity, my first aid training, my intuition and my previous experience being highly allergic to bug bites saved his life. I had Benadryl with me. Those were the days before cell phones. If we did have them, we would never have received cell phone service.

During this transition in my life, my grandfather was dying, with only a few months to live. I was entering a new chapter in my life – living it to the fullest.

bigshot

I recall visiting the Stratosphere Hotel and Casino for the very first time. I believe that it’d just been constructed.

“Do you want to go on the Big Shot ride?” my boyfriend asked me.

“Sure,” I replied without thinking.  I had absolutely no fucking clue what I was getting myself into.

I recall riding the elevator to the observation deck with several other people. My mind was in observe mode, I was not analyzing the danger before me and the courage which I would eventually require.

“Wow…You sure are brave.” I recall a plump, middle aged, woman, appearing somewhere from the Midwestern United States, telling me when she saw our tickets in our hands for the Big Shot ride.  Her eyes appeared wide with amazement. I had no idea why.

I’m thinking, “So, what?  It’s just another ride, like all of the other rides that I’ve just been on.” – The Star Trek ride, when it was located at the Hilton, off the strip, and all of the virtual reality rides inside the Luxor Hotel and Casino.  I don’t generally go into to the casinos to gamble.  I get bored easily.  I feel my money is better spent giving it to the street performers or to enjoy new experiences. I feed my imagination by the creativity which surrounds those money sucking machines, black jack and poker tables, even if it’s cheap and fake, much like scenes on a Hollywood Movie set.  I find it stimulating. I love to observe the variety of individuals who tour the strip. I love how this electrifying city was built with creativity, dreams, and hard work, on a desert terrain during the depression, where no one believed that anything could thrive.

I truly thought that we were going no further than the Stratosphere’s observation deck, Henry. All of my thoughts were completely vacant, my mind was recording this memory like a video camera, so that I could write about it later. I wasn’t paying attention to the present moment. When we get to the top of the Stratosphere, I’m admiring the view of Las Vegas, which appears itty – bitty below us.  I’m stunned in awe by my view.

“Let’s go. It’s time.” My boyfriend said to me. I stood up straight, removing my face that was squished firmly against the glass – my thoughts lost somewhere deep in the magnificent skyline with the thick, fluffy clouds which appeared like light and airy, baking soda biscuits.

I’m nothing more than a robot, obediently following my boyfriend, outdoors – to a destination where the wind roared much like a lion at a predator.  I concentrate on my breathing pattern, moving my feet forward, one step at a time. I couldn’t look down as we were being strapped down inside of a chair type thingy. My heart pounded in fucking fear, beating loudly in my ears like warrior drums. Yet, my mind remained a blank space.  The writer in me was attempting to capture the complete essence of this truly, terrifying experience.  I wanted to quit, but the curious side of me moved forward like an actress playing the part of a heroine in an Indiana Jones’ movie. I couldn’t resist moving forward on this heart pounding adventure – regardless of the horrors it may bring.

I had a piece of hard candy in my mouth, because I had just quit smoking cigarettes. When I’m completely secured into this strange contraption, high above one of my favorite cities, I’m still not fully comprehending what’s going to occur next and I have to pee really bad.  I always have to pee – especially when I’m nervous. Suddenly, I’m shot 160 feet upwards towards the top of the Stratosphere steeple at 4G’s in 2 seconds.  My life flashed quickly inside my mind in fast forward, the city of Las Vegas appeared like an ant village, small and insignificant, down below.  The skin on my face was dragged downward by the diabolical G- force. My eyelids were squeezed tight.  I thought that I had died in those brief seconds. My bladder wanted to release – my hoo – ha (vagina) muscles clench down fast and hard, like gates at a dam, so no urine could flow out, soaking my panties and my blue jeans. The hard piece of candy in my mouth is suddenly forced backwards, lodging in my fucking throat, blocking off all of my gasping air.  My face turns blue after a shade of shocking red – my heart beat felt as if it had stopped after exploding in fear. I think that I’m floating over this city – a terrified soul who’s about to shit herself.

When the ride is over, and I’m being released from this NIGHTMARE – a horrific string of my swear words burst from my mouth, “Holy mother fucking cunt…shit!  Oh my fucking god…what the fuck…what the fuck….fuck you…fuck you….what the fuck….I thought I was going to pee my fucking pants! Mother fucking …cock sucking bitch of a fucking whore…holy shit….this ride’s bullshit….fuck…fuck…fuck!! oh Hell no…fucking hell no!”  My eyes had bulged out of my head like a frightened Chihuahua – my body trembled with the after – shock of experiencing the most horror which I have ever experienced in my entire life. My heart beat rapidly with an overload of intoxicating, fear fueled, rush of adrenaline. The inside of my head spun like Reagan in the iconic movie – The Exorcist. My mouth wanted burst with green, projectile vomit produced from sheer terror.  My knees felt incredibly wobbly and very weak.  My urine wanted to flow fast like the rapids of the Colorado River.  My bowels wanted to release a hot, volcanic stream of shit that stank of pure trauma. I had PTSD – I wanted my mommy!  I needed to get the fuck off the top of that almighty, Las Vegas Building – Now!

When I’m finally being released from the Big Shot ride, by men wearing, well made suits, I break the candy loose where it had been lodged in the back of my throat. I gulp for air, attempting to breath again and restart my poor heart, willing it to beat below 150,000 beats per minute. I am forced to do Kegel exercises, my butt cheeks clenched tight, my upper thighs are shaking, in order to contain my bowel movements and urine flow from escaping my weak body.  I desperately pray to the fictional Gods who seemed only inches away, laughing at my pathetic existence, that I can rapidly locate a restroom, once we return inside. I knew that I would never repeat this moment in time, except with the written word. Numerous years later, I’m grateful for the wonderful and terrifying experience. I drifted off to sleep last night, with a smile on my face, thinking about it.

This morning as I typed this letter to you, Mr. C wondered why I was giggling and my body convulsing with laughter.  I told him about the conversation which I had with my previous boyfriend, after we rode the Big Shot ride, soon after we entered the casino again.

“Your face doesn’t look so good when you are terrified. We aren’t going to buy these photos of you riding the Big Shot.”

The Stratosphere, Big Shot ride has a scary ranking of 8 out of 10. There are two, new rides on the top of this tall, casino – X Scream and Insanity. They rank 9 and 10.  Fuck yeah to those who experience it.  You’re much braver than I.  Fuck you to those who tell me that I should try them or ride the Big Shot ride again –  NOT GONNA FUCKING HAPPEN!

 ( This is the complete description of the ride…I was so scared that I didn’t recollect the entirety of this ride.  I must have blocked out some of this ride to protect myself from the fear which was instilled.  The Big Shot Ride s the one that made the Stratosphere famous. You’re strapped into a chair with your legs dangling, and then they shoot you straight up the tower’s steeple, 160 feet in two seconds, at four G’s. Then they free fall you so you get negative G’s, then shoot you up again, etc. If this ride started at ground level it would be scary, but add to that the fact that you’re a fifth of a mile from the ground and it’s terrifying. As you’re going up you worry that the brakes will fail and you’ll go straight off the steeple and land down the strip at the Sahara. Minimum height for this ride is 48″.  (Notice in the picture that I posted above – before beginning this horrific tale – you can see Insanity on the right-hand side.)

Don’t think and just do…

Whenever I begin a new, creative project – I don’t attempt to over think what’s before me or how long the task might take me.  I simply let go, as if I’m dancing high on a catwalk at Ground Zero Nightclub, surrendering to every moment in time, in synch with the music, and at peace with the world.  I don’t think and just do.  This has been my best tool to use surviving as an artist and a writer for over a decade of my life.  I just begin whatever it is that I want to do, and don’t over think what’s before me – permitting my adventure to move onward, as if I were journeying into the beautiful pages of a story book.

When I began working on the Minneapolis Television Network Mural in the late summer – early fall – 2008, I didn’t think and just took the project one brush stroke at a time.  I thought that my time there would be short.  It took me six months to create the first wall in the main hallway at the MTN studios near the river front in NE Minneapolis. My muse or muses are fucking, obsessive-compulsive, sadistic monsters.  After six months of creating in a dark, dim, dirty, depressing work space, where the energy and the lighting was low, I had to do something to bring some hope, happiness, and positive energy into a destination where so many creative minds thrived or wanted to thrive.  I continued forward with the next walls on the second level and inside the Mars editing room. The walls were dirty and dark, I couldn’t stand looking at them, each time I passed by to go to the third level of MTN studios to clean my paint brushes. They called to me and I answered.

I thought to myself, “If I paint something basic and ordinary, it might or might not catch attention of many viewers.  If I do that, then why am I here? I have a great opportunity before me. Why not take advantage of my opportunity and help others along the way.  If I put everything I have inside of me, as well as my hard work and dedication, to this creative project – I would eventually be recognized as a Minneapolis artist. From day one, I took the Minneapolis Television Network Project – one brush stroke at a time, until the pain in my feet, neck and back became too severe to endure standing for so many hours a day, and my hand’s trembled uncontrollably. I felt dizzy – light headed, nauseous, and my heart beat near or over 100 beats per minute, much of the time.  This mural was an obsession of mine for numerous years and some of the best years of my life. Near my end of this chapter in my life, it became difficult to type on my computer, return text messages, and hold a paint brush or marker in my hand to successfully create art.

I am inserting a link to a video, which the highly talented, video-agrapher and musician, Keith Porter aka Father Time, created for me, in dedication this my Minneapolis Television Network Project. Thank you for preserving this memory for me – https://youtu.be/tv2dv3NPc58

Today, I don’t take my gift to paint for granted of the ability to feel my fingers fly swiftly across my lap top keyboard, composing new letters to you, Henry.  I had a thyroid condition and didn’t know about it. It’s something that runs in my family.  My health issue was resolved, well over a year ago. Presently, I greatly appreciate every single moment in my fabulous life, especially when my hands can dance over a surface, with words or with paint, creating something magnificent out of nothing. Even though the Minneapolis Television Network mural no longer exists – I would’ve much rather lived my life attempting to create a tribute to television history, discovering so many new facts and learning a variety of television genres, learning new artistic styles and techniques along the way from past and present artists, than wasting my time sitting in a lazy boy chair, my muscles wasting away, watching television, playing video games, or reading non important stuff online – such as Facebook. I’d prefer to live my life as a great adventurer who has a thousand memories and life experiences. I want to be the woman who smiles because she’s loving her life.

I disappeared from the Minneapolis Television Network mural like a ghost in the night. My point in telling you about the Minneapolis Television Network Project is because I recall someone unique and beautiful, asking me one day as I was painting.  I believe that she’s a unique someone who beams with so much passion that she overwhelms others who are unprepared for her indomitable force – Queen. She has a creative presence online and at Minneapolis Television Network.

“How do you endure such long hours, creating art with such intricacy and fine detail? Where do you get the patience to stand for so many long hours a day?”  This beautiful woman with an amazing soul asked me one day, admiring my creation in progress.  (I never think much of it, Henry. I just move forward until I feel my creation is done.  I’m unaware of its magnitude, intricacy or difficulty, until I step away from the project for a long period of time.)

“I don’t think. I just begin. I just do – moving forward one brush stroke at a time. I’m always amazed at what I create, when I finish, knowing something more powerful than I, helped me create something unique and memorable.  It’s like magic to me.….”( NO…it’s not God…please refrain from filling my blog comment form up trying to get me to think otherwise.)

I believe it was the power of the people who encouraged me a long the way, watching this mural be born, encouraging me with their words and appreciation for my talent, dedication and hard work.  It was the first time that I had permitted others to observe my art being created from the beginning and to witness all of the mistakes I made a long the way, and how I rectified my errors, tried again, or completely changed my direction for the better of this project.

Presently, the MTN mural, Tribute to Television History – no longer exists.  It was destroyed when Minneapolis Television Network moved to a new location in NE Minneapolis.  I intended on returning to finish the mural once my thyroid issue was under control.  My intentions when I first began, was for it to be a dedication to television history. I wanted it to be a place that educated others on how far television has come.  I wanted to bring something nostalgic and light into a dark place, where hope and inspiration was needed.  I don’t know if it helped others, or if it stirred other people’s creativity, but it taught me so much as an artist, as a human, and as an individual on a great adventure.  I really loved quietly observing others go after what they were passionate about, using the resources which MTN offers.  I observed Minneapolis Television Network as a busy hive for creative individuals from all walks of life.

Even though the mural no longer exists – I have my experience and my memories.  Nothing can destroy them, not even Alzheimer’s Disease or other medical reasons, because I am taking the time to write my best memories down, versus watching Game of Thrones.  This amazing project was a necessary step in my life, teaching me great things as an artist, making me grow as a human being, helping me become a better, stronger, more refined individual. I still have a long way to go….don’t we all.

Mr. C and I engage in numerous, profound conversations with each other, early in the morning.  Most often we are silent, living our lives together in the same room, doing individual tasks. When we break the silence, our language is meaningful.  Mr. C is a great teacher to me – my mentor, my hero – my inspiration.  I hope to tell you more about why that I think so in another letter – very soon. Yesterday morning, he and I were recalling our struggle at the beginning of our marriage.  Mr. C says, in between a burst of escaping laughter, “You know…I always fear the worst moments in my life right before I’m going to hurdle another fucking obstacle.  When I get to the other side, I think to myself that it was those moments in my life which taught me the most important lessons in my life. I’ve met the most interesting and intriguing people. I’ve been astounded and disappointed. On my most difficult roads I’ve observed the most spectacular, unusual scenery.”

Mr. C also told me a tale which he heard from someone who has a business in the building where his office resides.  He told me that this person has been in the presence of some of the most frightening individuals he has ever met.  He told my husband with wisdom resonating in his voice, that once each person moves beyond their individual fears, finding a common ground to communicate with each other on – everyone is basically the same – we are all human.

I believe that I’m married to a man of great wisdom, as well as a man who surrounds himself with great wisdom. I feel fortunate.

Mr. C had to go to a funeral this morning.  My heart’s a bit heavy for his loss and his friends, who live next door to us.  Sometimes, the best one can do is move through life as fast as possible, taking a deep breath when the worst is over.

I want to work on the Picasso Project today, after composing this letter.  It’s much larger than I anticipated. I’m enjoying the progress that I’m making on the Picasso Project. I’d rather work on it for a few hours today, than not at all.  My old pal, Gia the Jack Russell, Rudy’s mama just puked, and I have to clean it up – Gag! Gross! Bleh! Don’t think…just do…don’t think…just do…Don’t think…just do…

*sidenote – The burlesque shows which I used to produce at Ground Zero Nightclub in NE Minneapolis – Dr. Farrago’s Burlesque Theater stream every Friday evening – Minneapolis time – 11:30pm – at MTN.com – enjoy!

Bisous, Mon Amour,

Mia

I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.
Frank Herbert

“Seeing bored – looking fans staring at you while you DJ is about as horrible as it gets.” – Boy George.

 

 

 

Bisous, Mon Amour

Mia

Humorous Text Messages Exchanged Between Mr. Curmudgeon (Mr. C) and Me #1 –

Humorous Text Messages Exchanged Between Mr. Curmudgeon (Mr. C) and Me #1 –

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*Note to my blog readers – I write a majority of my blog posts when Mr. C is still sleeping – very early in the morning. They are written fast, prior to me beginning to work on various, creative projects for my upcoming boutique. These letters are in rough draft format.  Please be kind when reading them. I thought that I’d show the world a peek inside of the process of imperfection prior to something transcending into perfection. I would much rather start somewhere, correcting my mistakes as I go, than never starting because I’m fearful of showing the world my imperfections. The support of my readers encourages me to move forward upon my journey towards greatness and fulfilling my dreams. Thank you for supporting me.  For those of you who have followed my blog for numerous years, thanks for remaining with me as I continue to adventure onward on this journey called – Life.

5/11/2016

Dear Henry,

My husband can be such a dick head sometimes. It’s awesome. I never know what’s going to come out of his mouth dripping with sarcasm. I thought you would get a kick out of these text messages which I received from him this evening. I sent him to the grocery store to pick up a few items, after he finished a very long day at work. We were supposed to do it this morning, but I wanted to buy paint, return home and work – ASAP.

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I received these messages while I was attempting to pee.  I like to make good use of my time, returning text messages, posting to Instagram, editing blog posts and returning emails, as I’m walking to the toilet, sitting on it, or returning to my work area. I chuckled so hard that my urine only trickled out of me. I couldn’t pee in full stream because my body was convulsing with laughter – the muscles in my full bladder constricted tightly with each belly roll of exploding humor.

Here’s the exchange of text messages – these may not be as humorous to others, but it sure brightened up my day. I believe humor can heal the human soul.

I’m determined to make it as an artist, writer, and boutique owner. I’m definitely going to self – publish my first, fifteen letters to you as soon as I’m able to afford it.  I’m using everything I have to get there. I’m spinning my life experiences into gold, much like the girl in the story of Rumpelstiltskin, who transformed basic straw into precious metal. All that it takes is my determination, perseverance, the imagination to dream big and the ability to work hard, applying thick coats of elbow grease.

Mr. C – Good thing there is ONLY one kind of Ramen…huh! – Beef…chicken???

Me – Beef…sorry… (Oops – I wrote list in a hurry)

Mr. C –  BEANS? Black and Lima… This sounds like blah blah blah blah to me. ( I wrote on the list DRY Lima beans – he gets confused easy when he has to purchase anything other than hamburger, ice cream, pizza and ketchup)

Me – LMAO…forget it…Great writing material, baby…Lol

Mr. C – In cans or wtf?

Me – Forget it…

Mr. C – FUCK…There’s bags too!

Me – I want the dry beans in the bag

Mr. C – No lima beans….6 different kinds of black beans 😦

Me – Lol…Like I said before in my previous texts messages – forget it – – I must document this conversation…quite the classic curmudgeon moment…bravo dick head 🙂

Mr. C – Beans …beans…good for the heart

A million kinds that will make you fart. 😉

Mr. C’s such a shit head…I love him with all of my heart…what an ass!

 

I have much to get done today, Henry.  I need to begin writing another letter, about another person who I met when I began as a published writer, reviewing music reviews for Twincitiesbluesnews.com – It’s about the greatness and the passionate power of a female, blues artist, who scared the Mother Fucking crap out of me, as I interviewed her, one night at Famous Dave’s – Calhoun Square – Uptown, Minneapolis – so long ago.  This was at the beginning of my writing career.

P.S. The biggest lesson I’ve learned during the past year as an artist is to make sure that my overall straps are not dangling in the toilet bowl prior to peeing.  It’s a fucking bitch when that happens. You should hear the swear words that come flying out of my mouth when it does. 

Bisous, Mon Amour

Mia

 

 

Never Give Up – Fraidy Frida Transforms into Fearless Frida

5-9-2016

Never Give Up – Fraidy Frida Transforms into Fearless Frida

*note – these letters are published on my blog in rough draft format. Please be kind when reading them. I’d rather start somewhere, correcting mistakes later, than not starting, fearing my blog posts won’t be perfect.

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Dear Henry –

Ever since I can recall I have been determined and a survivor.  I was born in Robbinsdale, Minnesota, weighing only four pounds. I spent the first month of my life in an incubator. I didn’t have the warm, nurturing touch from my mother. I felt the touch of machinery to keep me alive.  I was all alone, fighting for my life, inside of a glass container. My mother had lost a son, one year and two days prior to my birth due to a premature death. His name was Andrew and only lived for two days. My mother, who barely spoke English, was still grieving for her lost son.

I’ve always been the type of person that if I wanted something, I found a way to get it. Near the age of two, I wanted to get the fuck out of my crib.  I was inventive even when I couldn’t really understand the concept. I would twist the bars on my crib until they fell out – one by one. I was an escape artist at a very early age.  This continued to frustrate my parents, until one day my legs became trapped in those wooden bars, breaking both of the bones in my legs completely through.  I spent one month in the hospital – in traction. This was my first experience with bondage and restraint and I fucking hated it. I didn’t want to remain in one place for such a long period in time. I also didn’t like hospitals and still don’t.  I can recall how frustrated I felt by my situation, very easily, as if this tragedy occurred yesterday.

When I was finally discharged from my long stay at the hospital, the doctors put my legs in a cast, in crawling position. There was a spreader bar between my legs made from the cast materials. This was awkward – but workable. It was better than being in traction. If I wanted to get somewhere in my small home in Crystal, Minnesota, I would drag my body, from room to room, leaving a trail of chalk marks created from the cast on the carpet. I was unstoppable.

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When I was the age of four, I almost drown in my parent’s good friend’s pool in St. Louis Park, Minnesota.  Like I have told you in a previous letter, I have Forrest Gumped my way through life – which can be a good and a bad thing. I recall that the pool was filled with parents and neighborhood kids. Everyone was having fun, splashing, swimming, and tossing a large, beach ball to each other. I naively followed my father towards the deep end of the pool, without any fear. I didn’t know how to swim, but that didn’t stop me. Suddenly, I was submerged beneath water. I can still vision all of the activity below the surface as I struggled to get to the top for air. Before I completely sunk to the bottom of the pool, I felt my older brother, who was the age of seven, attempt to help me.  That’s when my fight for survival began. I didn’t care if he was my older brother – I wanted to live. I recall the horrific struggle beneath the surface of chlorinated water, as I pushed my brother’s body downward, fighting to the top for air. Before we both passed out from the lack of oxygen, my father rescued us. My parents never put too much attention on that horrifying afternoon. Because of this, I learned to swim in the pool that almost took my life.

Most often, I am grateful that I can live my life in a Forrest Gump kind of way. I have always had a large appetite and passion to experience life.  I participated in numerous, extracurricular activities in junior high school at Hosterman Junior High in New Hope, Minnesota. I was on the gymnastics team, participated in the drama and Spanish club, synchronized swimming, choir, and the basketball team.  I played the center on the B team. I wanted to be around my friends. I wasn’t super fond of basketball, but it was stimulation.  Half way through the season, Mr. Wall, our coach said to my good friend, Amy and I, “Girls, you aren’t very good…in fact, you are terrible. I suggest that you leave the team.”

At first I felt offended by his brutally, honest words, before my rebellious side took over. “He didn’t say that we had to quit,” I said to my friend, “Mr. Wall just said that he suggested that we leave the team.”

Amy and I finished out the season. We never gave up, holding our heads up high.

Fraidy Frida transforms into Fearless Frida –

I want to tell you about an itty – bitty, adorable Chihuahua who greatly inspires me every day.  I named her after Frida Kahlo – Frida Kahlo Malone.  Her brother from the same litter, Diego Rivera Malone (Diggy) is super huge. They are both approximately nine months old. They are freaks and I love them so much! I deal with physical pain on a continuous basis. My neck and spine are a mess and have been ever since I was young. My mother suffered through the nightmare of starvation when she was a young girl, escaping from North Korea to the South. She witnessed a man killing another man for the last bit of tree bark on a tree, because it was edible and they were starving. My older brother, my younger sister and I, all have issues with our spines. My mother does as well. I’m assuming it’s caused by the malnutrition my mother experienced growing up. My siblings have endured surgery. It didn’t help. I refuse to go through any more surgeries, so I deal with the intense pain. My little Chihuahua inspires to live each day to the fullest, much like Frida Kahlo.

Because little Frida is so tiny – much smaller than the average, tea cup Chihuahua, her world appears large.  She has been frightened to explore beyond two, small spaces.  For the first eight and a half months of her life she lived in a restricted, fear based world. She only felt comfortable remaining in my husband’s lazy boy chair, and the small area which she eats at and pees on a puppy pad.  Over the past two weeks, I have been pushing little, Fraidy Frida to move beyond her fears. I began taking her outside with the larger dogs, pushing her to move beyond what frightened her, every day. I almost gave up on her, assuming that she would need to be carried in a cute bag or puppy pouch for the rest of her life.

I’m glad that I’ve been persistent because Fraidy Frida proved me wrong. For the first few days outdoors, Frida quivered in fear like a vulnerable leaf in the wind, standing upon my paint stained, tennis shoes. Near the end of one week, she was walking in tiny circles around my feet. I continued to praise her each time she moved beyond what frightens her, encouraging with soft, soothing words. “You can do it. I know you can. You are so brave.”

Near the end of two weeks of continuous encouragement, Fraidy Frida has become Fearless Frida. Today, she presently hops fast and joyously, like a bunny through our tall, overgrown grass, with what appears to be a large grin on her face and her tongue hanging side ways out of her mouth. We are generally the last ones to mow our lawn in our suburban neighborhood, due to Mr. C’s busy work schedule. I’m sure that this pisses our neighbors off – the ones who use their yard to impress others. The more it angers the neighbors the more my husband and I leave our yard be as a way to say, “Fuck you, I’m glad my yard pisses you off. I hope it hurts your eyes and makes them bleed.”

On Mother’s Day, Frida and Diego had the opportunity to explore outside of our home and large yard. We took them and their Mama Chi Chi to Lake Calhoun in Minneapolis. It’s one of my favorite, Minnesota destinations. What a marvelous day!  My stepdaughter gifted me a great card, a picnic lunch from Lund’s in Uptown – Fried Chicken, mash potatoes, gravy, sliced mango, sliced watermelon, delicious, cole slaw and soft, sweet, Hawaiian buns.  I hadn’t had a hot meal like this is several months. I practically cried as I gobbled it down, sharing tiny pieces of chicken to the Chihuahuas.

My stepdaughter also purchased me a very cute, pink, puppy pouch to carry Frida in. I had asked for it when I thought Frida would never move beyond her fears.  I wanted to show Frida the world. I thought it was a shame that she had already lived eight and a half months constricted by fear. The day before Mother’s Day, Frida fell off my shoulder, where she loves to be, to observe life, as I was taking the big dogs out. She had the wind knocked out of her, remaining listless on the floor for quite some time with her tongue hanging out of her mouth. I bawled like a baby, willing Frida to survive her fall. I was so relieved that she was okay. The fall didn’t stop her from wanting to climb back on my shoulder – brave girl!

I love keeping Frida safe in the new, puppy pouch. I’m sure that she feels much more secure. She and her mother Chi Chi love being carried around in the puppy pouch, which they tested out at Lake Calhoun.  I wish Diego would fit in a small bag because he is really heavy to carry. He’s the size of a Jack Russell dog. He was very frightened by all of the stimulation on the walking path. I had to carry my big boy, so that he could enjoy the view of the lake without fear. He preferred to remain in the grass near my husband and stepdaughter by the shore to watch all of the flocks of ducks swim.

Frida explored the beach, experiencing sand beneath her paws for the very first time.  She appeared to enjoy the experience – more so than Diego, who definitely didn’t like the feel of warm sand beneath his paws. I have never heard Frida bark before. I’ve only heard her whine loudly when she wants Haagan Daz Ice Cream, which my husband shares with her after a long day at work.  When a large dog approached our picnic area, it was Frida who barked and growled protecting her family. Diego was scared.

When we returned home, Mr. C went next door to visit his friends who recently lost their mother, to console them on their loss, as they worked hard on Mother’s Day to clean up their mother’s home.  He let Frida roam the yard as he conversed with them.  Frida hopped like a quick bunny through the tall blades of grass.  At times, she was more than a football field away from him. I think that Frida feels more secure to roam when Mr. C is outside – she is his spoiled baby. He was in awe at how far Frida has come in such a short amount of time. It’s frightening to permit any of our dogs to roam freely in our backyard, due to the family of foxes, deer, and other wildlife, we share a small woods with. We fear they may run after them if they see them. We’ve always had them on leashes, grateful we haven’t encountered any wildlife as of yet.  I don’t let my dogs free of leashes at dawn and the early evening, when the chances of that might occur.

I still mourn the loss of my dog, Rudy Patootie. Observing Fraidy Frida transform into Fearless Frida in such a short amount of time is amazing.  Mama Mia beams with pride. She’s inspiration to me.  I’m glad that it distracts me from mourning the death of Rudy Patootie.

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I must end this letter and get some painting done. Before I say goodbye – I want to show you photos of the really great Mother’s Day Card I received from my stepdaughter on Mother’s Day….it’s an unconventional card for an unconventional mother with Tourettes. The first photo is the outside of the envelope. The second image is the outside of the card. The third image is the inside of the card.  I love my Stepdaughter! She knows what I like!

Bisous, Mon amour, Mia

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