grannygixxer_zpsde025d46

 

At 3 am on a Saturday night I drunkenly crept behind the front desk of a hotel in Nashville so I could steal the key to the swimming pool. The desk clerk, after answering a call about drunken revelry on the 5th floor, had left the front desk to investigate.

This was a distraction created in fact, by my own friends. I was partying with a rock band and their entourage. Despite the 40 degree weather, several people decided that it would be fun to go swimming.

That was after the bicycle riding up and down hallways, running rampant through the hotel, whipped cream fights, clandestine couplings in darkened hallway corners, smashed furniture, hours of impromptu jamming, wickedly incriminating photos posted on Facebook, and all manner of depravity one would have with a crazy-ass rock band in Nashville, Tennessee.

 

REWIND

Saturday afternoon we started bar hopping on Printer’s Alley, an area renowned for its excessive alcoholic roguery per capita. Nashville has as many drunken people as New Orleans during Mardi Gras, and not for any particular reason. It’s not Mardi Gras, or foie gras, or any-gras. It’s Tues-gras. So turn up, motherfuckers! I was drunk by 1:00 in the afternoon, and I don’t drink.

That’s the kind of thing that happens when I party with C, my best friend and college roommate. She’s a wild child; a trouble maker.

She has been since freshman year of college, when I tried to match her, drink for drink, one wintry night first semester.  Seventeen cocktails later, I landed in the emergency room getting my stomach pumped.

She loves to tell that story. She told it several times in Nashville, to just about anyone who would listen.

She had her domestic time. That was while I was running around New York city, doing drugs and guitar players. But we’ve switched places, and now she’s a divorced empty nester. For the last few years, the hellraiser has been back to her old shenanigans.

She’s involved with a huge network of people who live and die for music, and travel the country to obscure 3-day festivals. Not like Bonnaroo. They’re musical elitists who prefer critically acclaimed small indie bands.

I’ve seen some great shows with them locally. But I’ve resisted these 3-day, Bacchanalian festivals because I can’t drink like her. I have a young child.

And mostly, I don’t trust hanging out with rock bands. The last time I did that, I got addicted to heroin.

Some folks from her group were planning a trip to Nashville Valentine’s weekend to see Lydia Loveless play. Three days before the trip, I decided to go.

I’m still not sure why.

I’ll have to explore that with my therapist.

 

FAST FORWARD

 

Saturday night, already butt-toast blotto, we headed to The Mercy to see Lydia Loveless and her band. Lydia is a 24-year-old towering inferno of smoldering sexuality and “go fuck yourself.” Punk fueled, country rock driven, she’s the love child of Joan Jett and Johnny Cash.

She fucking ROCKED. She has an unbelievable stage presence and a powerful gritty voice that hits the back walls and dances all over your spine.

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Lydia

 

Towards the end of the show I was so bombed I went into the cavernous echoing staircase to get some air.

A beautiful long-haired woman with a sexy smile walked up to me, and said, “THERE you are! I’ve been looking for you all night.”

I’d never seen her before in my life. But this was Nashvegas. I was loaded. She had huge breasts.

I answered, “I’ve been here all along.”

She motioned for me to sit next to her. I did.

Her name (allegedly) was Rebecca. She kept assessing my life (my age, my marital status) and everything she said was dead ON. I felt like she had crawled up inside my brain.

She was stroking my hair and face. We may have kissed. (I won’t say; I don’t kiss and tell).

We took selfies in the staircase.

“Look how good we look together,” she whispered in my ear.

The entire thing played out like a surreal dream sequence, like the dancing dwarf scene in Twin Peaks. 

We went back inside a different part of the club to dance. By the time she pulled me in for a slow song, we were discussing me relocating with my son to her house in Nashville.

Until my irate bestie snatched me from my fantasy of playing house with Rebecca on her Sunnybrook Farm and dragged my ass back to the band’s hotel.

There were about 15 of us. We partied until it was Bloody Mary time at 8 am. By 9 am the room looked like a depraved battle field of fallen soldiers, and C and I somehow got back to our own hotel.

 

We were scheduled to leave Nashville 5 am Monday morning. And then, the unthinkable happened.

It snowed. And it doesn’t snow in Nashville.

They are simply not equipped to handle the amount of snow and ice they received. The city was paralyzed. Airports shut down. HIghways shut down. Power shut down.

Our flights were cancelled. We rebooked them for early next morning, and set off in search of food. Our hotel was depleted of supplies since it had been Valentine’s day weekend and no deliveries were able to get in.

We ended up trudging in the ice and snow to a Holiday Inn two hotels away, where we parked our asses at the bar with all the other snowed in people.  As one of the few functioning establishments, the bar-restaurant got mobbed.

Frustrated with being trapped in Nashville, everyone at the bar proceeded to get schnockered sideways, except me. Three days of drinking, and I’d had enough. I  was also the designated driver of this experience. C was fast becoming ridiculously inebriated as all the men at the bar tried to ply us with alcohol. She was having a grand old time.

I was not.

I missed my kid.

Little Dude lives with me full-time. I was not mentally prepared to be away from him more than a weekend.

It took me completely by surprise to miss him that fiercely, when he generally annoys the fuck out of me.

The next couple of days turned into a nightmare of flights repeatedly booked and cancelled; highways shut down, not enough resources to salt down the local roads and no taxi service locally to get anywhere.

Tuesday afternoon we were hungry enough to trudge a mile and a half on the icy highway in high heeled boots to a Waffle House. We were warned by the hotel clerk that there were no sidewalks, just road.

I imagined the headlines:
Two Women In Search of Waffles Killed by 4×4 in Nashville”

By Wednesday, I was LOSING it. My kid was a little thrown when I didn’t return on Monday morning as promised. Now he had seen on the news about the state of emergency in Tennessee and was EXTREMELY upset.  He never directly told me, but my Ex, who was staying with him at my house, did.

I knew it anyway. I am a constant in his life.

He is also an ADHD kid, with a quirky kind of brilliance that goes askew when his routines are strongly disrupted.

On Wednesday morning the Ex reminded me that testing for the gifted program for middle school began on Thursday. Now my kid was really melting down that I wasn’t around, to cheer him on and maybe quiz him a little and just generally BE THERE.

GUILT

He would not perform well on the test; not get into a highly coveted program he had talked about excitedly for months – all because I had to go to Nashville to party with a band.

I became part gladiator, part heat-seeking missile. I called my airline and demanded to speak to supervisors. I begged, pleaded, demanded – for HOURS .

JUST GET ME ON ANY AIRLINE, TO ANY AIRPORT, IN THE GODDAMNED MOTHERFUCKING TRI-STATE AREA. 

It worked.

I got booked on a flight that night scheduled to arrive at midnight.

At 2 am Thursday morning, I crept into my son’s room and just looked at him. I brushed his little sleep-flushed cheek and noticed again how his long, long eyelashes look like tiny butterfly wings.

 

Through adulthood I’ve held fast onto my identity as a quasi-Patti Smith who “lives outside society,” an identity that I altered but still maintained through motherhood.

But there are consequences to partying like a rock star when you have children involved.

I would love to tell you that I am both devoted mother and wild child rock ‘n roller, and that I have successfully straddled the complex duality of this existence – but that would be a LIE.

I’m a MOM. It seeps out of every pore. It is my defining characteristic.

I’m my son’s only mother, and if I don’t get this right, I’ve accomplished nothing.

It doesn’t mean that my soul isn’t full of restless yearning, that the colorless mundane of suburban family existence leaves me feeling unfulfilled in many ways. I love my child more than life itself, but I’m too young to be buried alive in the suburbs.

I’m in limbo. Not fit for either the life I once lived, or the one I live now.

My son is 11. I have 7 years to give him the life he is entitled to. I will prepare him to be strong and independent, so when he leaves the nest, Mama can go back out into the world.

My story will not end here, in the drab suburban wasteland of New Jersey.

I’m looking forward to being a jacked up, wayward old cougar. And I will be grateful to have raised a responsible, mature son – who can bail me out of jail.

Just in case.

Beer_Drinking_Woman-500x335 4

I’m the party girl, the smarty girl, that arty girl

That rock and roll child, toured with Nirvana

Born to be wild, dressed up in style

Party with rock stars, cool kids, out laws, in the raw

 

I’m the cool girl, the hot girl, the “it” girl, human tilt-a-whirl

The popular girl, wild child, live on the edge, crouched on a ledge

The sexy girl, men want to screw

Super talented chick, don’t you wish it were you?

 

One two three drink

one two three drink

one two three drink

throw ‘em back till I lose count

 

Envy me, copy me, fall for me; worship me

Beg for me, plead for me

If they want me they bleed for me

I’m the girl who takes all the chances, who dies everyday,

is reborn every moment, I’ll lead you astray

 

Pour me a drink and I’ll tell you my life

your envy so thick it could cut with a knife

White hot

Independent

Drinks are for free.

My options got options, don’t you wish you were me?

 

Dressed to wicked perfection in Jimmy Choo boots

Black leather and buckles in three different heights

Bold and

brassy

Inappropriate

Carefree

Druggy misadventures with Beasties and Flea

 

The Limelight

The Tunnel

The Mercer Hotel,

Partied in Vegas

New Orleans

Nashville was hell

 

 

I’m gonna swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier

    I’m gonna live like tomorrow doesn’t exist, like it doesn’t exist

 

 

I’m the girl who’s shaking now, what have I done, what have I done?

I’m the girl who’s sobbing now, gotta unplug,

Hair matted down on one side

“just get home” on repeat

 

All those friends were not real they were props on my stage,

painted in the shattered strobe light now they all fade

Stop judging me, hating me, coveting my life

The years slipped through my fingers, a fool’s paradise

 

She’s the makeup smeared girl in a bathroom stall

vomiting out daddy issues against the back wall

Cutting white lines on the closed toilet seat

without smack in her veins she feels incomplete

 

Dance with me, sing with me, you’ll present like a king with me,

steal with me, deal with me; you won’t ever heal with me

 

The party girl’s wrapped in layers of numb

anesthetized to the hilt with cocaine and rum

Escaping at dawn from a loft I don’t know

How did I end up downtown? Did all of us go?

 

Remember that time she was sectioned in Queens?

She thought it was Manhattan or some kind of dream

A cop picked up her up for not knowing her way,

or where she was, who she was, or even what day.

Commited for 3 days for being insane –

a half ounce of coke does that to a brain

 

The hot MILF, the cool mom,

loses custody of her kid.

So cop a little more scag,

drop off the grid

Hot-bodied flame-haired

girl from the hood

She’s homeless in 6 months

But damn she looks good

 

But I’m holding on for dear life, won’t look down won’t open my eyes

    Keep my glass full until morning light, ‘cos I’m just holding on for tonight

 

Ready to fuck like a porn star, wanna have a good time?

send me your email I’ll fuck you online

Check your respect at the door cause you’re here to screw

and fuck my best friend, don’t mind if you do

 

Play with me, stray with me, put yourself on display with me

Stay with me, stay with me, I can’t bear another day of me

 

Play with me

Stay with me

Stay with me

Please

I can’t be alone I can’t seem to breathe

Post- party heart- crushing comedown at dawn

when the drugs are used up everybody is gone

 

Play with me

pray for me

Play with me

pray for me

 

The life of the party, she quietly seeks death

You’ve helped her this far – why not steal her last breath?

Play with me

Pray for me

Play with me

Pray for me

 

pray for me

pray for me

pray for me

pray for me

 

Have compassion for the people who seem to be having the time of their lives. It’s an act.
Talk to me. I’m listening.

 

The first time I heard this song, I thought Sia had peeked into my brain. 
The video is amazing. 

 

Yoga Class, Deconstructed

February 5, 2015 — 111 Comments

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It had been six weeks since I’d been able to breathe, six weeks since the blow to my chest had left my heart charleyhorsed with leftover ache and my lungs restricted. I was living the emotional equivalent of that hackneyed action movie scene, the one where the heroine has been underwater far too long. Just when you think she’s going to die she slashes through the surface and grabs air in big lusty gulps.

I was drowning in several different versions of the truth, all of them weighing me down like kettlebells tied to my ankles.

I had neglected my yoga practice for months. My once limber body had gone stiff, the way Skittle colored Play Doh starts out with the best intentions and gradually dries up, never living up to its full potential.

It dessicates, morphing into the humorless version of itself. Hard, but incredibly easy to crack.

I wished I was doing anything else except a practice whose apparel has become literally the butt of endless online stories. I resent seeing people everywhere refer to “leggings” as “yoga pants.” Those aren’t “driving gloves” unless you regularly wrap them around a steering wheel.

Yoga was not meant to be fashion and if you’ve never worn those pants while doing an inversion, just refer to them as leggings and I can end this paragraph a little less exasperated.

So I went to a Saturday afternoon yoga class; not just any yoga, but hot yoga, which, for the uninitiated, means doing advanced poses in a sauna. A room heated to 104 degrees, with humidity at 40%. I dread it. But I’m convinced it’s the only way to flush out the toxins that have been doing the Foxtrot through my bloodstream since those poison darts leapt off the computer screen and took aim at my heart.

And I’m clinging fiercely to the idea that I’ll have a yoga-induced spiritual epiphany that explains why I choose relationships which reinforce just how little I think I deserve.

Or at least lose a few pounds.

After the teacher chants and instructs us to leave all our earthly possessions at the door, we begin in downward dog, or in my case, sweaty dog panting from heat.

The teacher leads us in a series of sun salutations that get progressively faster and more complicated and I get in touch with why the phrase “hot as hell” was coined. I played yogi slip n slide in my own perspiration and I mull over the possibility that the organs of my body can actually become steamed.

I look at myself in the mirror, a vain counter-yogic move, and in triangle pose notice the cute guy behind me staring at my ass. I’ve noticed him noticing me before; I’ve heard people chat with him and his name is either Don or Jon; it’s hard to be certain in a room constantly waterlogged in sweaty acoustics.

Today, though, I obsess over the sweat droplets that have come together for an impromptu party in my ass crack and wonder if he can see them through the stretched-to-within-an-inch-of-its-life Lycra that covers my butt. And after I shower and dress and check my phone, he’s still lingering around the front of the yoga center. Which can only mean that he’s waiting for ME.

And he is. Don/Jon approaches me and suggests coffee at the Dunkin Donuts next door and I go. I go because it’s a lazy Saturday afternoon in January, and because my kid is with his father; and because I’m high from having pushed my body to its limits and from fresh blood flow;  I go because I like Don/Jon’s puppy doggish exuberance and his obvious pursuit of me – but mostly, I go because I love coffee.

I really love coffee.

My caffeine addiction is the only one I have that hasn’t pushed my dreams off a cliff. I’ve never risked my life for coffee. Not that I wouldn’t; it’s just that one doesn’t have to cruise questionable neighborhoods to procure coffee.

Up close and away from the curtain of steam that blurs everything in the room, Don/Jon is really cute. Lithe, sinewy yoga body aside, he has great hair, a sexy smile and  a killer sense of humor.

I’m not typically attracted to men who do yoga. Every downward douche I’ve ever seen in a yoga class has ended up hooking up with one of the women in the class. It’s why they GO. But I like the idea that I accepted his invitation; that I’m not so jaded that I can’t still occasionally surprise myself.

Coffee talk stretches into late afternoon and I’m surprised to see that its getting dark out. And surprised even more when Don/Jon asks if I’d like to try a Mexican restaurant near his house that he says makes the freshest Pico de gallo this side of Guadalajara. And killer Margaritas, although I don’t really drink.

But I did that evening.

Tequila augments my natural flirtiness and my insecurities are alcohol soluble. I feel attractive because I can feel that he feels attracted to ME. Which is less like an Escher painting than it sounds.

I get tipsy, which shuts off some of the noise in my brain but turns on other noise. We bond over our love for movies, and music, and Breaking Bad, which he talks me into watching at his house.

We end up back at his townhouse, where he makes us more Margaritas and now I am drunk. He has an enormous cozy plush grey couch which looks like a big blimpy manatee, and I sink into the Netflix imprint his butt left in the corner cushion.

Predictably, he starts to kiss me and I haven’t decided how attracted I am to him. But I’m drunk and cozy and sunk into his manatee couch, and at the moment I’d rather kiss him back then push my tequilla-drenched ass into the frosty night.

I hate the cold.

We have 20 minutes of nondescript sex and afterwards he winds around me like a broken slinky.  And I’m thinking I’d like to leave before the sweat dries. Which makes me sound like a sport-fucking man-eater, but it’s really just a way I avoid feeling anything for anyone, and has a high success rate.

I often fantasize about creating an actuarial model using statistics to determine the probability of various romantic risks based on the engagement or avoidance of certain behaviors, and the emotional consequences of those risks. Assign value to certain behaviors and develop mathematical models to evaluate the future romantic implications of, say, performing various sex acts. Or cuddling after. Leaving, or staying the night.

I stay. I don’t want to come off like bitch. I’m anything but a bitch.

I just play one on the Internet.

He falls asleep and I lay there with his arm draped across me, heavy as a fallen tree limb and I stare at the ceiling and write this blog post in my head.

Until about 6:00 am, when dawn’s first light streaks across the sky and I noiselessly hurry to leave, like a vampire in reverse. I get dressed and gather my things and tip toe out, leaving him asleep.

I feel like a ninja escaping into the bruise-colored dawn. I make a clean getaway

I think about him one more time as I pull into my driveway; just once more so I can leave him outside and that’s when it occurs to me, I never found out if his name is Don or Jon. Which bothers me less than the fact that I’m going to have to find a new yoga studio.

 

I don’t have any specific questions. I’m just glad you’re here.
Talk to me.   I’m listening.

 

heroin 2

 

I snapped a picture of my surroundings and sent it to him, so somebody would know where I was.

“Pretty,” he said. “Where is that?”

“Downtown Newark.”

 

Downtown Newark, New Jersey is anything but pretty, but nighttime hides a multitude of sins.

 

“Are you going to score?”

“Yes” I  texted.

“Don’t be a dumbass” he responded.

“If you don’t hear from me in an hour-there’s a problem.”

 

An hour later, I was laying in front of a magical Christmas fireplace with the whole family I never had.

The most magnificent church bells rang in my soul.

My brain was massaged by Kafka and Burroughs,

as I bathed in the warm golden sunshine of a perfect life.

 

 

I squinted at my cell phone at 7:45 the next morning. My cell phone alarm had been beeping for 45 minutes.

7:45? Fuck. I usually am up at 6:30. Get my kid up at 7.

My heart, thudding in my chest, slowed a bit when I recognized the reassuring sounds of his spoon clinking against his bowl of cereal.

I splashed cold water on my face. I was pale except the dark purple circles under my eyes. My hair was matted to my head from sweating profusely. I had a set of scratches on both arms.

I looked like a junkie.

If the shoe fits…

My kid was sitting at the table, dressed and ready for school, eating his breakfast and looking at his tablet. I’ve taught him to be independent in the morning. But not so I can sleep off a dope nod.

“Baby, why didn’t you get me up?”

He shrugged. “Don’t sweat it. Can you make my lunch?”

He didn’t say anything about me wearing yesterday’s clothes. He couldn’t smell the dried vomit on my shirt. I opened the refrigerator door and the light hurt my eyes. Slowly, with shaky hands, I made his lunch.

Mother of the year

This is the last time I get high.

 

—-

 

NYC, April 1995

 

“Where have you been?” I looked up sleepily at Debby. It was 5 am and she had just let herself back into my apartment.

“I couldn’t sleep. I went to cop. You want me to fix you?”

“What day is it?” I looked at the calendar. “No. It’s Tuesday, right? I work today.”

I watched her prep her fix. I loved watching her beautiful, delicate hands do this. Her skilled fingers, the neat flick of her wrist – raised prepping a dope fix to an art form.

“Frenchie just got this in. This shit is supposed to be fire.” She dumped the contents of her packet into a spoon, flicking at the small plastic packet until all the power tumbled out.

“You went to the Laundromat? Why didn’t you go to Clinton Street? If you get busted standing on line outside that stupid place, I’m not bailing you out again.” Now I was annoyed.

“There was no line at this hour. And Frenchie got some really good shit.”

“His stuff is not that good. It’s fent heavy, and cut with too much filler.”

“Samara, this is brand new. It’s called Red Rum.”

Debby added a small amount of water to the dope; the right amount to make it the perfect consistency. She held a lighter to the bottom of the spoon, cooking the mixture to the optimum temperature. She always got it right – hot enough to burn off some of the cut in the dope – but never so hot that it damaged the heroin.

She twisted the cotton off the end of a Q- tip into a tic-tac sized ball. She dropped the tiny puff into the heroin and it swelled up like a sponge. She pushed the tip of the syringe into the center of the cotton, which filtered out impurities.

Slowly, she retracted the plunger until all of the heroin was sucked in.

Using her index and middle fingers she gently slapped a vein right above the crook of her elbow. She never had to pull back the plunger, like most junkies did, to draw blood up the syringe and make sure she was in a vein.

She never missed.

I watched her eyes take on that faraway look of exquisite pleasure, as her brain rode the waves of that first rush. Her facial muscles slackened, her body swayed. She looked at me and smiled.

“I’m…so…high…”

 

Those were her last words.

 

Her eyes rolled back in her head. She slumped to the floor. Her lips turned blue, then purple.

All in slow motion.

I did nothing. I was paralyzed with fear. I could not bring myself to touch her. I called 911 and babbled hysterically.

I could actually see a faint pulse throbbing irregularly in her throat. Her breathing was shallow. Her skin was the yellow color of cafeteria cheese.

She was dying.

She was dying, and I couldn’t bear to watch it.

 

I ran out of my apartment and stumbled out onto the street. I had on no coat or shoes, and even though it was mid-April, it was only a raw, cold 40 degrees. I ran through the streets barefoot, wild and desperate, going nowhere.

The police and EMT workers arrived 11 minutes after I called 911. The 5th precinct was only 8 short city blocks away.

But an overdose, on the Lower East Side? That’s how you clean up the streets. Human pesticide, as far as the police were concerned.

By the time we all got inside my apartment, Debby was dead.

 

A memorial service was held for Debby at St. Marks Church in the Bowery, the second oldest church in New York and a legendary performance space. Debby knew everyone, and everyone knew Debby.

Her memorial service was standing room only. They allowed acoustic music, and several of NYC’s leading punk musicians unplugged and performed.

 

Debby had introduced me to rock stars and gangsters, and heroin and lesbianism. She was the first and only woman I ever fell deeply in love with.

I wrote a spoken word poem, dedicated to her memory, and performed it at her memorial service.

It was the last time I ever performed spoken word in front of a live audience.

 

After the service I copped several dime bags of smack down on Clinton Street.

My boyfriend’s face, when he saw them, darkened with rage. He snatched the packets off the table.

“What?!” I demanded. “WHAT?? This is the last time I get high!”

Apparently not. He flushed the drugs down the toilet. He snapped my works in half and threw the pieces out of the window.

 

I kicked heroin cold turkey. There was no money for fancy rehab. My family knew nothing of my addiction, and even if they had, they could never afford to send me to some posh Bahamian recovery ranch.

The plan was simple. My boyfriend would not let me leave the house.

The withdrawal was not so simple.

I had excruciating pain in every muscle of my body. For three days, I threw up violently, and had horrible bouts of diarrhea. I was weak and dehydrated but couldn’t keep food down. I suffered with severe flu-like symptoms; sneezing and sniffling and dizziness and fever. Sweat poured off of me constantly; I was dangerously dehydrated. Sleep would have been a welcome relief, but there was no way I could fall asleep. I had frightening visual and auditory hallucinations.

I was in agony, and clearly belonged in a hospital. But we were terrified of any possible legal consequences. A woman had just died in my apartment. Could they press charges against me for possession?

By the second day, my boyfriend had to call both his brother and his cousin – who played in a band with him – for reinforcements. It took THREE GROWN MEN to keep me inside that apartment and away from my dealers.

I turned into a snarling, cursing beast. In between raging bouts of excruciating pain and illness, I fought them with the strength of 10 men.

My boyfriend’s brother was a recovered heroin addict. I sobbed uncontrollably to him and said,
”This is what it feels like to DIE.”

He answered, “NO. This is what it feels like to LIVE.”

 

By the third night I was drained and exhausted, and managed to fall asleep at dawn for a few hours.

I awoke Sunday morning. My muscles had stopped spasming in pain.

My boyfriend pulled back the shades that had been drawn for days.
“Let’s get some air in here,” he said.

He opened the large casement windows. Just then, in the distance, church bells began to chime.

It sounded like life.

It was Easter Sunday morning. And like Jesus, I had risen from the dead.

 

 

All these years later, and nothing in my life is certain – but my mind craves certainty. And because of this, my day to day existence is one of constant anxiety.

Everything in my life has been questioned and found to be hollow.

There is a price to pay for feeling broken.

Sadness throbs through my body.

I’m aware of how I’m perceived, but I can’t feel it.

 

Heroin renders me immortal. I am LOVE. I am what all humans seek through religion and spirituality.

On heroin, I am my vision of myself.

I’m the friend who doesn’t disappear, wallowing in her own self-indulgence.

I’m the writer who inspires, rather than constantly crawling through the wreckage of her squandered life, allowing readers to feast on the carnage.

I’m the woman he loves, passionately. Because she is a person worthy of that kind of love.

I’m the mother my child deserves, not the one who’s exhausted and impatient and irritable.
Not the selfish bitch who risked her life to get a fucking fix.

 

 

This is the LAST time I get high.

This IS the last time I get high.

THIS. Is the last time I get high.

 

 

 What is, or was, your drug of choice? What finally made you stop?
Did you ever write a post you just weren’t sure you should write, but you did anyway?
Are you tired of your problems? Are you tired of mine?

Talk to me. I’m listening.

 

This is the most simple, most perfect, most beautiful song about heroin addiction ever.

Everyone’s favorite dilettante, and my dear friend Helena Hann-Basquiat, has another BOOK coming out!

I adore this woman’s writing – and NOT just because she said on Facebook that she thinks there should be “I Heart Samara” tee shirts.

It’s my honor (or “honour,” as she would spell it) to be one of the bloggers hosting her cover reveal. She really classes the place up, doncha think?

And HERE IT IS – *drumroll*

THE BIG COVER REVEAL!

 

Helena Cover Boa 4

 

Is it too early to serve Greyhounds? Fresh grapefruit juice only.

 

COMING SPRING 2015 — official date TBA

Memoirs of a Dilettante Volume Two is the second collection of reminiscences, following Helena Hann-Basquiat, a self-proclaimed dilettante who will try anything just to say that she has, and her twenty-something niece, who she has dubbed the Countess Penelope of Arcadia.

Speaking of Arcadia, this volume delves into Helena’s childhood, as she revisits what she calls the Arcadia of the mind — that place that keeps us trapped and holds us back from our potential. Some of her most personal stories are included here, interspersed with hilarious stories of misadventure. It’s not a novel, really, and it’s not a memoir, by the strictest definition. But most of what follows, as they say, is true. Sort of. Almost. From a certain point of view.

Discover Helena’s tales for the first time or all over again, with new notes and annotations for the culturally impaired — or for those who just need to know what the hell was going through her mind at the time!

Cover art by Hastywords. (Another person I adore. God, I have talented friends!)

Helena is going to be running a crowdfunding/pre-order campaign at Pubslush, a community focused solely on indie writers, and has set up a profile there to launch Memoirs of a Dilettante Volume Two.

For more information, and to follow the progress, Become a Fan at http://HelenaHB.pubslush.com

If you just can’t wait and you want a taste of Helena’s writing, follow her blog: http://helenahannbasquiat.wordpress.com/

If you just can’t get enough Helena, or you want updates on further goings on, release dates and miscellaneous mayhem, follow Helena on Twitter @hhbasquiat

 

 

helena-h-bThe enigmatic Helena Hann-Basquiat dabbles in whatever she can get her hands into just to say that she has.

She’s written cookbooks, ten volumes of horrible poetry that she then bound herself in leather she tanned poorly from cows she raised herself and then slaughtered because she was bored with farming.

She has an entire portfolio of macaroni art that she’s never shown anyone, because she doesn’t think that the general populous or, “the great unwashed masses” as she calls them, would understand the statement she was trying to make with them.

Some people attribute the invention of the Ampersand to her, but she has never made that claim herself.

In 2014, she published Memoirs of a Dilettante Volume One, several e-books which now make up Volume Two, as well as a multimedia collaborative piece of meta-fictional horror entitled JESSICA.

Memoirs of a Dilettante Volume One is available HERE in e-book for Kindle or HERE in paperback.

Helena writes strange, dark fiction under the name Jessica B. Bell.

Find more of her writing at http://www.helenahb.com or http://whoisjessica.com or connect with her via Twitter @HHBasquiat.