Posted on

you guys are killing me this week

Nightfly’s send-up of my film noir heart. Brilliant. It was in the comments, but I had to give it its own post. (If you read this blog and you’re not reading the comments — especially lately, you are MISSING OUT. Best part of the blog.)

I’ve been in this racket a long time, and after a while you get a nose for trouble. Some people say it’s the Lord; me, I always figured that if He had to tell me wise then I wasn’t doin’ His work. Well, when she walked into the narthex, right away I could tell this dame was trouble. It wasn’t the black bra under the blouse. Dame’s got a right to wear what she wants where she don’t want guys lookin’, and I’ll bust anyone square in the chops if he don’t like it. I don’t have an NRA sticker on my car for giggles, mister.

But the vest was a dead giveaway. It wasn’t a fashion statement, it was a cry for help, right from the bottom of her noir heart. People hear that cry, they run – if they’re smart. Well, I’m plenty smart, smart enough to know better, but I see too many runners in my line. Usually they run to me. That’s why I’m standin’ here. The name’s Hammer – Father Mike Hammer. A collar and a Colt, that’s my angle.

Still laughing, NF. Too many geniuses reading this meager blog.

And, hey, the vest was denim and cute. Uhm, I think?? I don’t know.

Okay. Seriously. It was a cry for help.

Posted on

to jenn

Jenn,

I accidentally deleted your email yesterday when dealing with an attack of spam in my inbox, so I’m not able to respond to you that way. But thank you so much for your lovely email — your words really touched me, made a big difference for me. You have a generous heart. Thank you for extending a piece of it to me.

Posted on

snippets

At Saturday breakfast, I smile at the old lady at the table next to us.

Old Lady: You’re so pretty.
Me: Oh, well, thank you.
Old Lady: And you smiled at me. (forlorn) Nobody ever smiles at anyone anymore.

Kinda broke my heart a little.

**********

He: I have no idea what happened last night.
Me: Nothing happened last night.
He: Okay.
Me: We turned to liquid hot magma and died.
He: I think I fell asleep at 8:00.
Me: Uhm, 7:30.
He: I can’t be conscious in this heat.

**********

Cooking in the heat.

Me: I made spaghetti. I really suffered.
He: Ohh, baby. It smells like suffering.
Me: Uhm, you’re being sympathetic, right?
He: Of course, hon.
Me: Hm. I was going to tell you the sweat of my suffering is making my yoga pants slide off my body, but now I’m not.

Posted on

i …. i …. have no words …..

Dear blog friend Brian sent me this today — saying it was for Sheila and me — based on this post where I talk about — oh, God knows what — my gun and MB’s fantasy man date based on an NRA sticker sighting and how perky Bob violated his man space, blahdie blah. Well, the comments in that thread are insane, basically — pony rides with guns were discussed at one point, I believe — and the whole thing inspired Brian to Photoshop this bit of crazy genius:

shootentracey.jpg

Seriously, Brian — I mean, I emailed you already, but I could not breathe — this is killing me. Tears of laughter. And look, that is my gun exactly, my .22! Check out my little purple duds, too! Frankly, Happy Pie Tracey never looked better and, I have to say, I really want this outfit. Those shoes! Brian, you dressed me better than I dress myself, thank you.

And you have to explain how this all came about, I beg you.

LOOK AT THAT INSANE STUFFED PONY!!

Go, gun totin’ Tracey, go!! Look how manic I am about sporting a firearm. Who needs pie? I got me a GUN.

I love how those pants are just round enough in the butt to suggest a hidden diaper.

And “drunken slatterns” — hahahahaha.

I’m rambling out of my mind here. Brian, how insane and sweet and hilarious of you. I can’t believe you took the time to make this. Thank you!! You made my day!!

(Okay. I’ve exceeded my exclamation point quota for the WEEK here.)

Posted on

“dulcinea” from “ally mcbeal”

I remember watching this episode of Ally McBeal several years ago now — the episode the short clip below is from. You don’t really need a context, thank God, because I don’t remember enough of the episode to give you one.

The clip simply shows Ally sitting at her little upright piano in the final moments of the episode and plucking out the tune to Dulcinea from “Man of La Mancha” — a song her dad used to sing to her. His voice joins in and sings with her.

But when I saw it, it had a completely different context to me. The song of Dulcinea could just as easily be the song of the childless woman. That’s what I heard when I saw this episode. These are exactly the words you sing to the children you don’t have. The children you swear you know, the children you know you love, but still, the children who are not here. And the visual at the end of this clip — well, that’s the life of the childless woman, during the worst of it, when you want to die.

I put this clip up not for my sake, no, but for anyone you might know going through this right now. Mourning what doesn’t exist. Going crazy from it. Feeling haunted. Wondering if they’ll ever come out the other side. Pray for them, okay? Or just say a prayer in general for the childless, for the single who long for children, too.

Be forewarned: I don’t make it through this clip dry-eyed — ever — and you might not either.

There are so many people walking around mourning so much that people just don’t see, aren’t there?

(partial lyrics below)

I have dreamed thee too long,
Never seen thee or touched thee.
But known thee with all of my heart.
Half a prayer, half a song,
Thou hast always been with me,
Though we have been always apart.

Dulcinea… Dulcinea…
I have sought thee, sung thee,
Dreamed thee, Dulcinea!

And thy name is like a prayer
An angel whispers… Dulcinea… Dulcinea ….
Dulcinea …. Dulcinea ….

Posted on

“smoke gets in your eyes”

By JD Souther, from the movie Always. I actually like this better than the original version by The Platters. Nearly impossible song to sing — the highs and lows of it — but this is so beautiful and heartwrenching. I’ve always loved his voice. I just want to slow dance to this song, right now. Rips right through me.

(The image is static and annoying, but it’s the only version I could find of this. So, again, just listen.)

Posted on

the well of sighs

And one dawn, before she is born, he takes her to a high emerald hill. Scattered across the hilltop are wells of stone, white stones, grey stones, mossy stones. He leads her by the hand, stops to point to one, and says, This. This one is yours.

He motions her to lean in. She does, but sees only darkness.

Listen, he says.

Then she hears them. The sighs. A woman’s sighs. Breathy and full of sorrow.

I don’t understand, she says.

Listen, he repeats.

For a moment, there is only a black silence. Then come the sobs, the shrieks, the wails. She holds her ears against them all.

She is yours, he says simply, and you are hers.

I don’t understand, she says again.

He turns to her and searches her face for a long moment. When he is done, she knows, without knowing how she knows, what he means.

And her heart quakes. Falters.

No, she says in a panic, glancing around at the other wells. I want a different one.

She runs to the next well and leans in, straining. Silence. The next one. Silence. A third. More silence.

But these are quiet. These are still. I want one of these. Please. Please ….

He takes her trembling hand, leads her back to the first well.

You can’t hear them because they’re not for you.

As they stand gazing in, he tells her all the things that have fallen into that well. Dark things and jagged things and cold things. As he speaks she sees each one. Things that make her shiver and weep. Things that make her blood run cold.

He holds her close and says, Can’t you see? She needs you to love her. Can you try to love her?

She nods, face wet in her hands.

Come. It’s her time. She’s ready for you to be born.