October 9, 2012
My dear ones
I can’t help but be torn, so much detail is missing. The connective tissue. Even my children Leilah and Jeordie aren’t really in it. Beau is doing the music, so he is a presence. It’s theatre meets reality show, as I am actually there. Now if I were dead, it would be simpler. We could embellish more, get a frumpy gorgeous person to play me (mostly the narrator/singer). “Oh Melanie, don’t call yourself frumpy.”
But I just woke up – I have vintage Melanie all around me, and I’ve gotten older. I’ve been busy. I didn’t notice. And mostly, I see myself from the front, or my face at a three quarter angle. So I’m here, and I get to play myself. I’m not sure it’s right. The nobility police are in the wings I’m certain, waiting. The political party of taste, grace and poise won’t even attend ~ but the music ~ I take a deep breath. The music is living. Life is for the living. And the music will remember and will out. I’ve always been on someone else’s train and now if I get to the wrong place, my dear ones, it’s no one’s fault but my own.
Melanie and the Record Man. The image of the black train going through the night forests, with wolves ~ leaving behind everything familiar, yet the compartments are cozy and filled with joy and hot chocolate.
My dear ones, joy and hot chocolate.