16 Days - Barking to clear the mind
Praise God!
French version of Paint It Black… let European woman serenade you on this delicious November night.
I want to say thank you for reaching a milestone on Substack! Many new exclusive subscribers, men of fire and women of velvet who I can’t wait to write The Holy Misfits story with.
The price is increasing to $10 starting tomorrow.
This won’t change your price per month if you signed up while it was at $5.
Join HERE.
Godspeed and NOW:
An excerpt from Celebrating The Funeral because, as of this moment, I can hear the full moon calling out to me and I’m attempting to walk naked through the forest. So as you can understand there is a lot of preparation involved in this as #1 I must do more sit ups in case I run into anyone out there and #2 I need to spend the next five minutes Whim Hoff breathing to prepare for the chill.
Oh also. Today is last day to use the code on Private Substack at bottom of this post to get signed copy for the price of regular. Okay okay okay I know. Now that marketing is over and my business manager has been knocked out with a wrench we can proceed:
Turning a corner to the gallery and there’s a sign that flashes into focus above the front door telling everybody: “The Jungle: Tonight @ 6PM. $10 Entry.” A quick touch to my back pocket confirms what I suspected; no money. But it is the 21st century! It is the day of women's equality! It is Juliet’s turn to pay! And while thinking of this great justice! Thinking of this great act of improving gender relations I’m interrupted by a small “hey ____!” squeak from behind me.
Conscious and cool I turn my head in a controlled way, trying not to snap around, and I realize the person in front of me is hardly recognizable. Her smile and honey eyes give it away but that’s all. Everything else is different.
Juliet dyed her hair blonde in the later hours of last night, after the concert while I was on the roof dealing with Kassandra (he/they.) Deep and too the roots, not a hint of black showing. The yellow glows under the gallery sign, lights pulled straight into it, bouncing them back to me. She doesn’t even look like herself. She’s edited. The more I look, the more obvious this becomes. A beige cashmere sweater drapes over long arms thin enough to insinuate childhood malnourishment or social stigma’d bulimia. I’ll ask about the status of her socio-economic upbring later. Along with the sweater she’s wearing wide legged pants that, unlike the denim, are loose enough to blow in the wind and when they do, you can see the hint of a black sandal that’s pushing her to a total height of 5 '3. She looks good, regal. I add ‘ask her what else she did differently’ to the list but for now I’m just tossing her a smile and when she returns it I imagine how short-limbed our children would be. It’s a scary thought that makes me want to turn, run, and save the ancestry.
I need to step away for a minute. “Be right back, have to make a call.”
And I go towards the “lost dog” poster on the streetlight, grab the number and call it on the payphone. When they answer I start barking.
