Mojo.

The smallest things can offer the greatest comfort.Great,now I am going to the the pin-up saint for tampon dicked men the world over.Not that kind of small thing.The finer points people,not to worry….This fine morning I am thinking about the kindness of women,the return of mojo and fresh clarity.

Ever the analytical Virgo with her details.

I am finding affirming solace in the most stunning sounds and details.It’s almost like some kind of crystal clean acid flashback .(Joey Ramone is now singing in my head “Somebody put something in my drink.” )

Whatever it is I have a pulse again (“CLEAR!,c’mon you ungrateful bitch! Breathe for me dammit!”) and the angles are weeping vodka and glitter.Thank you Elvis.Here! Have a Quaalude,I love you.

I’m back.

Done with sticking pins under my fingernails to see if I can feel anything but I ain’t getting cocky with my blue eyed amazonian self just yet, nuh-uh,no fucking way,baby steps for me .But I am out of the cotton wool and the long night of the blah,blah,whatever,you get the picture..Hallelujah.I am the emotional equivalent of Bambi on ice some days but hey,you work with watchoo got.

The coterie of fine and fierce woman that have bolstered me since my  stricken return to these shores well over a year ago.62 kilos of torment and heartbreak.I looked like I was dying and I believed that I was.So,unfortunately did my long suffering mother.Oh the guilt. But my friends who saw me when I could not see myself? Remembered all that had been wiped from the hard drive of my hollow heart,the hundreds of text messages that the show like flaming arrows into my impenetrable dark,never giving up? Gold.Pure gold.I don’t know what I did to deserve them but I thank Ron Ashton and all the available saints for them daily.

I was working with a cool as fuck chick at Club 77 a few months ago who bailed to go back to school.All indie cred and rock-star hair ,Miss Kelly took a shine to the bruised fruit with great boots that I was upon arrival. We spoke of The cruel Sea and stupid poisonous boys.I informed her that my sex drive had been duct taped,kidnapped and executed somewhere on the Jersey shore.Effortlessly through brunette bangs she snorted like a stallion and fetchingly rolled her eyes.The next week I arrived,all tits and legs down the dark stairs well before opening time to find a white CD on the low coffee table by the bruised Chesterfield lounge suites that coughed ashamedly when sat upon.It read “Micheles’ mojo Mix”. I laughed my pirate butt off and sprang for a bucket of sashimi that we ate leaning on the bar as I studied myself with a critical eye in the mirror between the bottles and she hacked up a stack of lemons…and into the breech once more.

I threw it in the stereo the next afternoon.A pulsating raunchy mix of everything from Patti Smith to Bob Log.I did laundry to it while decked out in pink terry toweling hot pants and a Motley crue tee shirt.I looked for my mojo as I hausfraued to the swinging sexy sounds but alas to no avail.

But it was such a kind gesture.

My friend Glen from Skinlab has a pug named Mojo who I want to kiss the face clean off ,a fine and noble hound for sure.It’s a great magazine that I pay far too much money for each month on import from England….but mine? My mojo?

M.I.A.That’s “Missing in action”.Not the chick who sings “Paper planes”.

A-hem.

Kindness.I don’t know what I did to deserve it, Allow me a roll call of some of the fine  wenches who didn’t give up on me.Don’t mind if I do.

Miss Belle emailing me to Miss Marissa giving me a stamp that tells people exactly how they can fuck off.Miss Emma,my gift of a friend and super-talent who always knows when to say the right thing and Lili White-tiger on the front line heroic and usually slightly tipsy.Miss Karen white blonde and eternal,Miss Suzanne of the tundras and Lisa Faye of the LBC.Miss Nina in her shack by the ocean and the Diamond Lil…

I never thought I was ever going to see my way clear but the gifts people! The gods of small places…

Listen to Sam Cooke,run to Raw Power,glitter pens,ramen noodles,perfect grapes,scaring idiots on public transport.I know,this shit sounds like I am gonna get hit by a bus or that my lithium has kicked in.But I mean it.This is what my exasperated shrink would term “A breakthrough”

I was shit out of luck and hope.I thought I was going to feel faulted and despondent forever.And now here come the faintest and foxiest chink of light through my black out curtains since the dawn of fucking time ( That would be,according to his Royal fucking brilliance,Sir Bon Scott,may he rest in peace,1955.When White man had the schmaltz and Black man had the blues. …Listen,if you, for some clinically insane fucking reason that I cannot even begin fathom let alone begin to understand, don’t own a copy of “Let there be rock” never darken my doorstep again you heathen fucks.) The little Prince kisses scars and removes cataracts and I am on my knock knees with gratitude.

Saved and safe..

I dug me.No lie.I fell into my flesh and resonated for the 1st time in almost two shit lashed years.At that last show I could taste my words,the weight and power .And I swooned as they swan dived off my tongue and into the microphone.I heard my voice roaring out of my pouty old cake-hole on the weekend and I liked it.

The next day I sat down with my guitar and practiced.I finished songs.I have secured recording time in the new year.

It finally sank in through the good grace and overwhelming kindness of others that maybe,just maybe, certain things,situations beyond my control that I took hard enough to almost kill me were not my fault or problem at all. Since this befell my thick cranium much like a Slayer fueled anvil in a cartoon I have been dreaming again.God,how I missed it!

Roaming around in my addled mind picking daisies and looking dangerously hot.I aint gonna drop my eyes no more.Hell no.Not going to let anyone near me either but that’s not the point.The point is that I am gonna get near me and no, I am not talking about rubbing one out although it’s not totally out of the question at this stage of the game.I was gonna start with holding my own hand is you really wanna know…Man! If you could just see the look of animal cunning on my fine boned feral face right now…I look like I should have a fucking canary feather stuck on my wet bottom lip.

Meow.

Alive! Alive! Alive.Woooo!

Clean fuel into my leggy corpse if you please!I have not inhaled a tic-tac in three  whole motherfucking days!!!  (I know,I am hearing the Jane’s Addiction song now too and that is as fine as paint,fine as cotton candy… ) Sugar free red bull and the gym opens like a knife wound at my shady 3am arrival.And I sweat.I drip,I am soaked,I sweat all the times I was hurt,all the times I was looked through,all the nights I was not kissed and made to feel insane by proxy.It runs cloudy and stains my grey sweats and I don’t stop.

You must have mixed me up with some former flame or underestimated me.I am never going to stop.Boo-ya sucks to me.

I am soaking in it.Pouring off my dermis and I can see and sense more at long lamented last.I can taste the air and I roam,I rebuild and roam.I think of my new band and wonder what I have left to hock to get a new amp.I write till my hand cramps, in long neglected yellow covered spirax note books.I stand a little taller and find my self remembering that I am a real live girl and it makes me blush.A drunk old homeless man serenaded me with blistering off key renditions of mid-eighties Rod Stuart songs on the train tonight and I grinned. “YOO are a ROOL stunner love!!! ” he bellowed smelling of dirt,desperation and cheap red wine .He  looked around the carriage  for affirmation.The three business men across from me smiled and one winked kindly and intoned gravely,with what I would like to believe was utmost sincerity “Absolutely.”

I turned a charming shade of puce and floated off at my stop.

La,la,la….Hot pants,tube sox,roller skates,green toenails,Sticky Fingers….mmmm…mmmm….mmmmm…*sigh*

I’ll  tell you what is safe? War on the outside and all the tricky hot shit that makes your heart go faster and sing along to Motorhead on the-slowly-being-rebuilt- inside. Held aloft by broken guitar strings and shrouded in lurid Mexican serapes,mismatched crystals stolen from palace chandeliers fill the floor to ceiling windows and vomit rainbows onto the pristine white sheets upon which my healing Hello Kitty heart purrs and smiles in her sleep.Yes!Yes! YES!!!!

Look,I know that it’s all ragingly PG,but I am done,done,done with empty porn and dead eyes thank you very bloody much! You can shove that up your ass sideways and be gone! This is my imagination and my script ( stamps foot petulantly) …  I dream of a hand in mine,an almost kiss, callused fingertips tracing lips swollen with the wanton after effects of a monster make-out session,sly looks,stolen contact,heart palpitations,dilated pupils and candy sweet shared spit… See,my theory is,if it is all so peachy keen pre-teen and only in my imagination I can not get hurt again.Why waste time with reality when I can sit though the sweetest loops of make believe projected on the white walls in my mind? Exactly.

The sheer mind boggling fact that these thoughts and dreams are making a wet and wildly welcome return to my frigid fine self makes me happy as all hell,have no doubt there, but also so very relieved.

I am fucking brilliant ,me.

The best relationships I have ever had never even existed.There is a lot to be said for romance and longing….

Because I want to feel beautiful again.Because I finally know that I can.Blame the gym.I can feel my shape shifting.Thank Miss Ash for forcing me to get ready to be a shoot-able object of somewhat fickle and specific desire.Blame my military instincts instilled when I was a kid that make me man up and stop whining at the 11th hour,thank Elvis in his pink Cadillac on high.Amen.

And the fact that if I quit and die my enemies win.By the way,fuck my enemies.They are so sub-par and I have to go get a pedicure.Important things  to worry about ,dig?

My hair swinging,my teeth done.I can smell my perfume and it makes me feel hot and dangerous and fuck it! Ain’t that just the way a white-trash rock powered cowgirl is meant to feel? Hell yes.Yes it is.

I was told “Get your wings”

It’s time ,so I believe that that is exactly what I am gonna do.

Maybe wings and mojo constitute the same thing? There is a thought…I don”t know if that is the case but I plan on having one hell of a time finding out….

Now ,if you will excuse me?  I have a rather pressing appointment in my over fertile and epic re-booted  imagination to audition as one of the Rolling Stones back up singers in 1971.