...the Storytelling Fairies must have a Sense of Humor!!

 

 

https://www.npr.org/2021/11/24/1057250055/dave-grohl-storyteller-from-nirvana-to-foo-fighters

The most recent scene I'm editing in Hawthorn Moon introduces the up-and-coming early '90's Seattle grunge band, Nirvana. So, again, within hours of the editing what do I hear on the radio but a remarkable NPR Fresh Air interview of David Grohl, former Nirvana drummer, recently inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame for his work with his band the Foo Fighters.

Okay, so yes, more remarkable Synchronicity, but here's where a "sense of humor" comes in...yes, incredible that at this point in my editing "Nirvana" should be featured on a national media stage in 2021...but more...David Grohl has written a memoir...titled...

THE STORYTELLER!!!!!

 

Tell me the Storytelling Fairies don't have a sense of humor!!

 

HAWTHORN MOON SCENE MENTIONING NIRVANA

 

 

“Dear November…during this month of the Hawthorn Moon, if you select your soulmate, the one who will be the Truth in the bevy of false suitors—that person will become the one true magical love you will ever need. Go get it, girl. Your life can be a fairytale. It’s not so complex anymore…a simple beautiful love. People would give years of their lives to have ten minutes of the love they would see in you with your beloved. A life like that is almost like being in heaven, and believe me I would know. On the other hand, if you should choose one of the comely others, for the wrong reasons, and granted they are all sweet, you will be fated to dilly-dally around with two or three mid level lovers at the same time for the rest of your life. Not without some happiness, mind you, but much exhaustion, drama, and love triangles will follow you to your grave—your days full of secrets and trysts, falling in and out of love over and over and over again.”

After delivering that prophetic warning, shaking me to the core, like God delivering the Ten Commandments to Moses on Mount Sinai, Lady Luna began vocalizing a rather disturbing melody—thrash edgy, defiant…not at all Camelot. Of course I totally liked it.

“What are you humming?” I asked her.

“Oh…Nirvana.”

Then, right on cue, a vision of her prophesy began to unfold right above my head as dozens of pitchers full of sloshing beer appeared, I suppose representing my many male suitors, marching in lockstep unison, like in Fantasia with the sorcerer’s apprentice, Luna the sorcerer, wearing her magic hat; the broomstick suitors—coming…coming…coming…coming.

The sky opened. I cried with pure May rain joy—drenched with amorous men ready to proclaim their undying love and devotion.

The feeling of being desired was an admitted vain weakness of mine and I need it like a crack addict needs their next fix, so much so I couldn’t tell the difference between being in love and loving to be loved.

 

Yes...Here We Go Again...

 

 
 

 https://www.usatoday.com/story/life/2021/11/17/frida-kahlo-self-portrait-sells-record-breaking-34-9-million/8648571002/

This pat on the head by the Storytelling Fairies is a bit more subtle, but no less effective. Within hours of editing a Hawthorn Moon chapter titled, Frida Kahlo Red, the national news was letting the world know that one of her self portraits had just been sold for 34 million dollars.

Now, Frida Kahlo, was an arcane choice on the part of the author to begin with, and this reference was written into her manuscript several years ago, long before she became famous in her own right. So, another case of a remarkable occurrence, guided Synchronicity...letting the Hawthorn Moon writing team know that our storytelling efforts are not going unnoticed! 

 

CHAPTER 10 FRIDA KAHLO RED

 

…I walk with pride with a Black girlfriend…

…my mom said not to bring her around.

                                                                  Everclear

 

My lips tasted like sweat, someone else’s. My lower lip had just started bleeding.

“So…you’re a vampire?”

My blood was a healthy red, a spring red, on his face. He picked me up like that last cheerleader launched to the top of a Friday Night Lights pyramid—the one the crowd was waiting for. He held me so tight. I wanted to be broken, shattered on the burnt caramel carpet.

“Do you believe in magic?”

“Are you the magic?”

“Now, that would be you…Miss Moonbright.”

Jupiter—the Prince of Light, that centaur bowing his arrow, galloping with confidence through the Milky Way.

 

Frida Kahlo once said, “Take a lover who looks at you like you might be magic.”

There it was…that feeling, like this moment was all I had ever wanted, or would ever want, and it did not matter because he was fucking everything.

He carefully turned me over and kept repeating, my favorite…my favorite…my favorite. Then, a whispered…love you, as my face buried deep into the hard hotel pillow.

Like all spells of magic and sorcery, they can shatter, like a windshield in a car collision, into shards of jagged daggers, daggers that can damage and deform.

“I am very fond of our relationship, Miss Moonbright,” his words delivered slow and soft, as if he was confessing—not full of the velvety crunch of his day-to-day swagger.

I could not see his face. It was nestled in my hair and looking backwards. Maybe he was kissing me. Fond…that word freaked me into a much-too-easy role.  Fuck Fond…I erupted in my mind, like Joan Crawford in those ‘60’s horror flicks. Did he forget he was dealing with a Warrior?

It felt like I was too drunk on a Chardonnay that had spent much too much time in an oak barrel, it was bubbling up from my stomach and I was going to vomit right there and then on the itchy pretend wool blanket. Fond…a word to describe a favorite cheeky aunt, or a chubby backyard squirrel you see chomping on hazelnuts through your window while you sip that first cup of morning coffee. I almost shouted…you suck, you fucking asshole, but didn’t.

Damn, there I go again, wanting to use four-letter words. At least this time I only thought the F-bomb…really have to cut back on my cursing. Luna would say, it’s just not ladylike—but am I a lady?

Anyway, there it was again…that haunting symbol, this time on the door lock—the Hawthorn Rune sign. The pitted brass seemed to glow. Did it want to help me?

Escape…bust a move and boast a lie.

“Life is too short for bad sex…and I have lots of opportunities,” I hissed, dressing and quickly gathering my things.

I grabbed the door handle, feeling like Sigourney Weaver’s Ripley—strong, fearless, badass. I did not slam the door though, didn’t need to.

Some Broadway show tune was bellowing in the halls of the hotel. Twilight was creeping into the new day and rainbows were already bouncing off the shiny vinyl wallpaper.

Now running, a heroine in my own film noir movie, I collided with a chambermaid. You could hardly see her tiny frame, balancing armfuls of once white sheets. She gave me a quick nod and started stuffing them in a way-too-small garbage hamper.

“Miss, excuse me, but if you’re throwing those out, please let me take them. I can use them for god’s sake!”

Life. Can we make a musical after all?

She was tiny, young, and probably did not speak much English, but someone taking the work burden off of your shoulders is a universal language.

Her lipstick was red—Frida Kahlo red.

She said with crispy, tidy English, “You are welcome to my garbage.”

    

 

 

 

Tupperware & the Storytelling Fairies

 

 

Well, do I have to say it...yep, the Storytelling Fairies were at it again today...within hours of editing a scene in Hawthorn Moon dealing with "refrigerators & Tupperware" I pull into the parking lot of my Mocha Lisa Cafe Heritage Press office and what do I see but the van above, a vehicle I'd never before seen at the cafe or in my life.

And, to make this unlikely Synchronous event even more impossible without some Storytelling Fairy influence, I spoke to the lady driving the van, she told me that a girlfriend had her come to the cafe's open house a few days ago, she won a raffle prize, and was only there for a few minutes to pick up the prize!

REMARKABLE...

 

THE TUPPERWARE SCENE FROM HAWTHORN MOON

 

Ooooh ‘70s…digging the retro vibe at the Holiday Inn, greeted by huge cantaloupe-colored pendant lights—designed as enormous ice cubes meeting each other, some sticking out together. The glow from them was dim and dingy, like a ripe avocado pit…totally relaxing.

Perhaps I do have more in common with my mom than I thought. She would whisper these pat phrases, like you were privy to some fabulous secret. One of her favorites was, some women dream of Gregory Peck, some women dream of Glenn Ford, I dream of a refrigerator full of Tupperware.

I was little when she would talk about the refrigerator we never got. I told dad in a whisper once that if we ever got one I wanted to live in it, but it could not be that ugly lame green, it had to be a pretty one—harvest gold. Dad’s eyes brightened as he replied, “If you get cold in the fridge, you should wear a sweater the color of tangerines.”

“Thanks for coming here, Mr. Marcus Aurelius. Mommy really wanted to see Aaron do his Elvis thing, and well, it even smells like fun here,” said Angela, breaking into her favorite hip-hop moves for emphasis before adding, “my brothers…had a group, Brothers 5, and they taught me everything I know about dance,” to explain her soft-shoe skills before anyone even asked.

Marcus joined in with a sweet Michael Jackson spin just for emphasis and replied, “How do you like that, Miss Angela with an A. I’m here for your Momma Rosa…all in, no other reason.”

He smiled, his head slightly tilted, as Angela shook her shag haircut and blew Marcus a kiss, leaving her tongue slightly below her two front teeth.

“You like Elvis, don’t you? I mean, everyone likes Elvis,” Angela added.

“I’m Black…does that answer your question?”