Se vi stavate chiedendo dove diavolo fosse finita Courtney Love, be' sappiate che è viva e vegeta. E posta spesso sul suo myspace. Cose come questa:
Well, I wouldn't be living in Los Angeles. Despite the crashing waves, I mean the MIGHTY ocean pounding outside my home day in and night out, I feel disconnected from nature. I feel, as a parent, I'm sure; there are many mistakes I have made. Duh. But, I feel I have disconnected my child from nature. LA is for work. I come home thru the canyons from the Valley thinking, "I've given you the best years and you give me emptiness and a sort of grin and bear it sorrow."
The adage of "if you can make it in NY you can make it anywhere" is such a MASSIVE load of horseshit. Try being asskissingly nice because you truly loathe the amoral thing someone has done, but everyone's fucking smiling as they stick in the knives, because there are no seasons and there's all sunshine. Oh, every fucking cliché is true.
Now, if I don't get my ass off this thing and hit my rhyming dictionary I'm going to have one major asskicking. This record is the Most Important Thing I have ever done other than to Give Birth to my Daughter. As the Matrix of this thing, my band, myself, and my BOSS, which is what a God given great producer really is; a great LEADER. Beinhorn leads me psychically thru so much shit, density of demons. The band cannot function unless I provide a massive dose of story telling RIGHT FUCKING NOW, but I so wish I had a river, a mountain, a creek, a little tree house, a horse, a candle, a quill pen, a beautiful, deep breathtaking valley, the repose of fall and falling orange leaves, or the smell of daphne and the breathtaking view of cherry blossoms in a heaving wind.
It's not fair to say nature doesn't exist in Los Angeles. She's just weary, violent and pretty evil. She shakes us and burns us and ashes us and harms us. She doesn't mean to be so Evil. She just is. I once joined the Lilac Society here in Pasadena. Yes, I really did. I am not joking. My love of the flower is pretty passionate and I attended two of their classes at The Huntington gardens. Well, I grew a little Lilac Bush with three little buds and they grew to bushy little Lilac Srs. No one told me this. The earth here in this High Desert is so barren She Provides No Smell to Lilacs… Lilacs without scent? Fucking kidding? Nope. I used the best imported earth and cow poop and there they withered those three Lilacs, scentless, and impotent.
Now, I have to chop up small and important words that mean metaverses and throw shapes at songs. As I "posted" the other night, I don't allow the words first, although, I wish I did. I listen to a lot of people who do. I put the melodies first and have only not done that on Pretty On The Inside, which is a place where I could just dumb down my skill set, let myself and Eric Erlandson explore strange tunings and go for a demonic overlay of dense dense purging, but I was back to my pre POTI self soon as I heard ironically, "In Bloom" and previous to that, Corgan's first works in the early early 90s, "Rhinoceros" and "La Dolly Vita" in particular. Of course "Head Like a Hole" pissed me off and fucked me up and made me a competitive little shit, but to be truthful I don't mean to sound Hubristic. I am not NOT in some freefall of meandering, making some album you've heard what Linda has asked me not to refer to as Demos, but I can think of nothing else to call them, because for me, I MUST be in a REAL BAND to thrive. I am only a frontman, woman, and I start good riffs and can arrange, basically to a certain level after that. The matrices of the song need a conductor who with his body and soul takes the NATURAL state of our OUR being so key to my personal process. I am useless at selling phony states of being. I don't have the pipes for that or the desire. And without desire, one is always impotent and fractured. True desire to communicate ones inner state and reflect the darkness of life is all that keeps me burning. This has, for eons, been misconstrued as eccentricity, ambition, and attention seeking.
Like the time I stood at a tube station in London all as silent as hell and then a huge noise ripped thru Holland Parks Tube, as a HUGE woman with children and a crazy hat came in yelling her lungs out, NUTS, cursing, and the little children with her obviously adored her. People began to giggle, as I'm pretty sure so did I, not thinking that we are all that crazy fat creative force in the middle of conformity and quiet servitude. One of the children, she couldn't have been 7, got her back up and stared at one of the men giggling at her crazed huge matrix of a mother and said "STOP LAUGHING AT MY MOTHER!"
I'll never forget how deeply this resonated with me; the creative female has always been the scapegoat. And as ready and up for the job of polemic, scapegoated, and loathed I was always, I didn't mind. I knew what I was in for and am so past caring whether or not I have a "likable" persona. Despite my own charm being rather well, I'll just be honest, I'm Fucking A charming, but she has nothing to do with HER, her that fronts a great band, has a great producer and must now pile dive into such deep shit, and come up with the best lyrics of a pretty great lyrical track record. Yes I am a performer, but first I am a writer of lyric poetry. That's what I do. That's what I am good at. The rest is secondary. And I bring the shitty, the squalid, the sexual, the whores to light and the madonnas to filth and to do it with sanity is why I am in Malibu. It is the closest I will get to Natures Filth and Beauty and Force in LA and I cannot NOT deliver on this record.
I'm fine with being a scapegoat. I don't care. Do you see? I don't CARE, but that does not mean it's okay to break the law or steal from me. CPAs, lawyers, and bankers represent the Male Logos Science and Organization and they have degraded, pillaged, and raped me. I didn't know that my prism extended to people creating such misery for me and anxiety, I can't AFFORD to do my job. So, scapegoat me. I'll do it for free, but fuck with my family and the universe will get you hard for being so ridiculously clichéd as to pick on the freak lady.
Okay, now the freak lady has said her piece and she will not use spell check. She just needed to publicly blow off steam, possibly because creation always creates a need for attention. This blogging shit is terribly bad for me, but this should be fairly harmless. I'm not naming any names or being specific. I just know the Import of my work and my connection to my child. I wish I had another few children, but otherwise I am fine. Protection now, avenge later, aching for something to burst thru me. Numinous and real, Beauty magazines and tabloid mags are the WORST possible thing I can imagine having around this little house.
If I had a life, I would indeed learn to drive and go alone to see "Duckie" at the New Beverly, because I get the joke. I just don't have time for the cineastes that I adore who populate my life as friends; because other than Stipe and Melissa I cant think of a whole lot of my friends who are in bands. Harry, but she needs to get better, let her self be the scapegoat, not just the sexual being.
I miss having friends, but my SGI people are being pretty good about supporting me once a week for a chant. I do get my rolfing once a week and see my Yogi once or twice a week, but I have to up the ante now. We go in and I have to have a very strong core and I have to have it fast. I guess I'll put Pilates shit right down in the open wind and just let it rust, cos it's important I start doing my Pilates again now. That stuff works magic on me.
I don't know about what any of you do daily. Do any of you pray? Work out? Have a magical ritual? Live near a forest? For me, just watching TV an hour a week is actually restful. I can turn off my dutiful worrying and or process, because one CANNOT be a lawyer, CPA, Banker, Forensic accountant, student, scholar of Finance and make music worth a shit at the same time. I think anyone would agree with that.
So, I just have my "As seen on TV" glass cutter and my paint brushes and duck eggs and chartreuses and vermilions and Degas pinks and etc. And, I sit by the sea with my GLUE GUN putting shells on thumbtacks and that's sort of my walk by the river and reading Marion Woodman again.
EVERY RECORD IVE EVER MADE except "Le Disastre" of "The Chateau Miraval"(which I have just found out not one note recorded there was used. That piece of shit was and is the absolute product of the end of the dinosaur age of the industry; a fucked up singer, half baked songs and the wrong co-writers and a phony non band and top players covering her mistakes. I apologize deeply for that record. I like Almost Golden and Sunset Strip could've been something, I guess, but Julian is funny, if I hadn't destroyed it with being "ironic" with a Nirvana/KC riff. There's a sexual haze of a song with a stupid name that has some really quite good sexual lyrics, but I used up "let em eat cake" and I hate that, dammit.
I mean I set out to destroy myself and I went ALL THE WAY down. I'm over the shame and the failure part. I learned such valuable things from my own double/triple scoop of destruction. Have come from a Jungian state of being and the intake of a lot of high end poetry visuals and Marion Woodman. I love Jung and am fascinated with how he reinvented the wheel.
I'm not past symbolism by any means, but looking very carefully at a brilliant abstract painting Sunday night, as the very lovely context of the painting was patiently explained to me, I was reawakened to a certain LACK of abstractness of my own. I'm Romantic, if anything, I guess, which is why I'm going to be a clichéd white person and put on Beethoven's 9th and write to it presently. I'm insanely lucky to be alive, let alone be working inside the greatest collection of songs of my or I believe any other lifetime.
I do not mean to state anything negative in any way about Linda. I love her and I will never ever have a negative word top say about all she gave and my gratitude to her. So, in a rare gesture of diplomacy, that I'll POINT OUT, as my diplomatic nature is actually canceled by my outspokenness of stupid shit that people do to me, in general (and trust me I include myself in that hugely). I'm very very lucky to have Shawn Micko, Stuart and Chris and Michael to go home to in an hour now. Leave me the fuck alone, I have to go kiss my sixteen year old daughter.
YOU try that at home and then write for an hour straight, get in the fucking car, walk past Mary J. Blige's room with head held high (I DID write her a huge fan letter last night. Christ, she's the real thing. I saw her live at Elton's Oscar Party and she made me sob. I've written very few fan letters in my life but I had to) and walk into my room and perform. Whip it out, my mouth and pen and lead the way or we sort of find it together. I cannot wait for Auf Der Mar to get her red Queen ass here and make these vocals sweet, as I love our voices together and I'm really excited about that. She's got that Tinkle and magical sparkle that was always going to make her a star in the firmament. Okay, off to work I go.
WEALTHY HEALTHY BEAUTIFUL FABULOUS GLOURIOUS
piss stained beer soaked vermin
and all the rest of the bats in the belfry. kaaaaak