Confessions

This is inspired by an email I just received, and also that segment they used to do on the old Conan, called ‘Secrets,’ where Snoop Dogg would ‘confess’ he’d never actually smoked weed or David Bowie would talk about how he liked to stick his hand up in the straw dispenser at McDonald’s and touch all the straws.

Meaning there’s no way a court of law could ever prove any of these things true or untrue, I just feel like making a list of crap that might not ever get brought up in conversation:

* I don’t ever remember wanting to ‘be’ anything when I grew up, except maybe being in movies, though I knew I was supposed to want to be stuff and made up all kinds of things. Pretty sure I said veterinarian for awhile…

* Played with some dead animals as a child. Not in an effigy sort of way, in a baby doll sort of way. Still haven’t killed anyone, though.

* All of my dreams are very complicated and convoluted romance dramas with celebrities, or about errands and household tasks I need to do. No in-between.

* Rod Serling was my first major crush. And it turns out my husband is related to him – by marriage, I think.

* I don’t respect dogs. I like them, but I don’t respect them. I respect cats.

* I still want an initials tattoo of “HM” for Herman Melville and Henry Miller, my first and always true writing loves.

* Domesticated birds terrify me, and I’ve never met one that didn’t try to physically harm me.

* Almost all my ex-boyfriends are gay. There aren’t many of them, and I think some of them are still…not being gay, if that makes sense, at least part of the time.

* I’ve peed next to nearly every water tower in Jackson County, under the cover of darkness.

* Somewhat related to the previous post, I never, ever, litter – but I did go through a brief period in highschool when throwing beer bottles at road signs out moving vehicle windows didn’t count as littering.

* I talk about highschool like it was crap, but I had really beautiful and amazing friends and we made the best of it. Substance abuse helped.

* Cigarettes are awesome and I will always miss them.

* Courtney Love had two really good albums so shut up.

* I sweep the living room and kitchen floor with a broom a minimum of three times a day, but I don’t dust. Dusting is ridiculous.

* If I could go back in time, I would’ve done a lot of nude photo shoots because I’m 35 and damn I really didn’t appreciate everything where it was when I was 19.

* I have no ambition. But it’s in what I’ve come to realize is a good way – I have no long-term goals to reach. I don’t want anything material. I dunno. Maybe a pool?

* I lie about my brain chemistry and how all that business works on a pretty much daily basis.

* People terrify me, so I try to be stupid/crazy/funny right up front as an icebreaker.

* I got kicked in the forehead by a cow when I was seven or eight. We (I won’t name the ‘we’) were all trying to milk it at the same time. I still have the scar. Can’t remember what lie we made up to cover up what happened.

* Looking back, my childhood was charmed, and what wasn’t, I conveniently erase.

* I spend more time in a given day thinking about Tom Hardy and Andrew Scott (Jim Moriarty) and Adam Levine than is probably healthy.

* Two-thirds of what I write gets trashed.

* Jack-in-the-boxes are an abomination, and if I could go back in time and kill the person who decided it was a good idea to make weird-faced dolls and jester-looking monsters pop out of boxes on a spring, I would, without a second thought, even if the person was still a child.

* If my son ever wants to join the circus or a sideshow or wander aimlessly looking at the world in any sort of creative profession, I will support him with all of my being – unless the circus involves animals, or the profession involves weird dolls like marionettes or ventriloquism.

* I’ve been email pen pals with my friend Craig for almost four years.

* Sometimes I still want big boobs, but just for the day, so I could wear tube tops now and then.

* Nathaniel Hawthorne sucks.

* I loved that show The Simple Life.

* Simultaneously, I wish guns had never been invented and I LOVE LOVE LOVE shooting. I’m good at it, too.

* I like James Franco, I think he has a lust for life in the spirit of that Iggy Pop song.

* I think food and eating and all that is an inconvenient hassle, even though I’m not supposed to say that stuff because I’m skinny and our culture says I’m supposed to have suffered and worked for skinniness. In reality I just don’t eat every much, and have always wished, since I first saw the Jetsons, that they made food/vitamin meal replacement capsule things.

* My kid is the best kid, and I hope he always likes me.

* Once when I was like 9 or 10 I licked a cookie so no one else would eat it, and my mother still tells that anecdote to every human being every chance she gets, and it’s one of the only times I feel what True Rage is like, and think I could kill another human being.

* But okay yeah one time I did try to hit someone with a truck but they totally deserved it.

* My husband is the first and only person I ever dated that I already liked, going into the relationship, before that I just sort of fell into relationships where I thought I had the upper hand.

* I hit my head a lot. A LOT. Like bottoms of cabinet doors, corners of table or chairs, undersides of porch swings, window sills, door knobs, etc. I don’t tell people unless there’s blood involved or I get caught because I’ve greyed out; I just can’t see how adding x-Ray radiation will help.

* If I could write one story as eloquent as any John Prine song, I think my stomach and soul would ease off me a little, and I could die happy.

* If I could switch bodies/physical emodiments with any human it would be Rose Byrne, I think she’s perfect.

* I don’t find the idea of death to be particularly disturbing or scary.

* Raw meat is disgusting. I think I like crock pots just so I don’t have to cut chicken.

* I have an arsenal of embarrassing stories that I tell (hair on fire in church, stood in the corner when I was 16 in history class) so I don’t have to tell the real ones.

* Alone in the car I have all the arguments with people, loudly, that I don’t allow myself to have in real life, just to get it all out of my system.

* Most of the time I believe in ghosts. The times I don’t, I want to believe…. 🙂

* I considered going back throguh this post and editing it for length and to make it more funny and less offensive here and there, but didn’t. I don’t think there’s anything really offensive in it. And so what it’s long? It’s my damned brain dump.

 

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Video: Amanda Gowin at Sylvester Memorial Library

the video!!! took forever to get this mess uploaded. i realize it’s an hour long, but at least stick around long enough for the church fire anecdote… plus i read a story. mainly i ramble. but i think it turned out pretty well! 

The Filthiest Scene in the History of Television

 

oh, Jim….

Notes: FIGURE OUT SHOE MESS – biggest issue….

It seems a bit ridiculous out of context – but really, the shoe mess is the biggest issue. Everything else is really arranging itself beautifully.

 

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Pincushion Queen

i’ve been storing all my brain droppings and subconscious organizations on Pinterest. i just realized that looking at the boards, they’re pretty cohesive and i can spot exactly what piece of my brain i’m storing each picture for – and anyway, they’re pretty. when i’m too tired to write or read and it’s almost bedtime i spend a lot of fifteen minute spurts going “ooooh,” click, “ooooh,” click…

anyway. here’s a link to the page itself and to a few of the boards. they’re purty.

Main Page: http://pinterest.com/mandajunemiller/

Cipher Sister: http://pinterest.com/mandajunemiller/cipher-sister-a-collection-2013-thunderdome-press/

Brain: http://pinterest.com/mandajunemiller/brain/

Beauty in People : http://pinterest.com/mandajunemiller/beauty-in-people/

Ghosts : http://pinterest.com/mandajunemiller/ghosts/

Nefarious :http://pinterest.com/mandajunemiller/nefarious/

Nefarious

Bucket List: Justin Townes Earle

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo VS. The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo

yes, yes, i realize everyone’s already done this, and most are more well-informed since i haven’t even read the book – but i don’t really want to talk about Rooney Mara’s ass or Daniel Craig’s inability to seem vulnerable when judging the American version against the Swedish version.

just want to talk about Lisbeths. just want to talk about Noomi Rapace vs. Rooney Mara. just want to talk about something very, very different in these two performances that i haven’t seen mentioned yet (and if it’s all over the place and i’m regurgitating, forgive me):

Noomi Rapace’s Lisbeth: sociopath

Rooney Mara’s Lisbeth: psychopath

both women play the role admirably, but the interpretations are sooo different. Rapace’s Lisbeth is a coiled snake – a tightly wound ball of rage and vulnerability and intelligence. NEVER does she seem to be anything other than in complete control and completely aware of what she’s doing, be it testing her attraction/feelings for her male companion or carving a bloody tattoo in a rapist’s chest. there’s never a snap or a click when you feel she’s floated away and given in to her rage and it is driving her.

The opposite is true of Rooney Mara – in the same scenes (mainly the violent ones, of course) Mara goes distinctly different behind the eyes and seems absolutely consumed. She’s a different Lisbeth when she commits these acts, she is Rage, she is Not There. you see the blink and suddenly smart and guarded Lisbeth has become the creature that carves names on people’s chests and asks permission to kill, because she’s incapable of making such a decison.

for this, i respect Rapace’s performance, as well as her Lisbeth, more than Mara’s. I don’t know if it’s an American preference – we want people (especially a female we want to like) to lose it before they do horrifying things so we don’t have to blame them? i don’t know.

it’s Lecter vs. Gumb for me – the Aware will always be more compelling.

 

The Batman Ring

Messes with my head when I’m up so much earlier than everyone. Kiddo got leapt upon by 3 lbs of black fur at around 3:30 – now kid, dad and aforementioned ball of fur are all nicely settled together in the big bed. Me? Im wider than a stick of gum and had to slip away.

My toenails look fabulous, I want to photograph them, but that’s the same part of me that just spent too long looking for a plastic batman ring I saw shoved on the cat’s ear last evening.

Lets see. What, what? Fourth of july weekend was all the stuff it is supposed to be, more “classic” than any we’ve had so far – kid games at the park, dunk tank with the mayor, swimming, grilling, sparklers, fireworks. Maybe adam’s best holiday to date; Lily really brings out the satyr in him. (Photos in a later post)

There’s a lot of fog.

My stories are getting more compact – working on this thing, thought it was about a whole night, got interrupted, back to it later and I realized it needed two more lines. What, maybe 400 words? But sometimes you WANT something to be sex but instead it’s about moths and alcoholism. It’s voice work, I think. Anais Nin crisis – I go back and forth between Henry & June and her erotica, and try to figure out what she was trying to figure out – the journal voice turning to the writer voice. Henry figured it out, or maybe he just said fuck it. Maybe this is about form. Don’t know. Just know that things that come from scribbles and journal scraps and bundled thoughts fallen from the sky (tied together with cigarette string and stored near the X-files trivia but not too close to the D’inofrio box) shine up into a lot more like my voice than my “this is the story” planned tales. It’s like I put on my fancy writing hat – I dont write anything fancy, but the voices are distinctly different… bridget’s voice is the only narrative voice I like, and its just (to paraphrase andrea speaking of something different) the out loud version of me. We’ll see how all that pans out.

these are good thoughts to have while it becomes daylight and the fog refuses to burn off.

If i had the batman ring, perhaps the answers would feel closer.

Too many books on the side table, but I guess it’s good –  I can say Fuck it to the voice earwhig and listen to other voices for the moment. Ahem, allow me to catalog : Knockemstiff, By the Time We Leave Here We’ll Be Friends, Clown Girl, Henry & June, Sexus, Erotica by Anais Nin. Thats an impressive table. If the PBS schedule and One Fish Two Fish weren’t amongst the pile it would be downrigh hip – and no doubt a calculated lie of a pile.

But this is not about the table. This is about the Warmed & Bound Release Party, isn’t it? No, maybe it’s about the Booked podcast that terrifies me to no end. I shall ramble in new and horrifying ways, and I am AFRAID. Big mouth, more nervous = more talking.

But the release party is exciting shit. Why? Shoes. Shoes and the 1920s and meeting all these people – I want to know what these typed voices sound like out loud, I want to match faces to stories, I want to hit on waitresses dressed as flappers.

I want a pink bandanna for my pirate costume, and to FIND THAT BATMAN RING!!!

 

for him

Poem 50 (“I lost my way, I forgot …”) by Leonard Cohen

I lost my way, I forgot to call on your name. The raw heart beat against the world, and the tears were for my lost victory. But you are here. You have always been here. The world is all forgetting, and the heart is a rage of directions, but your name unifies the heart, and the world is lifted into its place. Blessed is the one who waits in the traveller’s heart for his turning.

~~~~~

The Phoenix Bird

by

Hans Christian Andersen

(1850)

IN the Garden of Paradise, beneath the Tree of Knowledge, bloomed a rose bush. Here, in the first rose, a bird was born. His flight was like the flashing of light, his plumage was beauteous, and his song ravishing. But when Eve plucked the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, when she and Adam were driven from Paradise, there fell from the flaming sword of the cherub a spark into the nest of the bird, which blazed up forthwith. The bird perished in the flames; but from the red egg in the nest there fluttered aloft a new one—the one solitary Phoenix bird. The fable tells that he dwells in Arabia, and that every hundred years, he burns himself to death in his nest; but each time a new Phoenix, the only one in the world, rises up from the red egg.

The bird flutters round us, swift as light, beauteous in color, charming in song. When a mother sits by her infant’s cradle, he stands on the pillow, and, with his wings, forms a glory around the infant’s head. He flies through the chamber of content, and brings sunshine into it, and the violets on the humble table smell doubly sweet.

But the Phoenix is not the bird of Arabia alone. He wings his way in the glimmer of the Northern Lights over the plains of Lapland, and hops among the yellow flowers in the short Greenland summer. Beneath the copper mountains of Fablun, and England’s coal mines, he flies, in the shape of a dusty moth, over the hymnbook that rests on the knees of the pious miner. On a lotus leaf he floats down the sacred waters of the Ganges, and the eye of the Hindoo maid gleams bright when she beholds him.

The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? The Bird of Paradise, the holy swan of song! On the car of Thespis he sat in the guise of a chattering raven, and flapped his black wings, smeared with the lees of wine; over the sounding harp of Iceland swept the swan’s red beak; on Shakspeare’s shoulder he sat in the guise of Odin’s raven, and whispered in the poet’s ear “Immortality!” and at the minstrels’ feast he fluttered through the halls of the Wartburg.

The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? He sang to thee the Marseillaise, and thou kissedst the pen that fell from his wing; he came in the radiance of Paradise, and perchance thou didst turn away from him towards the sparrow who sat with tinsel on his wings.

The Bird of Paradise—renewed each century—born in flame, ending in flame! Thy picture, in a golden frame, hangs in the halls of the rich, but thou thyself often fliest around, lonely and disregarded, a myth—“The Phoenix of Arabia.”

In Paradise, when thou wert born in the first rose, beneath the Tree of Knowledge, thou receivedst a kiss, and thy right name was given thee—thy name, Poetry.

~~~~~

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

by e.e. cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
  

nymphish stories at Nefarious Muse

here we go!

three short pieces, the first auto-biographical (and therefore borderline vomit-inducing) work ever to be exposed to eyes other than mine… bit of a departure from the blood and guts, faithful to the dark, as always….

http://nefariousmuse.com/2011/05/06/three-stories-by-amanda-gowin/

happy rainy may (shootin’ some guns)

rain rythm

they say there will be twisters and hail and mayhem and sideways wind and monsters and flash floods and families of bigfoots (don’t believe that’s the correct pluralization? please check out this awesome documentary by Jay Delaney, Not Your Typical Bigfoot Movie, now streaming on netflix – if they don’t know about Bigfoot in Portsmouth, OH, then who does?? the fish glow in that place) forced to relocate to higher land, forming a long line of chewbacca-like silhoettes in the distance – but no one will see any of this, due to the STORM and the twisters and the witches and cows in trees…

so they say. i just hear steady spring rain, that dictates the tv and radio be OFF.

turns out i like doing ten things at once, provided they all involve a keyboard or an ink pen. i’m a happy clam. between the movie, some shorts i fixed up for Nefarious Muse, a brewing thing at Thunderdome, random dancing every time i think of the Velvet Anthology, my little brain feels tingly right behind the eyes.

adam fell asleep in under 4 seconds. the last puppy found a home. i love my husband. i wish i could be the receptionist at dollstar. my kid picked up ten very mundane then extraordinary rocks once he explained to me what they like and when asked by mike what was up, adam answered “it’s mommy’s collection.”

nyquil and exhaustion are making me contemplate a 6 dollar pink alice in wonderland t-shirt far longer than it need be pondered. that’s my cue to sign off for the night….

pertinent links:

Not Your Typical Bigfoot Movie: http://notyourtypicalbigfootmovie.com/

Nefarious Muse: http://nefariousmuse.com/

Thunderdome: http://thundadome.com/

Warmed And Bound: http://warmedandbound.wordpress.com/2011/04/14/authors/

the best of april (photos)

gratuitous visual post

Muscle Brain

i think i like writing sci-fi. i think i like it a lot. beth and i are just getting rolling on a screenplay for martin, and jesus it’s fun. no boundaries. and i LOVE working with her. it’s like boxing and synchronized swimming all at the same time. i don’t what the hell that even means, only that working on this project makes my brain tired and happy. i’ve been working on a lot of shit lately that makes my brain tired and happy.

eric reeeeeally wanted to see jackass 3, and he said it was because he thought it would be super funny, but i know that at least some of it was motivated deep down to make me STOP seeing  johnny knoxville as a dirty sex machine. see, i don’t like jackass. not interested in seeing  johnny knoxville or anybody else for that matter do that stupid shit. i remember when my love for him solidified – it as that damned poster.

black and white poster, shirtless, low-slung jeans, elvis glasses, and fucking taser cords attached to his chest. i didn’t care who he was, i just knew i wanted to be holding the gun… i stick to his movie appearances – that one with the Rock, and the spectacular John Waters’  “A Dirty Shame.” oh, Ray-Ray.

i’m not saying i wouldn’t spend the morning after a Fun Night with mr. johnny knoxville in the shower with a scouring pad and a bottle of bleach while my sheets burned in a dumpster, i’m just also not saying i would turn that night down if the opportunity presented itself.

so, the recurring  johnny knoxville dreams are back. i just turned away from the gross stuff and focused on whether he looked better in black or red chucks during the other scenes.

my brain is tired. gonna watch the Fighter. 

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