Yeah, I know, it is a city not a state. It is also me. Somehow via Joni Mitchell, and her Richard, who she saw for the last time in Motor City in ’68, and my unhealthy obsession with Fred Sonic Smith and Iggy Pop, Alive Cooper, Patti Smith, Little Willie John and Glen Frey. Heck Eminem needs to join that motley crue (no, they were from Los Angeles), and represent for 8 Mile insanity and the best rap to come out of the 90s, better even that Nas, the King of New York. Google the music of Detroit and it is a tour through rock history and evolution, from Bill Haley to a bleeding and peanut buttered Iggy writhing on a stage shouting about having a Lust for Life. Ask me, and I’ll tell you the music of Detroit is heavy on the the Velvet Underground, meanders around 90s shoegazing and ends up listening to Bob Dylan wishing they could write a fraction as beautifully as this century’s Rimbaud.
I know there are some of you who have been with this blog from the start, and now we have settled into life in the new apartment, might be wondering how I am doing. Now, I am glad it is not a case of “look at the state of Detroit! What a fright!” and more of an “ah, look at Detroit! She has flowers in her room and might be seen to smile occasionally.” I like flowers. They are decadent and meaningless and give me stupid amounts of pleasure, as do my little cacti and succulents in the cheap dollar pots, and my guitar being out on a stand instead of shut in a case all the time. Detroit is having a hey day.
I am doing well. Decided that the weed has to go. I might get stoned now and again, but I don’t need to live dulled down. I am clean and sober and happy. I might even be happy enough to eat some shrooms and regale my friends with some psychedellia. I am happy enough to sit here and smile and drink my tea out of a mug not a thermos.
Today I am going out to baseball, wandering around the shops, buying a daikon and a new pot of miso after realizing if you mix it with veganaise it tastes absolutely delicious and then dipping carrot sticks and celery into it much to the horror of the Boy. Dirty gaijin habits. I know. I get so little enjoyment from food and it is constantly trying to hurt me, that when I find something that tastes good it is sometimes too hard to forgo. The celiac attack is still with me, the rash staring to scab over, blisters drying up. My stomach is unhappy, and I am only able to really keep down very soft food. It is miserable. There is no cure, no medication, just don’t eat the damn gluten. It could be worse.
The Boy is enjoying having his first room to himself ever. I am enjoying kissing him goodnight and though he won’t let me tuck him up in bed with a teddy bear, we are gradually normalizing. I still get jittery about relaxing. I can’t get my head around the fact that I don’t need to answer my door or the phone. I feel guilty for being inside, while there are still people out there suffering.
San Francisco is hot, the hottest month of the year here is September. It is our first September here and although today is cooler than yesterday, I miss the fog and the cool and the drizzle. I cannot wait for my soft Californian Bay winter.
Better get to baseball. The Boy looks forward to our day out, and has been hopping around all morning telling me about this nasty knuckleball he has been working on (it is dead, ma, no spin!), and talking about trying to find something called Chainsaw Man in Kinokuniya’s manga section. I’m vaguely traumatized after he introduced me to Tokyo Zombie, it was some of the most disturbing horror I have seen in a while. Truly creepy and made me question what it was to be human, and why we have the drive to survive, even if that survival means being a little less human. Nothing stops Detroit. Not that I have any intention of becoming a slathering zombie with a heart of gold.
Laters, honeybunnies! Stay weird!