Maria Alexander News and Updates from TheHandlessPoet.com

If all goes well, then something cool I did over at Where's Neil? will be in effect by tomorrow. Fingers crossed. Parts one and two have worked. Waiting for the others. At first I was thwarted, then I sent him an email. I suspect he's way too busy to deal with such trivia, but maybe the website admin saw and thought it was cool because the box I needed freed up suddenly.

Please don't tell the guy whose box I stole is all.

You've been dying, I tell you DYING to get some fresh verbiage from the Sweetpea of Darkness, haven't ya?

Okay, maybe not. But, still, here is an interview with me from Grotto Maris Luna, a pagan group whose founder, JD Holveck, is now podcasting for the pagan community in Los Angeles and beyond. I'm in Grotto Radio Podcast #2, appearing after the first interview with the sponsor.

This interview is about my initial experiences as a pagan in France and how it compares with Los Angeles. I'll be doing at least semi-regular talks with JD over the coming months. As you'll soon discover, JD has an amazing voice and wonderful radio presence.

My Internet connection continues to be problematic. I'll answer email as soon as I'm able.

Our Internet connection has been dead for about 15 hours with no sign of revival.

Livebox is dead. Long live Livebox.

I'm updating from The Frenchman's office. I'll post when I can, but I'm pretty much e-AWOL for now.

(ARGH.)

...and not just because I'm far away!

Take a gander at my disappearing profile.

Less flab, more fab!

Craziness.

I ate a spinach-mushroom-cheese crepe as big as my head and then walked for over two hours through downtown Aix, just getting familiar with the territory. I didn't open my map once. I figured this was the best way to learn my way around. There was some sort of fair going on all the way down Le Cours Mirabeau, complete with these fantastic 19th century-dressed stilt walkers, wearing tophats, goggles, and steampunk jetpacks! My inner geek thrilled at the sight.

My inner geek was not too happy about the two game stores I found. There's a Games Workshop right in downtown Aix, but it was filled with very smelly boys playing some kind of chit game that took up most of the store. I left after three seconds, it smelled so bad. I also visited a regular game store that seemed to have all the standard favorites and some figurines, but seemed to feature these really awful looking pellet guns. They looked so much like real guns they disturbed me. I'm not a big proponent of gun control, but I do think it's inappropriate to sell kids guns like this. They have no fucking clue what the difference is when they pick up a real gun. And I'm sure guns get into this country despite the laws.

Okay, now I must write...

The other night, The Frenchman and I were at a soiree in downtown Aix. The hostess put down a bowl of eggplant dip and a plate of juicy bell pepper strips.

I took one bite of the bell pepper and howled: "OH MY GOD! This is the freshest bellpepper I've ever tasted in my life!"

I chomped several more slices. Tangy-sweet, crunchy and unbelievably juicy.

The next day, I was cooking for The Frenchman. We had bought onions at the local market the day before. I sat down with the bread board and a sharp knife, and started cutting. Within seconds, my eyes were flooded with hot, painful tears. My makeup began to run, adding to the fiery stabbing pains. I ran blindly to the bathroom, stumbling. The Frenchman caught my arm in the nick of time -- he'd just poured some very nasty drain cleaner in the bathroom sink. Running water would have been potentially disasterous. He rushed me back into the kitchen where he helped me clean and soothe my tortured peepers.

"What happened?" he asked, still alarmed because I could barely talk, I was in so much pain.

"The onions," I said. "They made me cry."

"Honey, of course they made you cry! It helps to open the door for air."

"But...but onions don't make you cry!" I said. "I've never cried when cutting an onion!" I did cry cutting onions when I was a kid growing up in the foothills of Sacramento, but that was a long time ago, and a lot of different onions under the bridge. Are onions chemically different in L.A. than here? It shouldn't be. The onion was cold. That should have helped.

And then there are the egg yolks. They're sunflower yellow, like dollops on Cezanne's palette. The Frenchman says we don't even have to keep them in the refrigerator.

I'm so confused.

I thought I knew food. I don't know jack.

I don't even know jack cheese.

It looks like I'll be working with the consultant I wanted to hire to help me with the police plotline in my book. I'm happy about this because I really need the help, and I can't even call LAPD these days. (I'd have to use Skype, and Skype comes up on caller ID as "01234567". They would think I was a total prankster.)

Tomorrow, I'll be interviewed for a Pagan podcasting station. When the interview is available, I'll post a link. I'm thinking of doing an extended article for them at a later time about the trail of Zeus from Los Angeles to France. I've been tweaking on all of the amazing coincidences I've been encountering, but more on that when it's available.

For the record, I totally called it. In an email to Brian Flemming on August 25th, I predicted that Lonelygirl15 was a fake created by a filmmaker who wanted to get attention:

Brian,

Just fueling the Bree "fraud" fire: I know many Thelemites personally. Knowing them, their beliefs and the sorts of people that are attracted to that religion, I think it's completely assinine to pose Bree as a "home schooled" child by "strict" Thelemite parents. Such a configuration doesn't exist. The video makers are counting on a largely Judeo-Christian, "Jesus head" audience who is entirely ignorant of magickal orders. This one in particular isn't satanic. I think the relationship is drawn because Crowley said, "Do what thou wilt, it is the whole of the law," and Anton LaVey paraphrased this law in The Satanic Bible, but with a different, more indulgent slant. I could be wrong but the two are entirely unrelated to the best of my knowledge.

Before I left Disney a couple of months ago, I was in the loop on a viral marketing campaign they were doing for Everest before it opened. I've not yet seen these videos, and I can tell you right now that Bree is a marketing ploy -- if not for a major corporation, then for an individual filmmaker who wants recognition. I'm hoping for the latter because that would be so much cooler.

^M^


The worst part is, I never even saw any of the YouTube episodes. I read what other people were saying about it and I just knew. I guess no matter how far away from home I am, I'm hardwired to the dastardly ways of Hollywood. Go me, eh?

We had our first soiree last night, and it was very nice, even if I only understood about 30% of the conversations. I made some new friends, which is much needed here. I've concluded that I'm a better guest than a hostess for lots of silly reasons, including my insecurity over serving fruit salad. (Is there enough pear? Enough apple and grapes? Is there any "extra protein" -- i.e. bugs -- in it? Oy!) Fortunately, one of our wonderful guests brought a small bottle of kirsch, a really yummy liqueur that you can pour over fruit. C'est magnifique!

And I just finished Chuck Palahniuk's Diary. Oh my fucking gawd! How much darker can dark get? It really was marvelous. The surprise theme of the book is one with which I'm intimately familiar...

Last night, I went to Weight Watchers with The Frenchman. (Yeah, I know. Weight Watchers in France. Fucking brilliant, eh?) It was my first time ever. The Frenchman seriously injured his knee at Middlebury and he's trying to make things as easy on his body as possible.

When they weighed me, I was only .7 kilos (1.5 lbs.) over the limit of the weight range for my height. Doh! (I suspect that had they weighed me early in the morning, pre-breakfast and nekkid as a sunbeam, I'd have probably weighed in exactly at the limit.) Instead of tossing me and Trog out on our not-big-enough butts, they graciously invited me to come with The Frenchman for free. I got a little bag to put my stuff in and a paper thingy to record my food intake for the week. It's not a bad idea, really. I've gotten out of the habit of doing it for my hypoglycemia. We're going to start aquagym next week, which should be fun.

As soon as we left, The Frenchman kept saying, "See? I told you! You're so sexy! You look great!" (You can see why I love him, right?)

Things are still in progress with the book. Nothing conclusive to report yet.

Thanks to Neil's blog, I'm completely enthralled with the trailer for Guillermo del Toro's next film, Pan's Labyrinth. I can hardly wait to see it, but I worry that here it's going to be subtitled in French, not Spanish. I'm a big fan of Guillermo's work. I'm sure it's going to be a smash.

And now to turn my hair plum black (or at least try).

Psychically this was a very strange weekend.

Friday night, I dreamt about a writer friend, S, whom I hadn't written to in some time. She was wearing a very specific corset in the dream. When I wrote to her two days later, it turns out she'd just worn that corset for the first time in a long time the night before.

Saturday night, I dreamt of a deeply unhappy woman breaking into my house and doing things for me. This morning I open my Internet connection to find that, sorrow of sorrows, Charles Grant had passed that night, survived by his wife, the ever marvelous and dear Kathy Ptacek, who has many times been a help to me and the rest of the HWA with her tireless service. Of course, today I'm thinking about her in her grief.

Gawd, the antennae are just waving high and bare in the psychic winds, ain't they?

Last night was about as romantic as it can get. After a long hike in the wilds of the surrounding properties, where we discovered a very old aquaduct, we came back to the mas and picked all the burrs off of The Frenchman's sweatpants. Yeah. Our Satuday night thrill -- woo!

Today was very nice. We saw a French dubbing of Miyazaki's 1984 Nausicaa. Although not as refined as his other films, it was still packed with the same messages Miyazaki is famous for and had his trademark posse of kick-ass heroines. I didn't understand great chunks of it, but I got the gist as The Frenchman whispered occasional translations as needed.

I hiked alone today. I found a path that I call "The White Path" because it's littered with white rocks. The next time I go out, I'll take the camera and get photos of the old ivy-smothered aquaduct and The White Path. On my way back, I found real, honest-to-goodness wild black grapes. OOOOOH! I had to chase off the wasps, they were so juicy.

On the big stompy boots front, one of The Frenchman's co-workers, K, told me there's a gosh darned, for really Goth bar in town. As soon as I find it, I'll report back. I might go with K, or some other way.

Maybe I'll go downstairs now and pick imaginary burrs off of The Frenchman's pants. Hee!

It was late yesterday afternoon, early evening. I asked The Frenchman, "What the hell was that?" when I knew very well what that was. He responded that it wasn't hunting season yet, so he wasn't sure what was happening. I became very concerned that my morning and afternoon strolls into the countryside now had a whole new face of danger. Vipers and scorpions I can deal with. They hide under rocks and in the tall grass. I can avoid that. But Frenchmen with guns in the woods?

I know it sounds like I'm having the time of my life here, and quite often I am. However, given all the challenges of being out of my element and living abroad, I get to sit here each day and wrestle a new emotional demon. Anxiety, depression, insecurity, jealousy, fear. It's a damned wrestling match du jour, I tell ya. I'd better have great big bulging muscles when it's over because I'm getting a lot of practice tossing these fuckers around all day. The good news is that nothing has taken a firm hold of me yet; it's usually the mornings that wear me out and by the afternoons I've worked through whatever was turning me sideways. They say it's spiritual death to stay in one's comfort zone all the time. I'd rather be fighting any day.

It's raining hard in Aix. I probably need more sleep because the rain woke me up and kept me awake from 4:00-5:00am; I seem to need more sleep than ever. I have one of the upstairs windows open because the rain is so beautiful, so savage and fragrant, that I can't get enough of it. I'm compiling a list of questions for a professional I might consult regarding the police plotline for OUT OF BODY. I don't know yet if I can afford the consultation, but the questions alone are an excellent starting place for my research.

Back to writing.

Things continue to buzz with the book. Nothing I can talk about yet, but I do have my fingers crossed for something to congeal by next week.

I feel very different today than I did yesterday. I feel well. Alive. I might soon take a walk in the wind and drizzle because I feel so luminous, like I could light up the dry field. My ailments have cleared, my ankle is doing even better, and things are looking up.

This week, we've had some drama over my birth certificate. The Los Angeles French Consulate failed to tell me that I'd need it here to get my 10-month visa, and suddenly I needed it NOW. It's going to be a tad late, but it'll get here. Maybe I can walk it in to my Schengen interview later this month. I have a 3-month visa, but to get the 10-month visa I have to register here with officials by a certain date. Without the 10-month visa, it will be difficult for me to travel outside of the country and get back in.

Speaking of drama, 2003 UB313 -- formerly "Xena" -- is now officially 136199 Eris. Astrologers no doubt have leapt upon the significance of this, and the name certainly does fit the chaos that ensued the dwarf planet's discovery. Me, I plugged it into the software at Astrodienst and discovered that Eris is at 11Aries53 in my chart, exactly conjunct my Moon/Saturn conjunction at 11Aries in the House of Work and Health. Saturn represents structure, authority and responsibility, while the Moon represents emotions, intuition and empathy. The chaos of Eris seems to be made far more somber in my work world, and vica versa -- something so true, I couldn't have said it better myself.

But the bigger picture is that, because Eris moves incredibly slowly, my Moon/Saturn conjunction affects Eris in huge numbers of people. Most people I meet, in fact, would feel that my approach to work and health brings some sobriety and responsibility their chaos. Weird when you think about it.

My father has Mars at 12Aries. This means he provokes the hell out of the chaos in people who are 25 or more years younger than he is. This I've watched over and over.

And now I must write.

Today, I don't want to be in France. I want to be home, in Los Angeles, having sushi with a coworker, driving to the bank to deposit my birthday check that my aunt just sent me, holing up in my apartment as I drink coffee, write and torture my cats with nose snorgles and ear scritchees.

There is too fucking much to do.

Yesterday, I had a phone meeting with an editor interested in G3. She's made a couple of suggestions for the book that I need to seriously think about because they definitely tip the book in another direction. I don't mind the tipping, particularly in the suggested direction, but it might not work for the entire book. But if we do it and I finish by March or April 2007, it'll get a release probably just before next Samhain with some fanfare and a publicist to help me coordinate radio interviews and so forth. If I tip it in the suggested direction, it could sell extremely well but not be exactly what I wanted to write.

Something to think about. My agent is being great, as usual.

Meanwhile, I have to go back into town this afternoon to have my photo retaken for my visa paperwork. I didn't sleep well last night because I discovered that somewhere there was a miscommunication and I didn't bring my birth certificate, which I apparently need to have my extended visa approved. My dad is looking for my birth certificate and hopefully has faxed it to The Frenchman's office. If not, I need to call back the County Clerk's office where I was born and talk to a supervisor about how I can get my birth certificate without notarization.

Piss and fuck.

I saw a regular doctor yesterday for all my ailments and to get a special certificate so that I could join the aquagym. She gave me an antibiotic for one of my ailments that's a one-shot dose (?) and gave me all kinds of advice for the other ailment. Do one-shot doses of antibiotics exist? I totally forgot to ask her when I could resume all my normal activities (including drinking coffee and alcohol). ARGH. She's only there on Tuesdays.

Now, to work. The editor would like to see a revised table of contents based on some reorganization we discussed. Should be an interesting morning, me on next to no caffeine for Day #3...

I wrote and researched today, then went into town to run a couple of errands before The Frenchman and I went to see Little Miss Sunshine, which was dark and extremely funny.

But the best part of the day was going into M.A.C. and having a very sweet conversation with the young French woman working there, who asked if I was American after she saw my credit card. I said, "Yes, unfortunately." But she didn't think this was bad at all. She then expressed a great amount of sympathy for the Americans killed today five years ago. And there I was, receiving great sympathy. In France.

I say this for those who are skeptical about such things. They don't hate us. If you were here, you could hear how they feel...

It's Bush they don't like much. Not at all, in fact.

But for us, the powerless and outraged, there are people here who still care.

And now I must go to bed.

French drivers are fucking nuts.

Friday we went first to Cannes around noon, where I met The Frenchman's mother. She took us to a fabulous lunch there on the seashore. I ate a ridiculous amount of mussels and a far less ridiculous amount of "frites," topped with part of an apple tart and an espresso. Despite the bit of caffeine, I was falling asleep afterwards. I'd forgotten how mentally exhausting it is to speak only in French and to try to follow conversations. The Frenchman would translate at the restaurant for me, as it was far more difficult to hear his mother speak against the noise of the sea and the people, but later at the apartment, a visitor arrived and we reverted to all French. I felt like I was reliving Middlebury all over again.

Later that evening, we meandered to Cagnes sur Mer, where The Frenchman's father has an apartment (the same apartment where The Frenchman and I spent our holiday last year), and I met both his father and his step mom, who made us a very lovely dinner that started with cray fish, sailed straight into a slow-simmered chicken dish with an eggplant and cheese dish, and dropped daintily into cheese and dessert (tiramisu). Oh la la!

The next morning, I took some new pics of the view from the balcony.

And after all was said and done, it seemed everything went well and everyone seemed pretty pleased to meet me and have me around for a bit. So, le gulp is over. Hooray!

Afterwards, this afternoon we went to Antibe and returned to the absinthe bar we went to last year. (Here are some new photos of the absinthe bar.) For those who are trying to figure out how this thing exists, we did more asking. Three years ago, France legalized the production and possession of absinthe, but it's still illegal to sell it, especially in a bar setting. The owner of Balade en Provence told us that the actual prohibition is against selling in a bar any alcohol over 51 proof. So, there in southern France, where there's more mafia than government, the owner gets around this prohibition by telling them that their alcohol is taken with water and therefore does not exceed the 51 proof limit. Crazy, huh?

We bought a delicious bottle of Muse Verte, but I can't drink it now because it's become clear that I have an ailment. When we got home, we went to the pharmacy. The pharmacienne gave me some special French over-the-counter medicine for it and said I can't have alcohol or caffeine for a few days. (GAH! The timing!) Frankly, although I've never had this ailment before, I'm pretty sure every person I know who has had it has had to visit the doctor for antibiotics. But she seemed so sure it would help, we took the medicine and ran.

As soon as I have my body back, things will be better, I'm sure...

After a quiet day of writing, research and keeping the ankle up, I received an email from my agent about some interest in my humorous nonfiction project. This is a major publisher who has actually published one of my stories before in an anthology. All the talk about "changes" and such is making my brain is very busy. Nothing is official -- pas du tout! -- so there is room for more activity later.

Last night, The Frenchman and I swapped desks, moving the much-too-high-for-me wooden desk downstairs and the lower-and-better-for-me black desk upstairs. I insisted that we move very, very slowly as the exchange took place via the Aztec Stairs of Doom. The stairs are so dangerous that I'm thinking of giving them a blood sacrifice to ward off any injury in the coming year. I suspect that in reality, because I'm so incredibly careful with them, I'll probably never get hurt, but still. The wide plaster area where you can easily bang your head going down is worth a dab of blood alone.

I can't wait for the ankle to be healed completely so that I can run around some more. It's frustrating just sitting in this room with it up in the air. It's one thing when I'm writing, but another when I want to go get some exercise. I'm really wrestless this morning and I need some air.

Tomorrow, I meet The Frenchman's parents. ::le gulp::

Some photos of what I see nearly every day now.

I wrote for most of today and then trekked downtown to run a couple of errands before meeting up with The Frenchman to go home and do more errands. We're starting to settle a bit, but we were still missing things like hangers. I think we're good now, though. Also, we're sleeping in two twins beds pushed together. So I went to the French equivalent of a hardware store and bought rope to lash the beds together. I also went back to a little gothy store called "Le Curieux" to exchange a garter belt The Frenchman bought me (too small, of course). The owner is a charmer and started asking me if the men kneel to me or if I kneel to the men. Hoo boy.

But I almost couldn't leave the house. The Frenchman had accidentally locked me in. Yes -- in. Our front door is so fucking medieval that you can lock someone in from the outside, like some virgin (ha!) French princess from the marauding Saxons and Spaniards. Our landlady heard me tugging at the door and whining, so she let me out and explained the trick. Oh la la! I called The Frenchman and thanked him for his concern for my chastity. At first The Frenchman didn't believe me about the door; he thought maybe I just wasn't pulling on the door correctly. But after he spoke to the landlady, he relented. Ha! Next time that happens, I'm staying home and drinking all the amazing wine in the pantry.

That's all for today. I think it's time to rest the head (and feet, which aren't doing so well).

I've got a dongle.

No, really!

Actually, I'm not sure what it's called, but it's a blinky thing that plugs into one of my USB ports and connects me to Livebox. It makes me happy. I'm wireless for all intents and purposes. Now I can move upstairs as soon as The Frenchman has time to switch desks with me.

The upstairs is definitely more haunted than the lower. Upstairs is where someone shot an intruder in the yard from the window during The Resistance. I picked out the window immediately when I arrived. Last night, I woke up at exactly midnight, and then again at exactly 6:00am. It was still dark at the later hour. I felt the presence of two additional people in the room: one woman maybe in her 40s and a younger woman in her early teens (maybe a tad younger). The older woman was standing closer to my bed and I sensed a deep curiosity. And for the first time ever, I didn't mind. In fact, I wondered after I woke up if they weren't brought out by the intense BDSM scene we'd done the day before, where The Frenchman was bound up almost completely.

This morning I went into town with The Frenchman and saw the Cezanne exhibit, which is like visually licking a Godsicle. However, what was more amazing than the Cezanne exhibit, I thought, was the Jean-Marie Sorgue exhibit. It's a pity they didn't let us have our cameras, because I can't find on the Web any examples of his work. He draws these nightmarish walls and alien vegetation in black ink. Occasionally he uses a soft violet highlight. He's not a Barlowe, Giger or Fuchs, but his work is disturbing nonetheless.

After the exhibit, I had a chance to roam Aix on my own before lunch. As advertised, Aix has about a gillion fountains. Not all of them are functioning, but even the ancient ones are beautiful in their own broke-ass way. I'll post photos when I have a chance to upload them all. I took as many photos as possible before my camera started making gestures that it needed the fainting couch. I wandered almost everywhere except uptown (my feet were just too sore) and then had lunch with The Frenchman at a local pizzeria. Complete with merguez, an egg and real Greek olives, the pizza was called "L'Orientale." Salade pour moi prochaine fois! It was much too heavy.

After lunch, I took the bus home by myself for the first time. Oh, if only you could see what my walk back is like! Almost ten minutes down a dirt path until I see the back of Barberude with no one but the butterflies and dust to keep me company...

This won't be pretty in winter, but I'm enjoying it now.

I came home and wrote a bit before The Frenchman came home. I'll be able to work more on OUT OF BODY tomorrow, too, as I have almost the entire day free.

So far, so incredible.

We're having massive problems with Livebox over here. The Frenchman was able to set up his computer for wifi access to the box, but it's been impossible setting up my computer. We called tech support three times and could never get it to work. So, we set up my computer downstairs (not where I originally wanted to work, but it will do), and connected to the Livebox using a cable. Now a big white cable runs from the living area to the kitchen. Ick.

However, I was able to get some photos of the mas (that is, the farmhouse) and the surrounding greenery. The house is called "Mas de Barberude." It's 250 years old. And even though it was 100 degrees here today, the house was completely cool. It's built to withstand the heat naturally.

Without future ado, click here to see this amazing little house and more:

I'm here.

It's amazing.

I'm resting my ankle for now, but as soon as I can take photos, I will. You'll not believe how utterly beautiful it is here. From the front windows, we have a Cezanne-worthy view of the lush valley and every room is ripe with history. They've renovated here and there, but the front door for example has got to be at least 200 years old. The Frenchman was showing me how it works as I was brushing the dirt from my chin, which I had just dragged all over the kitchen, too.

There's a lot of spiritual activity here, but it's friendly. Maybe what The Frenchman and others have felt is the presences but not understood what they were about. Or perhaps they just like me because I've already shown them my panties. Who knows?

The Frenchman is at some big dinner that was schedule, like, an aeon ago. I was disappointed at first, but now I realize this is good. I have a chance to absorb this incredible house by myself for a bit. It feels great.

More when I'm able.