[For Marilyn Monroe’s non-90th birthday I decided to post this unpublished monologue, that I wrote with lots of love for a woman that is very very special to me. My clumsy translation into English was thoroughly revised by Ellen McRae]
Me as a child and my mother screaming while laughing. Or laughing while screaming. I don’t know. Angry or happy. I don’t know.
My mother was crazy, I think. Ended up in the loony bin. I did, too, for that matter—a couple of times—maybe three. Once I asked Joe to come and save me. We ran away through the basement…
Joe DiMaggio, my crazy husband who I think loved me more than anyone. Why choose a woman that every American wants to take to bed if you’re jealous whenever anybody even looks at her? It’s like buying a cake when you’re diabetic. But he did love me—in his own crazy and twisted way, trying to suffocate me. With his love. Continue reading