#autobiography — Public Fediverse posts

Woman With A Bundle

A few months after my guides told me to write how I got here—I didn’t know they were guides then, I just thought it was voices in my head—plus I wasn’t sure what they meant by ‘here’—my mother died in Illinois. It was sudden, unexpected, and I was six thousand miles away in the British countryside where there had just been a hurricane, also unexpected—the worst they said in five hundred years. Trees were down, there was no way I could get to the airport, so I took my watercolors and sat outside. The air was fresh and clear after the storm, and I painted a picture that’s taken me almost forty years to fully grasp. It sounds weird, experiencing a level of mind in a picture before I knew what it meant. But there it is.

It was a melancholy picture in pinks, purples and blues of a woman striding forth, holding something close to her side. The air was like a restless sea. The wind blew her skirt as if it too was part of the sea. Her expression was sad but determined. She paid no notice to the three figures surrounding her. Her feet were firmly planted on the ground while the two figures on her right beseeched the heavens and the one on her left looked away. Here was a woman who would brave anything to protect what she carried.

This was back in October 1987. When the roads were cleared I flew to Illinois, and on the way the pilot announced the stock market had crashed. I took no notice. I was going back to bury my mother. The stock market was nothing to me.

The years passed and I became a mother with a child of my own. When he grew up and left home I took out the baby blanket I’d crotched in squares of blue and cream-colored wool when I was pregnant, and began sleeping with it folded up by my side. I didn’t make a thing of it, but it was comforting somehow, having something soft by my side, and after a while I exchanged it for a summer blanket in baby blue I happened to have, again folded in a neat bundle.

Then for some reason just the other day, I thought of the picture I’d painted all those years ago when I got the news my mother died. It wasn’t surprising really, as I’d been endlessly writing about the past, trying to make some kind of sense of it. And along the way, quite recently in fact, I realized I’d had a soul agreement with my mother. Something that we’d agreed upon before I got here, and everything that happened between us had been preordained on a soul level. And when I took out the watercolor to look at it again, this time I saw what she was carrying close to her side was the egg she’d reserved for me.

It made sense, now I thought of it, since ten years before she died she’d dropped the bomb on me that she’d conceived me in revenge for World War II. A wave of heat had rushed through me like an electrical charge and I knew she was telling the truth, and that it was my truth too, and I’d been in on it all along.   

Before I left for England that October of ’87, I’d had a premonition something might happen to her while I was away, and I did something I’d never done before—I called a psychic that had been recommended by a friend to tell her my concern and ask her advice. The psychic told me not to worry, that my mother would be fine. I still called my mother the night before I left, and again at the airport to tell her goodbye. Then the night before she had the stroke in Illinois, I dreamed one of my pair of goldfish had died and I was called onto the stage. But to fully understand the extent of our soul agreement, I’ve had to go behind the curtain so to speak. Behind the actions and the words that had played out in real time, and see what was hidden in my soul. I’d have to spend an untold number of nights sleeping with a bundle by my side before I could relate to a woman protecting the egg she carried. It’s taken me thirty-nine years to catch up with what I knew amidst the grief and loss after the storm. But there it is.  

Woman With A Bundle

A few months after my guides told me to write how I got here—I didn’t know they were guides then, I just thought it was voices in my head—plus I wasn’t sure what they meant by ‘here’—my mother died in Illinois. It was sudden, unexpected, and I was six thousand miles away in the British countryside where there had just been a hurricane, also unexpected—the worst they said in five hundred years. Trees were down, there was no way I could get to the airport, so I took my watercolors and sat outside. The air was fresh and clear after the storm, and I painted a picture that’s taken me almost forty years to fully grasp. It sounds weird, experiencing a level of mind in a picture before I knew what it meant. But there it is.

It was a melancholy picture in pinks, purples and blues of a woman striding forth, holding something close to her side. The air was like a restless sea. The wind blew her skirt as if it too was part of the sea. Her expression was sad but determined. She paid no notice to the three figures surrounding her. Her feet were firmly planted on the ground while the two figures on her right beseeched the heavens and the one on her left looked away. Here was a woman who would brave anything to protect what she carried.

This was back in October 1987. When the roads were cleared I flew to Illinois, and on the way the pilot announced the stock market had crashed. I took no notice. I was going back to bury my mother. The stock market was nothing to me.

The years passed and I became a mother with a child of my own. When he grew up and left home I took out the baby blanket I’d crotched in squares of blue and cream-colored wool when I was pregnant, and began sleeping with it folded up by my side. I didn’t make a thing of it, but it was comforting somehow, having something soft by my side, and after a while I exchanged it for a summer blanket in baby blue I happened to have, again folded in a neat bundle.

Then for some reason just the other day, I thought of the picture I’d painted all those years ago when I got the news my mother died. It wasn’t surprising really, as I’d been endlessly writing about the past, trying to make some kind of sense of it. And along the way, quite recently in fact, I realized I’d had a soul agreement with my mother. Something that we’d agreed upon before I got here, and everything that happened between us had been preordained on a soul level. And when I took out the watercolor to look at it again, this time I saw what she was carrying close to her side was the egg she’d reserved for me.

It made sense, now I thought of it, since ten years before she died she’d dropped the bomb on me that she’d conceived me in revenge for World War II. A wave of heat had rushed through me like an electrical charge and I knew she was telling the truth, and that it was my truth too, and I’d been in on it all along.   

Before I left for England that October of ’87, I’d had a premonition something might happen to her while I was away, and I did something I’d never done before—I called a psychic that had been recommended by a friend to tell her my concern and ask her advice. The psychic told me not to worry, that my mother would be fine. I still called my mother the night before I left, and again at the airport to tell her goodbye. Then the night before she had the stroke in Illinois, I dreamed one of my pair of goldfish had died and I was called onto the stage. But to fully understand the extent of our soul agreement, I’ve had to go behind the curtain so to speak. Behind the actions and the words that had played out in real time, and see what was hidden in my soul. I’d have to spend an untold number of nights sleeping with a bundle by my side before I could relate to a woman protecting the egg she carried. It’s taken me thirty-nine years to catch up with what I knew amidst the grief and loss after the storm. But there it is.  

Woman With A Bundle

A few months after my guides told me to write how I got here—I didn’t know they were guides then, I just thought it was voices in my head—plus I wasn’t sure what they meant by ‘here’—my mother died in Illinois. It was sudden, unexpected, and I was six thousand miles away in the British countryside where there had just been a hurricane, also unexpected—the worst they said in five hundred years. Trees were down, there was no way I could get to the airport, so I took my watercolors and sat outside. The air was fresh and clear after the storm, and I painted a picture that’s taken me almost forty years to fully grasp. It sounds weird, experiencing a level of mind in a picture before I knew what it meant. But there it is.

It was a melancholy picture in pinks, purples and blues of a woman striding forth, holding something close to her side. The air was like a restless sea. The wind blew her skirt as if it too was part of the sea. Her expression was sad but determined. She paid no notice to the three figures surrounding her. Her feet were firmly planted on the ground while the two figures on her right beseeched the heavens and the one on her left looked away. Here was a woman who would brave anything to protect what she carried.

This was back in October 1987. When the roads were cleared I flew to Illinois, and on the way the pilot announced the stock market had crashed. I took no notice. I was going back to bury my mother. The stock market was nothing to me.

The years passed and I became a mother with a child of my own. When he grew up and left home I took out the baby blanket I’d crotched in squares of blue and cream-colored wool when I was pregnant, and began sleeping with it folded up by my side. I didn’t make a thing of it, but it was comforting somehow, having something soft by my side, and after a while I exchanged it for a summer blanket in baby blue I happened to have, again folded in a neat bundle.

Then for some reason just the other day, I thought of the picture I’d painted all those years ago when I got the news my mother died. It wasn’t surprising really, as I’d been endlessly writing about the past, trying to make some kind of sense of it. And along the way, quite recently in fact, I realized I’d had a soul agreement with my mother. Something that we’d agreed upon before I got here, and everything that happened between us had been preordained on a soul level. And when I took out the watercolor to look at it again, this time I saw what she was carrying close to her side was the egg she’d reserved for me.

It made sense, now I thought of it, since ten years before she died she’d dropped the bomb on me that she’d conceived me in revenge for World War II. A wave of heat had rushed through me like an electrical charge and I knew she was telling the truth, and that it was my truth too, and I’d been in on it all along.   

Before I left for England that October of ’87, I’d had a premonition something might happen to her while I was away, and I did something I’d never done before—I called a psychic that had been recommended by a friend to tell her my concern and ask her advice. The psychic told me not to worry, that my mother would be fine. I still called my mother the night before I left, and again at the airport to tell her goodbye. Then the night before she had the stroke in Illinois, I dreamed one of my pair of goldfish had died and I was called onto the stage. But to fully understand the extent of our soul agreement, I’ve had to go behind the curtain so to speak. Behind the actions and the words that had played out in real time, and see what was hidden in my soul. I’d have to spend an untold number of nights sleeping with a bundle by my side before I could relate to a woman protecting the egg she carried. It’s taken me thirty-nine years to catch up with what I knew amidst the grief and loss after the storm. But there it is.  

Book of da Month #2: Yours Cruelly, Elvira by Cassandra Peterson 💄

This fantastic autobiography is by Cassandra Peterson. She’s best known as portraying horror queen icon Elvira, who here in the UK wasn’t really a thing, but in America has continued cult status.

After hearing a You’re Wrong About podcast episode last year, Peterson’s story piqued our interest. We bought Yours Cruelly, Elvira: Memoirs of the Mistress of Darkness (2021) for further insights into her life. It’s an often remarkable time of it, with many highs and low, all told with brilliant humour and wit.

Yours Cruelly, Elvira: Memoirs of the Mistress of Darkness

“Okay. Let me just get this out of the way. I’m seventy years old. There’s no hiding it from Wikipedia. My age is always announced in the first sentence of any interview I do. I’m going to do my absolute best to remember as much of my life as humanly possible even though nowadays I can barely remember what I did last night. I’ll try to recall every gory detail and be as factual as possible because I sure as hell don’t want to end up like that James Frey who got reamed by Oprah after she found out his autobiography was bogus. The bottom line is, this story is the truth. My truth.”

Cassandra Peterson is 74 now, born in September of 1951 over in Manhattan, Kansas. She begins her autobiography with a terrifying story of how, at 18 months of age, an accident at home left her with severe burns over 35% of her body.

This happened when boiling water from a kettle fell over her. Peterson believes she must have accidentally pulled it onto herself when her parents were in a different room. The toddler was rushed to hospital and spent years receiving skin grafts.

Experimental penicillin treatment saved her life and, by chance, most of her significant scars can be covered up by clothing and the positioning of her hair. But the scars left a big impact on her childhood and teenage years, leaving her battling self-esteem problems, and she became a shy loner. Not helped by her family setting of a loving but eccentric father with a penchant for engaging in manly fisticuffs.

“Every other word out of his mouth was ‘damn’, ‘goddamn’, ‘son of a bitch’, ‘bastard’, or ‘hell’. And that wasn’t when he was angry; it was just his normal, everyday speech.”

Worse are Peterson’s recollections of her mother, who she acknowledges had undiagnosed narcissistic personality disorder, which led to frequent verbal and physical abuse.

“My childhood might have seemed idyllic to the outside observer, but at home with my mother, it was anything but. She was a tough one, man. She didn’t take crap from anyone, least of all her kids. Mother came from the do-it-because-I-say-so-or-I’ll-give-you-something-to-really-cry-about school of parenting. She wasn’t the kind of person who should have had kids to begin with. She was a nervous, anxious woman of the ’50s who did what you were supposed to do in those days: get married and start a family.”

To deal with this unstable home life, Peterson immersed herself in pop culture and fell in love with cinema. Most notably, she took a big fancy to horror and her favourite actor was Vincent Price.

But she was also obsessed with music. After an Elvis infatuation, she went ballistic for The Beatles once Beatlemania stormed the US.

“I ate, slept, and breathed The Beatles. The downside was that this spelled the end of my long friendship with Nyliram, because she hated them and said they looked like girls. That was it. I was forced to drop her like a hot potato and search out other like-minded Beatlemaniacs. I found them in the form of my new BFFs, Molly, Kathy, and Eileen. We talked in British accents like The Beatles, dressed in Beatle boots and hats, and screamed our heads off whenever one of their songs came on the radio. We went to the Chief Theater to see A Hard Day’s Night at least a half dozen times and shrieked and sobbed our way through it until we lost our voices. When one of The Beatles’ birthdays rolled around, we held a party, complete with candles and a Jiffy cake we whipped up ourselves. We put a lot of energy into hating the guts out of Cynthia Lennon, John’s wife, and Jane Asher, Paul’s girlfriend, because we were so jealous.”

From there she worshipped any bands who visited Kansas and became a groupie, the young women famous for trying to hang out with bands (often getting exploited in the process).

This is one of the darker sides of this autobiography, Peterson’s depictions of sexual assault at the hands of often much older men.

Apologies for the male gaze here, but Peterson is a very attractive women and, as she admits in the book, puberty led to a surge of interest in her. Although still affected by burn scars, she uses (to this day) her long red hair to cover up the scarring on her neck. And often pokes fun at the size of her breasts and how these make men behave like idiots in front of her.

“Suddenly one day I sprouted boobs. Not just boobs. Enormous boobs. When puberty finally struck, I developed faster than a Polaroid. In my mind at least, I remember going to bed flat as a board one night and waking up with ginormous breasts the next morning. It was like, whoa, dude—this is better than the tooth fairy!”

A timely confidence boost for her, but as she soon found out her appearance also brought with it a lot of negative geezer attention.

As a groupie she was meeting famous rock stars already feeling pretty entitled and important, some of whom really do not come across very well at all in this book. Some are straight up sex pests (she dishes the dirt in the book without holding back).

Then you’ve got the ones clearly battling chronic addiction problems. Jimi Hendrix gave Peterson his number (at the Denver Pop Festival, June 1969), but when she rang him later that night he was too drunk/stoned to make any sense (unfortunately, he died just over 12 months later). Then The Who turned up on their first US tour and baffled her by destroying their equipment onstage in a frenzy.

Who does come out of it really well is the lovely sounding Frank Zappa, who gave Peterson fatherly advice about staying safe (i.e. by not being a groupie).

The chaos of these disorderly teenage years are told with charm and great humour. It’s a very funny, if also melancholic, retelling of a difficult childhood turning into a rock ‘n’ roll coming-of-age. In a demonstration of leering behaviour from men that Peterson would have to deal with for decades ahead.

Throughout those formative years, she was intent on making it as an actor. But as she acknowledges, that kind of thing doesn’t work out for 99% of people. She put off trying to get a “normal” career in her efforts to make it. But by the age of 30, her efforts hadn’t gone anywhere and was told by everyone (including her agent) she was now “too old” for Hollywood. She was close to packing in her dreams.

But then an unexpected bit of a luck came her way in 1981, which has become her defining act.

The Elvira Years: 1981 to Present

Right, the first time we ever heard about Elvira was in August 2025 with the You’re Wrong About podcast. We don’t know where we went wrong there, but presume it’s mainly a US thing, as we don’t recall ever seeing her on anything in the UK.

How did the character come to be? Well, in the 1970s there was an LA-based TV show called Fright Night that ran as a celebration of dodgy B movie horror films. Producers were looking for a new host, wanted it to be an attractive woman, and went about with auditions.

Peterson didn’t want the role at first and turned down audition offers.

“Finding a woman who was both sexy and funny was a tall order in those days. Women were allowed to be sexy or funny, but not both. If you were the least bit attractive it was impossible to have a sense of humour. If you were funny, you needed to look like Phyllis Diller, Totie Fields, or Joan Rivers (with their original faces). I loved old horror movies and I’d been working in LA’s top comedy improvisational group, the Groundlings, for a little more than four years, so had the timing been better, horror host actually seemed like a bill I could have filled. Damn.”

Eventually, she agreed to an audition and nailed the role in one. The producers then left it up to her to create the Elvira character, so she went for a goth/vampire look similar to The Addams Family type vibes.

What was crucial here is Peterson seized on the role and took it seriously, but not so seriously she couldn’t have an enormous amount of fun with it. Wearing a dress heavily exaggerating her breasts, with a giant and almost absurd beehive black wig, plus the pallid makeup, and the result was a very arresting look.

As a character, she’s confident, open with her sexuality, sassy, and a kickass type feminist. An outsider anti-heroine, but someone oozing in confidence, the creation of that alter-ego seems to be in stark contrast to Peterson’s confidence struggles when she was younger.

Plus, an outsider who doesn’t give a toss about that and is happy in leading her life as she pleases.

Couple that image with the one liners (“I’m the hostess with the mostess!”, “Unpleasant dreams!”, “Bad dreams, darlings!” etc.) and you’ve got an instant camp LGBTQ+ icon.

The character is so popular it led to two films. There was Elvira: Mistress of the Dark (1988) and then Elvira’s Haunted House (2001). In those, she frequently deals with approaches from randy men, who she thwarts through one liners and/or the likes of stamping on their feet with her high heels. She doesn’t let them get away with it.

The hostess with the mostess feels even more relevant to modern life and progressive attitudes than in the 1980s. This led to the TV concept returning in 2010 for public domain films, before returning to the horror hostess in 2014 with Nights of Elvira (a Hulu exclusive).

Of course, there’s the also official website: Elvira, Mistress of Darkness.

Her story story is rumbling on in fine style. For 2021, alongside this autobiography launching, there was a 40th anniversary special celebrating the character on Shudder (a horror-based streaming service). And there doesn’t seem any end to the character. She’s active on social media and still attends comic cons and the like to meet fans.

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Anyway, we’re all sold on this. We feel stupid for having missed out on Peterson’s excellence, but pleased to belatedly get there. Yours Cruelly, Elvira: Memoirs of the Mistress of Darkness is an excellent book and was a New York Times bestseller after its launch.

It perfectly balances her great sense of humour (she is naturally very funny) alongside her intelligence, but also recalling the psychological battering she faced due to the sexist nature of the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s.

There’s a positive and endearing spirit in her every sentence and we can highly recommend the autobiography. Charming, uplifting, and an insight into an impressive mind.

Archaeoethnologica: Autobiography, HIstorians & Historiography / Autobriografias de Historiadores e Historiografia

+INFO in: https://archaeoethnologica.blogspot.com/2025/01/autobriografias-de-historiadores-e.html

#History #Autobiography #historiography #theoryofhistory #Antiquity #Medieval #contemporary #gender #colonialism #postcolonialism #books #openaccess

Archaeoethnologica: Autobiography, HIstorians & Historiography / Autobriografias de Historiadores e Historiografia

+INFO in: https://archaeoethnologica.blogspot.com/2025/01/autobriografias-de-historiadores-e.html

#History #Autobiography #historiography #theoryofhistory #Antiquity #Medieval #contemporary #gender #colonialism #postcolonialism #books #openaccess

Another #goodread... Black By Design by The Selecter's Pauline Black. Not just for the 2-Tone fans, this excellent book is a potted social history of the latter half of the 20th and early 21st century told via Pauline's experiences - and all the things wrong in the UK. Not always easy reading but what a strong, talented woman.

#books #bookworm #musicbook #autobiography #2Tone #2toneska #ska #reggae #socialhistory #acting #adoption #blackbydesign #paulineblack #blackartists #bookstadon

IT’S FINALLY OUT! 🤩 #Audiobook edition of FANGIRLING ARMITAGE for all y’all #RichardArmitage fans out there 🥰 https://www.scribd.com/audiobook/627323675

#newrelease #fangirls #fangirling #london #nyc #creativenonfiction #autobiography #memoir #celebrity #britishproblems #northandsouth