Mythologically Torqued Vol II

Isn't this a fabulous little thing? It's my story, "To Hell and Back", available all on its own (as an e-book) or as one story in a fabulous collection of LGBT tales that mingle old myths and modern life to bring YOU, dear reader, something new.

BASTARDS HAD THE WHOLE HILL MINED - poetry by Dominic Albanese

BASTARDS HAD THE WHOLE HILL MINED

(note: Dominic Albanese is a Facebook friend of mine and I liked his book. I’ve never written a review that was otherwise.)

BASTARDS HAD THE WHOLE HILL MINED is not an easy read. It should be, given how plain the language is, but the subject matter and the poet’s voice make it a very rough ride. Not as rough, of course, as fighting in the Vietnam War, which is what this collection is about. As for the poet’s voice, it is that of a raconteur with a powerful flair for vernacular. To quickly become fluent in Albanese is time well spent.

From FIFTY YEARS AGO
gun oil, fish sauce, blood, creosote, “l’odeur de la papaya verte”
Asia of the jungle, Asia of the mountains, Asia of the
sea
such a long time ago, yesterday to me

Bursts of black anger or hilarity share the page with lamentations,
like this line from what is I think my favorite poem in the collection,

POSTED:
weeping wondering calling on the dusty bones
to remember me and our times

In 1964, having already left Mark Twain Junior High on Coney Island and gotten into trouble, a big kid found himself enlisted in the US Armed Forces. He was 16 but as far as the Military knew, he was 17. Imagine the meeting, on a bus from basic training to begin jump school, between Dominic Albanese and John G. Madison, then 19. By the time their Special Forces Training was done and they shipped out, Monk and Maddy were tight.

From THROW BACK THURSDAY
two grizzled 40some year ole Master Sargent s
Maddy n me not 40 between us
in years but armed to the teeth

In verdant green and black and white, we are unsettled into foreign territory, with Dominic Albanese as our guide. Not that he paints himself as a hero.

From MADDY AND ME:
(I was young, scared, over my
head)
Virgil Gray…n…some other Old timers would allow me
slack as long as when the shit hit I fired back

but it’s clear that there are other soldiers, particularly Maddy, who are his personal heroes and that those who survived carried some seriously scary demons home to the USA.
So, in the final poem, MAYDAY, when I read this simple line:

I am glad to be here

it makes me want to weep with relief.

Mr. Albanese has said, “All writers are poets. Poets are just lazy writers,” but he has also said, “Why take 400 pages to say something I can say on one page?”
His stream-of-consciousness style and his ear for the vernacular took me on one unsettling journey after another, one page after another. I’ve been back and forth in space and time with Monk and Maddy and I understand, better, the tragedy of “The American War.”
Why does a poem that starts:

…in jungle grunt through bush
wading streams small river
leeches bugs snakes
never mind around a corner
some green hat NVA would love to kill ya…
have the title THE FUNNY OF WAR?

It’s easy enough to find out!
This volume of poetry is a hard-won grace, fifty years in the making. The relevance of the book is not limited to Veterans, although BASTARDS matters to a lot of them. It is ultimately the tale of a big, terrified kid and his best pal, miraculously surviving a stupid bloodbath only to discover that the stupid bloodbath sloshes in their boots with every step they take.

from POSTED
into the tropic magic, into the terror
laughing, burp guns, grease guns, grenade launchers,
large bore pistols
rucksacks full of dried fish and rice, wearing car-tire
sandals
acting like real soldiers, only playin war

Poor Monk. There’s a hell of a heart beating inside that big, scared lug and lucky for us, it is the heart of a fine poet.

BASTARDS HAD THE WHOLE HILL MINED
by Dominic Albanese
published by Seb Doubinsky, Les Editions du Zaporogue

The Poverty Grind

My ver$ion of a grief memoir would include the denial of more than a death, although death, all by its lonesome, is a major player in provoking the unconscious, self-protective, irksomeness of the process of denial.
In my case, Michael’s death was a harbinger of my financial nightmare. The fact that I ignored that for as long as possible, no matter how irksome that fact is, makes me happy.

After I saw that he was dead I went home and suffered for awhile and so on. It wasn’t until I decided to consider following his death with my own that I looked at my life, now that he wasn’t in it any more. (Well, first, as those of you who know me already know, I tagged the as yet unwrapped Christmas gifts so my mourners would know which gift was for whom, and threw all the sex toys down the chute)

At that point I looked at my present situation and concluded that it would take the rest of my life to dig myself out of the mess. If I hurried I could still catch up to Michael. (This turns out to be a very common thought for the bereaved to have.) But there was the cat and Brill’s final semester, which I imagined might be negatively impacted by my death. I called Mary T.

I coasted along on the money I had and the money people gave me until Deluxoid came with me to see a rather soppy social worker and said, “What about my friend?” and after that, Megamensch came along and after that, applications and more worker-types and government money and HALLELUJAH rent-geared-to-income-housing.

All the paperwork and double-speak and signing away my secrecy was overwhelming but the assistance has been much appreciated. It’s unfortunate that I didn’t realize that when my rent went down, my government assistance would dwindle, too. That’s where the denial thing gets irksome.

I moved into my new neighbourhood a year ago. We are two small apartment buildings (total of ab out 14 apartments) squatting amidst half-million-minimum brick homes in a stately part of town. But there is “our” neighbourhood and “their” neighbourhood. Happy, friendly, two-income young families are very friendly on the street but when it comes down to it, they align with the owner of the buildings, not the people who rent from him.

My rent is so low a monkey could cover it but August’s rent wiped me out. I’m the only person in either building with cable TV (and a two-year contract for it.) Oops. I didn’t listen to my friend’s poverty lessons, although I’ve put all her money-saving tips into effect now that money has finally become an issue.
January 1, 2015, a year into my bereavement, I understood. This place may not have been a slum when I moved in (or maybe it was and I just didn’t see it because my apartment is so adorable and we had a beautiful garden!) but it certainly is well on its way, now. I wouldn’t give it more than another year, if the water pipes and the windows hold up. The Lord of the Land has been a slum lord for years and my building, stone though it may be, succumbs.

I’m much more calculating now that I have very little to add up and lots to subtract. There’s no public transportation in this quiet town so getting around is a problem. I no longer take cabs anywhere. The new neighbour who is already moving out is a lonely Newfie so she’ll do anything in exchange for a little mindless conversation. I get rides and then pay her off with a cup of coffee and a (bored) ear to bend.

Basically, I trade my time for favours. I suppose I could say, I barter my time for transportation. Either way if it’s not a new behaviour (and when it comes down to it aren’t we all trading our time for $$ on some level?) it’s now stark.

Poverty is absolutely grinding. The relentless concern, the stealthy manoeuvers, the serious adjustment of the mindset, these things are akin to gears that must keep in motion no matter how loudly they protest. It’s imperative to keep on top of everything because one slide can mean disaster.

Hydroelectricity and water bills are the Achilles’ heel for many, including me. I didn’t see this cost coming my way because I was floating on a sea of relief.

When I fought my landlord for heat and cajoled the hoarder next door to do the same she demurred. “You weren’t born poor so you don’t understand,” she said. She gave me another pair of her hand knit socks and went home to hide under the quilts.

She was my best neighbour, besides the ex-cop who kept an eye on things. They’re both gone, now. She fled and left her neighbours with a mountain of stuff to sift through, which created unending drama for fall of us, especially me, the keeper of the key. As such, I am the prime suspect in the case of the missing Mix Master. I am not amused and I am no longer keeper of the key.

His exit is much quieter, but he is missed. My building is silent but the other one (and even more so, the drug-dealing apartment block that shares its parking lot) get louder by the month. Hot August nights drew the drunks out into the muggy air and there’s a lot of ‘em. They like my lawn.

Neighbours knock on my door every day. One even drops himself, shirtless, into a chair while I’m sitting in my stoop, smoking and talking on the phone. I’m unnerved, frankly, by the assumptions of my fellow renters. Have I joined a commune?

I’m not even particularly nice to them, even when they’ve paid for my time with gas and wheels. I don’t want to explain what I do. It should be enough that I’ve told them: I’m a writer. I often work at night. I teach, too. I shall have to elucidate: Just because I’m home, even if I’m having a smoke in my stoop (I’ve been ordered not to smoke in my apartment, although it isn’t on my lease) doesn’t mean I want company. But they forget. They don’t even necessarily know my name but they don’t mind hanging out in my yard. I’m flummoxed.

The Lord of Slum Shire shows up whenever an apartment is vacated, which is to say, monthly. Presently he’s not-dealing with a steady stream of clean cold water spewing from a faucet into my tub. It’s literally money down the drain but he doesn’t care because he doesn’t know he’ll be partially liable for my water bill when it arrives, two months from now. He forgets that I have “my guys” too, and one of them is a city inspector.

Now I turn off the power bars off when I’m not using them and shower at night. I eat more vegetables and a lot less meat. Every pack of smokes I buy breaks my bank as much as my heart. I can’t afford to smoke. I can’t really afford to have a pet, either. But I do smoke. I do have a cat. Bad Mad. It grinds a girl down.

Deluxoid hung my Mexican mirror and said, “Here’s your lipstick mirror!” We happily freshened our lipstick. When I pointed it out to the carnie and my Grief Gal they both insisted I rename it my “self-affirmation mirror.” I protested. They pressed the point. I mightily protested! “If you want a self-actualization mirror, hang one up. This is my mirror and it’s a lipstick mirror!”
Goddam it I’m not going to be bossed by women again. I’ve no more interest in that than being bossed by men. I followed most of the rules all of my life and look where it’s gotten me.

Nobody gets to tell me what to do. I made this bed and I’m sleeping in it (although my Dad bought me my actual bed.) Get that sharp edge of defiance? That comes from poverty, too. Don’t mess with me. I may not have been born poor but I’m getting the hang of it now.

Is a lipstick mirror an act of defiance? I don’t care. There’s more than one way out of my situation and I’d be a fool not to consider all the angles. I’m a woman, alone, under reduced circumstances. I think war paint is a good idea.

Lighten Up, Madeline!

I'm working on a new bio so I took a look at my blog. Man, that Madeline Moore is a bummer! This will not do. Time to dream up something fun for summer blog readers, me thinks.
Leonard Cohen says sometimes he looks in the mirror and says, "Leonard, fer chrissakes, lighten up!"
I'm all LC all the time so if it works for him it'll work for me.

I've got a bee in my bonnet now so I'm gonna put on my thinkin' fascinator...

EEEEEK! Get that bug outta my eye.

Maybe go patriotic? This is the one Kate wore to Canada.

Meh. A little more pizazz, please...

A little less pizazz, please...

I'll take one of these with two clavicles, please.

Happy summer, peeps.

xoxo mad

04/04/2015

I only called him sweetheart for the last week of his life. Of course, I didn’t know it was his last week. He told me, “I think so-and –so should have my leather jacket, don’t you?” and “Make sure my youngest son gets my watch.”

I said, “I’m starting smoking again,” and he said, “No,” but I did and I didn’t pretend otherwise. I’d taken over the cooking because he wasn’t up to it. I cooked his last meal, which, as luck would have it, happened to be his very favourite.

We fell madly in love again during that last week.

Friday night, I couldn’t help him anymore so I left him alone in the hopes that he’d get some sleep. There was nothing I had to do so I finally contacted two big-shot men in the film business that I knew from my early days. I did it for him, because he wanted me to very badly. He didn’t understand the business, ever. These guys can’t help me get a gig. They’re below the line; I’m above. But I did it so I could tell him I’d done it and when he called me I went to the bedroom to announce just that.

When I got there he said he’d vomited blood and thought we should maybe call Telehealth, which advises Ontarians as to the best course of action when there’s an emergency. I said, “I don’t think we need Telehealth, I think we need an ambulance.”

You might think I knew these were our last days together. But you’d be wrong. I didn't have a conscious clue. Sunday morning, when he died, I waa shocked to the bone.

Go figure.

Ice storm/internet down/Michael in hospital/power outage/Michael dies/get this body outta our morgue!/Christmas/power up/internet back up and – Happy New Year!

Enthusiastic replies from the two guys I’d emailed at the very end of the part before the beginning of the end.

I’m still in contact with them. My situation has changed, of course, but the situation hasn't. They can’t do anything for me. I’m still above the line; they’re still below.

AN INTIMATE EDUCATION - review by Madeline Moore

Full disclosure:

I have a story in An Intimate Education, the e-book that was launched at the Erotic World Book Day Party on March 5. All proceeds from the sale of the book go to charity. More about that in a moment.

There is a fabulous prize up for grabs for anyone who reviews the book on Amazon or in their blog. I sorta really want this prize and contributors to the antho have been encouraged to enter to win!

I haven’t finished reading the anthology because it hasn’t been mine for long and I have to read one story at a time because – sizzling hot!

Here’s what I can tell you about An Intimate Education:

All the stories I’ve read so far have been well-written, lusty little tales that are wildly imaginative, kinky and achingly lust-enducing. A couple are even moving.

I like this anthology. I like the cover, I like the stories, I like being in it, I like the editor. I like that it’s for charity. I’m more than proud to be in it, I’m excited by it.

I like the charities that 100 percent of the proceeds from the sale of the anthology go to. In the UK, Brook.
In the USA, Scarleteen.

Both charities work with young people (teens and early twenties) to help them with many of the often-confusing aspects of sexual maturity. Don't you wish such a thing existed when you were a teen? Man, I sure do! I’m glad these charities exist, now, and I’m thrilled to help generate some moolah for the cause.

If you enjoy good stories about kinky sex (and maybe there’s even a vanilla story or two in the antho, like I said, I haven’t finished it yet)
and you support sex education for our young

I want you to:

Buy An Intimate Education.

It’s a veritable steal at 2.99 pounds sterling and did I mention it’s for a good cause?

IT’S FOR A GOOD CAUSE.

I do not know exactly what I would do with those red lips in this prize package. I just know that I want those red lips, too. I want them MADLY.

I know if I actually win the grand prize I’ll experience a tantalizing sensation of guilt.
I kinda want that, too.

It’s been a long winter!

Xoxo mad

Follow #EWBD on twitter

EROTIC WORLD BOOK DAY PARTY TODAY!

PARTY TIME, PEEPS!

Where Madeline, where?

Here!




Why Madeline, why?

You need a reason? I GOT ONE! We're celebrating World Book Day with Erotic World Book Day(#EWBD on Twitter).

Our indefatigable leaders have whipped together a gorgeous anthology that goes up for sale when the party begins. I'm in the anthology, so happy to say, with my contribution "It's Simple". I am in excellent company, peeps. The antho looks like this:



So pritty! I'm so proud! ALL proceeds from the sale of the anthology go to charity, primarily to Brook
which "provides sexual health and wellbeing services for over 275,000 young people UK-wide, each year."



Also, in the USA, to Scarleteen,
which provies "inclusive, comprehensive and smart sexuality information and help to teens and 20s"

When Madeline, when?

The event kicks off at 7pm in the UK which is 5 hours earlier in USA/Canada. It's sorta NSFW but with competitions and surprises every FIVE minutes, you wanna be there on your lunch break so you can enter to win some of our prizes. We now have over 1500 pounds sterling in giveaways including enough erotica and toys to keep you good and hot right into spring, summer and straight into the next season that follows fall which I do not want to give a name to in case it thinks I want it to stick around longer which I do not.

Oh Mad, What do the prizes look like, what?

Well, some of them look exactly like this:

AND MUCH MORE.

Everyone who attends gets this:

Who Madeline, who?

YOU!

Wear, Madeline, wear?

I could go on about this all day but I'm not gonna because I have to get ready for the party. So what should I virtually wear? Basic black or something sparkly? I look good in pink but ... oh I dunno. My birthday suit? I can if I want! And so can you.

Oh do come!
It'll be fun!

2015 - March 5 - Erotic World Book Day

My first post of the new year. Gasp.


WHAT'S HAPPENING


I am part of this huge celebration and you can be, too. The e-book is taking shape. The prizes are already beyond fantastic. The proceeds of the book go to charity and - everybody gets quality erotica to enjoy. So... come play with us!



Here's your Facebook link, dear readers: Erotic World Book Day.

We're on Twitter at #EWBD

Here's the organization the proceeds from the e-book will go to: Brook, The Sexual Health Charity

I didn't know the deadline for submissions until today, the 18th, so the first order of my business is to write a story. As luck would have it a great first line of a story blasted to the surface this morning so that is the what I'll write and submit to the antho. The word count is tight The deadline is Feb. 22.

My submissions and published new stories of late move in a bunch of new directions. I'm excited about it. This story (working title "Womanly Wiles") is no exception.

Once I get the story subbed there'll be more time for me to fling myself into the buzz. It's energizing, like the early days of my career when I joined the (now archived) Lust Bites Blog.



It's nice to be emerging from the shadows.


Oh thank you to my dear colleagues and friends! You helped keep the MM - um - brand alive.
That is sort of true and sort of a joke.

Oh thank you to my dear colleagues and friends! You helped keep MM alive.
That is no joke.