Leonard, for chrissakes, lighten up!

That's what he said, to make us laugh, at the concert in Ottawa last Wednesday.
We laughed.


This is exactly what Leonard looks like - NOW!

(Cohen in concert, Ottawa, Dec.7 2012)


Hmm. Sorry, no time to write the tale of my trip to Ottawa to see Leonard Cohen perform his Old Ideas North American Tour, 2012.


I'm drinking from my new cup:

wearing my new tee:

staring at my 4 lapel pins and my silk scarf and slowly, carefully, reading the official program, which I am selling for the inflated price of $50.00 to cover some of the costs of all the merch I could not resist the night of the concert:

(I hope no-one bites on the programme because, um, there's a cheesecake shot of Leonard, naked and posing like the Ladies' Man he was and, well, also 2 pages of stickers!)

Oh yeah, I'm thinking cool and beautiful thoughts of: love; redemption; Leonard lithe and skipping; creativity; stickers; Canada; anger; mercy; sexy; kindness and you.


Thank you for being kind.


is that sand upon his shoulders?

is that the crack of his ass that I see?

She sips, she does not gulp, from her cup of longing...

xoxo Mad

merchandise photos from: leonardcohenforum.com

Photo courtesy @SENSphoto. pic.twitter.com/cZPCIP0b

Tips on How to Enter a Contest

Air Canada plane not en route to Thailand. 1) Read the rules. Air Canada is holding a contest. Seven hundred and fifty winners will be flown anywhere in the world where Air Canada flies. All you have to do is tell the story of where you want to go, and why. Say - hey! I'm a writer! I can win this contest and return to Thailand, where my family lived during Woodstock, the summer of love and, perhaps more to the point, the Vietnam War. I just spent about an hour pounding out the heartwarming tale of a geeky girl becoming a confident young lady while living in a village called Khon Kaen. Two thousand characters - on the nose! All I had to do was upload my story. Except - I was required to type the first three letters of the destination I desired. T. H. A. "Sorry! Air Canada does not fly to this destination!" Hmm. Come to think of it, we flew Thai Air in '69. I remember the lobster luncheon served on china, orchids for the ladies and little purple souvenir fans. Definitely not Air Canada. Not now. Not ever. GROAN! Yeah, I tried Bangkok. Guess what? An airline that doesn't fly to Thailand doesn't fly to Bangkok, either. Ptooey. So what we now have is a little story about me, when I was 15 years old, living in Khon Kaen, Thailand. It is exactly 2000 characters, including spaces. It includes the only picture of family that has been scanned. Just so you know, though it isn't in my little useless contest tale, I had a pile of boyfriends and they were all gorgeous. No touchee was the rule, which was fine with me. And then along came Sudang. He'd lived a year in America so he knew all about us bad North Americans. Only I was a completely untouched very good little Canadian prairie girl - until he showed up, all busy fingers and sloppy tongue.

But I digress. HA! Don't you wish? Recently I reread The Lover by Margeurite Duras. I thought I might be able to write something similar but . . . no. My story would be completely different. Still, I think it's a tale worth telling. But not today. Oh, by the way, I do know how to make paragraphs on Blogger. But this morning, Blogger does not know how to make paragraphs. Cock-sucking crap. Mai Pen Rai. Today, this is the story you get, in a big fat paragraph-minus lump: KHON KAEN In 1969, while hippies turned a dairy farm into a festival of love called Woodstock and The Beatles released Abbey Road, this Canadian girl from the prairies was living on the other side of the world. My father, a Professor of Engineering with the University of Manitoba, had loaded up his large family and moved us to Khon Kaen, Thailand. At the time, Khon Kaen was little more than a village; but it had something that could be found in only 2 other places in Thailand – a University. My Dad helped establish the University of Khon Kaen and a 15 year old girl from Winnipeg came of age in Southeast Asia. I remember the jets flying overhead, six minutes away from their destination, Vietnam. I remember water buffaloes, elephants, monkeys and snakes. I remember the noise, the smells and the colours of the marketplace; the stares of people who had never seen a blonde, green-eyed white girl before. “Falang, falang,” they cried as I tried to meld into the crowd. I was a “foreigner” and, at first, they never let me forget it. But as I learned the language and the ways of the people, I became one of them. I waiied to the Buddha and left treats in the tiny houses for the spirits of trees that had been uprooted to build houses like the one I lived in. We studied by correspondence but we became part of the University life. I’d arrived a gawky adolescent who’d never been asked to dance at the school I’d attended in Winnipeg. I left a confident girl whose dance card, at the many parties held at the University, was always full. Eighteen months after we arrived, we took the night train from Khon Kaen to Bangkok, to begin our journey home. Our friends cried as they draped us with jasmine leis. I cried, too, and vowed that one day I’d return. That was a long time ago. My firm resolve to revisit the place where my eyes were opened to the wonders of another world faded until it became an impossibility. Until now. I want to go “home.” Please help me make that girlhood dream come true, after all.

Picture of my Mom and my little sister, now a drummer in Victoria, B.C. It's tempting to say the other two girls are my sister and me, but that would be a lie. I have no idea who they are or why they are walking with my Mother and baby sis. -Mad (as hell) Mad

Pushkin - a Poem

Pushkin

In a cage at the uptown ASPCA
he left his musky scent on my hands,
and locked his yellow-green eyes
on those of a woman in a blue smock
who said he was strange, and when I took
him downtown on the Second Avenue bus
he forced his head through the cardboard box
and looked like a just-hatched bird
making everyone laugh, and when I first
offered him food he ate growling
under his breath, and from the beginning
he came running to me when I said
his new name Pushkin, as if he knew
he had the spirit of the dead poet within him.
And I have always loved
how dense and black his top coat is,
how white fur hikes up his front legs
like thick storm boots, how he still
has not grown into his huge paws,
how in cold weather he naps on
my flannel nightgowns, or lies across
vents of the radiator so that only he
feels the heat, and in warm weather
fills my small bathtub with his long body,
and when he doesn't like his food
he scrapes his paws across the kitchen walls,
and as he gets older his white stomach falls
like a loose purse between his legs.
When he is sleeping an old soul's smile
forms on his mouth, and each morning
at 6:45 he stands over me pushing his face
against my ear and he is always stalking
shadows at the door when I come home,
and when I write he sits in the middle
of my lined papers and rubs his black
and white face against my pen,
and on sad days when I feel stuck inside
I can not resist him,
and I let him be my poem.

Copyright ©1994 Penny Cagan

Eulogy for a Cat

Once I had a husband, two kids and a big house in the country. I didn't want to live in the country but my husband did and he always got what he wanted.

It was isolated. We had an acre and so did all the neighbours. The whole "Welcome to the neighbourhood" thing did not happen. We were city slickers and we weren't welcome.

My husband could be very nice and he could be very cruel. When I had my first child I knew one sure thing. I loved being a Mom. We gave her a sister. I played with my kids all day every day.

The deal was, when the littlest started school I would be free to write. But when the littlest started school, my husband told me to get a job. He said, "Things change."

That was one of the rules he lived by. The other was "All's fair in love and war." My crazy love for my crazy husband began to wane. I was quite sure he'd stopped loving me a long time before I started to lose interest in him. My children hugged and kissed me but children grow up. I knew that. I wondered who would touch me when they stopped.

We decided to separate in January 2001. In March, 2001 my Mother was diagnosed with cancer. My parents lived in Manitoba and I lived in this ridiculous country town in nowheresville, Ontario.

I was my Mother's primary caregiver in an "anticipated death at home." While in Winnipeg, I sold my house by fax. The day after her funeral I returned to Ontario, I had a month to pack the house up and move. I didn't know where I was going to live. My youngest was going to live with her Father. Like I said, he always got what he wanted.

My eldest daughter and I moved into an apartment in the nearby town. I bought furniture from IKEA. I drove an ancient Oldsmobile. I was in shock.

In February of 2002 I decided my daughter and I needed a cat. I wanted an affectionate cat and I had heard that male Siamese are loving cats. One day I decided, "Today is the day. I'll go get a Siamese kitten. My daughter will come home from school and take a nap. I'll come home and open the cat box on her bed and she'll be very, very happy."

not Leo but just what he looked like as a babe

And that is exactly how it went. When he crawled out of the carrier, onto the bed, she exclaimed, "Oh it's Siamese!"

We named him Leo. The Van is for Van Morrison, because Leo yowled the entire two hour drive home and I played Van Morrison to keep me from losing my mind. We decided he liked to sing. Meow Meow is Thai for cat and since he was Siamese, it made sense.

He hid in the crook of my arm for 3 days. He wouldn't eat or go to the bathroom. Then he ate. He went to the bathroom. He became a member of my household. He would greet us when we came home. Siamese cats hug. Did you know that? He hugged us. The first time he saw me cry he came closer . . . closer . . . until his nose touched a tear and he jumped. I laughed.

My eldest went to live with her Father in August, 2002. He lived in a much better school zone.


Leo, the cat, and I lived together. He didn't mind if I slept all day. He liked to sleep all day, too. He wasn't scared of tears any more. If I had a nightmare, he came to see if I was okay. His purr was deep and strong. He was soft and beautiful. He gazed at me with adoring blue eyes.

In June 2003 Felix moved in with us. Leo bowed to the male authority. But he loved Felix, too.

 Full grown, Leo was almost 20 pounds. His purr was loud. He was loud. He was smart in a lot of ways, but he was addicted to plastic. We had to set up and maintain a plastic free household and we did.

2012. Leo was 11. Leo had asthma. He hated taking pills so recently we switched to an inhaler. He continued to eat plastic whenever possible. Crazy cat!

Two nights ago he had a major asthma attack. We took him to the vet. He didn't settle down until I went into the back, where his cage was, opened the cage door and held him in my arms. It reminded me of all those times I held my children in my arms, when they were sick, until they settled. He settled. He was released. I was given the address etcetera of an emergency all night clinic, just in case.

When we got home I stayed up all night, observing my cat. He was calm as long as I was there with him. I discovered one of his teeth on the floor. It seemed to me he'd choked on a tooth and that had brought on the attack. So maybe he'd be okay now?

I didn't leave him until Felix got up.

Today, Leo drank a little water.. He used his litter box. He didn't eat. I was getting ready to go to bed, around 2:00 a.m., when he had another attack. I woke Felix. We gave him two puffs of his inhaler. It didn't help. We called the emergency clinic, put Leo in his carrying case and began the drive to the emergency clinic.

He tried to escape from the box. He was panicking. I wouldn't let him out. I stuffed him back in. I yelled, "I am trying to save your life!" I zipped the case closed. He died.

People think I'm so much fun. People think I'm patient and good and polite, like all Canadians. But I come from a family of yellers. I yelled at my kids, sometimes. I yelled at my husband a lot. I have even yelled at Felix, from time to time, but he doesn't yell back so . . . I don't yell at him any more.

But right there, right then, when Leo was trying to escape that box, panicking and unable to breathe, about to die, I yelled at him. He didn't die with me stroking him and whispering to him, like my other pets have, because they were put down at the vet.

My Mother died with me stroking her and whispering to her.

But Leo died with me freaking out at him because he was freaking out and I was afraid. We were afraid.

Nothing can undo that. It's all done, now. I have a cold cat in a carrying case in my spare room. I can stroke him and whisper to him if I want to and I do and I have and I will again before morning comes. But he can't hear me now.

I find it hard to be kind all the time. I don't know if I can ever entirely stop yelling. The only thing I take comfort in is that Leo and I did yell at each other from time to time. (Remember, he was Siamese.) I believe he knew I loved him and I know he loved me.

People who don't have pets won't understand this and people who do have pets will.

I loved that crazy, plastic eating, beautiful, vain, smart and slightly cross eyed beast.

I just loved him. And I guess that's all I have to say.

Mad

Addendum: Diary of a Sad Cat Lady or Thoughts on the Loss of Leo

1) I have learned that cats have a false larynx. This is why they can purr continuously while they breathe in and out. Also, the brain shuts down in stages. So . . . as I stroked Leo's body and called his name after he stopped breathing, he really did send me a little purr. He said good-bye gently and I said good-bye gently. I don't have to talk myself into believing this. It's the truth. Sometimes the truth can be harsh, but sometimes it is a wonderful thing.

2)One week later: I've had lots of cats and a few dogs, but I never said, "That animal thinks it's human," until Leo. He did think he was human and it pissed him off to be such a little human. He loved to get up on top of the fridge and be taller than me. He'd stand at the edge and we'd rub heads and pet each other. He also understood a lot of things I said. I didn't realize this until fairly recently.

Here's the thing: He lived with Felix and me. So it's not just about losing my pal. There's also this absence to deal with; this cat-sized shape (and he was a big cat.) that's empty now. I'm still glancing at his chair when I get up in the morning or the middle of the night. I'm still looking for Leo. Fresh pain and new tears.

Even if one of my best friends died, I wouldn't be looking for that person every morning and every night. I have lost friends and I've cried my guts out over it. But I don't look for them, because I didn't live with them.

A member of my household has died. One day, I won't look for him any more. I don't know if I'm comforted by that or not. One day, I won't be compelled to get up and add to this eulogy, which has become a diary of sorts. Diary of a Sorrowful Cat Lady. Thoughts on the loss of Leo.

One day I won't be compelled to get up at 2:00 a.m. and add to this post. I do know that I'm comforted by that thought. I'll mourn him for a long time but I can't stand the intensity of this grief. Leo's death is a personal tragedy. Good night.

3) Two weeks & 2 days later: I watched Dexter tonight. I used to make a couch of sorts with my legs up on an ottoman with a blanket over them. "Leo! Hurry! Dexter's starting!" I always included him in everything, like he actually watched and enjoyed Dexter, or needed to know my news, good or bad. I anthropomorphised the hell out of him. I think that makes the loss deeper. It's my own fault. But a friend said, "What are you going to do? Get a pet and not love it too much so you won't suffer too badly when it dies?" That doesn't make much sense, either. So I guess I'll live with loss, having enjoyed the love. People suggest I get another cat right away, or wait awhile, or never get another one. It's not time, yet. I know that for a fact. But one woman told me she cried every night for two years until she finally broke down and got a new cat. I'll probably cry every night until I get my next kitten. I just have to wait until I can live with the fact that the new kitten won't be "Leo the 2nd." It sure won't be no stinkin' barn cat, either. Good night.

4) Dec.13. Today I forgot to look for Leo all day. When I realized, I sobbed my face off. I can't let him go without crying and I can't keep him with me without crying.
Maybe it's just a new way to know when it's time to go to bed.

5) Jan.9, 2013. After much wrestling with middle of the night lunacy and sudden decisions almost acted upon that have apprently resulted in my being branded by the local Humane Society as possibly unstable and not a likely candidate for adopting a pet (!) I will be fostering an 8 month old kitten. I met him tonight. He'll come to stay with Felix and I for 'socialization'. If a relationship develops, we'll adopt him. If not, for whatever reason, he'll go back to his primary foster home. He's mostly grey except for white spots under his arms and on his belly. His eyes are amber. He's very shy. I feel some guilt and some trepidation and some excitement.

Today was my visit with Leo's vet. I cried my face off while discussing what happened. Then I wrote a bunch of cheques to cover the cost of his veterinary care. Something needed to be done to rescue me from the pit of despond and this step, 'fostering' with an eye on adoption, is hopefully a step in the right direction.

I don't expect this little guy to replace my big beautiful blue eyed boy. But, as the vet said, perhaps it's time to start making new memories.

Oh please, wish me luck. (They've been calling him 'Armpit' if you can believe it, because he has white patches under his arms. I'm thinking 'Ashton' because he is grey and my guilty pleasure is a cougar crush on Kutchner. It's a start.

Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Well now, look who is #3 on the Daily Mail's list of the 30 most titillating books of all time.

ME!

OMG.

Me and some of my erotica writing pals, although a few are, in my opinion, mysteriously missing from the list.

Take a peek and see what you think.http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2230447/Libraries-shake-image-erotic-literature-festival-celebrating-30-titillating-titles-time.html

Oh Sarah, I lurve you.