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.

8 Months

If you could see me
you’d be so sad
your eyes might fill
with the only kind of tears you ever had
unshed.

I’m skinny, I swear, I smoke and I flirt like mad
there’s no black on white only the blur of grey and –
look, never mind, I promise I’ll be okay
I’m still here so I may as well stay.

Don’t let little old me
make you feel bad.
It’s a bitter pill
I choose not to swallow.
Close your eyes, sweetheart, or turn away
I do not want to burden the gentled shoulders
of the dead.

Too much

I cannot take
another loss
but lose is what I do
I do not know
why I must pay
so much for loving you.
I cannot take
another love
but love is what I do
I do not know
why I must pay
so much for losing you.

Six Months

Six months ago today, (E.S.T) . . .

Michael is in the hospital. Ive written this poem, (for lack of a better word.) Now I'm sitting beside his hospital bed, facing his back, working on it. (I only know this because the date is typed on the copy I'd printed to take with me to the hospital.)

He is facing the window, where the big tree at the entrance to the hospital is labouring under the weight of an encasement of ice.
Neither will last till morning.

We don't talk. I have him cranked on morphine so he will not be in pain. I never want him to be in pain again. He has been made comfortable facing the window. I can't sit on that side of his bed because that will position me beside the radiator and I can't take the heat.

I've already had pneumonia guy removed from what passes for I.C.U. in this community hospital. I've already rattled the bars on the empty bed beside him until the alarmed nurse said, "What's the matter with you?"

"I want to know what's wrong with him. I think he has leukemia!"

"He doesn't have leukemia. The Doctor will fill you in. He's making his rounds."

I get that if I misbehave I'll have to leave, so I take a valium, sit back down and work on this thing some more.
Michael says, "Are you crying?"
I say, "Yes."

I haven't looked at this since he and his tree broke down and died.

It isn't very good but this is all it'll ever be. I can't touch it, not even to fix a grammatical error. I'm going to have to let it stand. This is my six month tribute to my late man.



Poor Me

or

If It’s Christmas This Must Be I.C.U.

I’ll bring you the poisonous plant
(poisonous for the cat)
the poinsettia from my Dad,
same as before.

This time I don’t have to worry
about paying for parking,
because we don’t have a car!
But it’s hard to get a cab this time of year.

Poor me.

Bell cut off our internet.
Yeah, behind all the ISPs
lurks Ma Bell.

I called the techie super nerd
and asked him to fix it
but he said he can’t.

I said, “What if I threaten to kill myself?”
I said, “I’m a writer, I could pen a piece for the Globe and Mail.”
I said, “My husband’s in the hospital, we get paid by e-transfer.”

He said he had no opinion on any of that.
(Not even the suicide threat. Stupid boy.)
I hope we get it back before Christmas,
Seems all my real friends aren’t here.

Twenty years in this two bit town
I can’t get a ride to the hospital?

Poor, poor me.

I’m no poet.
I don’t call you Felix.
I call you “Boss” most of the time.
Sometimes Mikola.

OH MIKOLA DON’T GO.

I taught you that anger is a valid emotion.
It’s okay to laugh out loud.
You can love without risking the cheap tricks
of women who want you to change.

You taught me that a man
could know me, really know me
and love me all the time,
and say “I adore you,” and “I never lie,”
and I could believe him, love him back
and not risk the terrible tricks
of men who want to change me.

C’mon sweetheart,
we’ve been here before.
Okay, the ten good years you promised me are up
but you know I always want more.

Come home come home
We (that stupid cat and me) can’t be a family without you.
I made stew! I cleaned up all your blood!
I’ve never had a problem begging,
look at me, so “decorative”
down on my knees,
I beg you and baby Jesus and God and Bob and Zeus and all
the big guys you don’t believe in.
Come home.

Hey Boss! We forgot to get married!
But we never forgot to be in love.

Lucky, lucky me.



Dec.21, 2:50 a.m.

T.O.D. Dec. 22, 6:20 a.m.
Last words: “I’ve had enough. I’m going now.”

I Need Rest

I need rest. Oh my God my god I need rest. I need to fucking mourn. I need to write something.

If I don’t write something my mind will implode. It may even explode but imploding would be better. We could call it a nervous breakdown.

There’s a new term for “nervous breakdown” but I don’t have to search it because I’m a recent widow and because we’re having a fucking conversation here. I watch comedy specials. On the Comedy Network. In Sarah Silverman’s brilliant “39” (which she executive produced) she tells the audience of thirty-nine, “You’re in this thing with me. Don’t kid yourselves.” I’m not sure she’s the first stand up comic to say this but she’s one of the first. So if you’re reading this, you’re in conversation with me. Your job is to say, “What happened next?” and “Go on, I’m listening,” and “I hear you.”

Steve Martin said, (I’m paraphrasing) “With the advent of the internet, who really knows if his material is original?” Someone could be saying everything I’m saying on another site as I speak. I suppose that’s unlikely but not impossible. Or someone could cop this and post it on her own blog. Although my spies might find it. Like many hopelessly naïve people, I’m protected by a network of invisible friends. I actually have a world wide web. I just don’t know who the spider is, anymore.

Uh oh. Don’t tell me Madeline Moore is falling into another funk. There’s no time for that! Although . . . I am learning to understand and speak double-talk. This is absolutely necessary when one enters the system. Michael said I should’ve been an actress. I know what he meant. My fear was that I wouldn’t be able to memorize lines. I’m very impressed by the ability of actors to memorize lines. But my suspension of disbelief is awesome.

Right now I want to say that a nervous breakdown would be the very best move on my part. I’ve been told I wouldn’t like the local psychiatric facilities but if I managed to have the breakdown in Hamilton, I know for a fact the psych ward at McMaster Hospital is gorgeous. There’s no reason for me to go to Hamilton, which makes it the perfect place to stage my mental collapse.

If I could get the corner room where my step-daughter was living the day I met her, I’d stay for a month. It was gorgeous. Filthy of course but she’d already been in it for a couple of days. I bet it cleans up nicely.

She was wearing a blue gown. She threw open her arms and cried, “Step-mommy.”
I went to my safe place.

All my life people have said, “You should do stand-up.” My reply? “Standing in a smoke-filled room trying to make drunks laugh for fifty bucks a night? That sounds even worse than being a writer!”

The Comedy Network. Who knew? Who knows what the future holds. As Tom Robbins wrote in Even Cowgirls Get The Blues, “Who knows how to make love stay?” I dunno, Tim, but your line sure stuck.

It can’t be done. Love cannot be made to stay. Words stay, though. Lines.

If I had a nervous breakdown everything would be taken care of for me. I wouldn’t be able to take care of myself, obs, so people would have to come in and take care of it for me. I could write. I’d get disability money from the government. I’d be paid to live very frugally and be depressed and write. I know, eh? It sounds too good to be true but there you have it.

I’m taking breaks as I type this because the sun is shining on my balcony, which it does for about an hour a day, in the right front corner. There’s just enough room for a chair. I came in to crank up more sad music and got distracted by this piece I’m writing. It’s complicated because those who are grieving don’t focus well. Also lose stuff constantly. These little problems overly-complicate an already intolerable situation. I’ve lost my wallet three times (if you count the time it was in my purse, which I lost on Parliament Hill in Ottawa. Actually, I didn’t lose it, I just forgot it during my impromptu photo shoot. :P) That’s three times this month.

More music. I had a dance party on Twitter last night and lost three followers. HAHAHA! Plus I was snootily subtweeted about by a stupid agent I followed one day when I decided to follow a hundred agents. I unfollowed her. There you go, sweetheart! No mo’ invites to Maddy Mo’s dance parties for you. Hashtag MMdanceParty. OoooOOooo I’m subtweeting. She started it and anyway, this is a blog post. I’m not on Twitter right now. The freedom!

Free of all those fucking rules (Twitter is far from the anarchic entity it appears to be) and terrible 140 character maximum which is so useful for writers. Free from giving a damn about followers who come and go like busy little ants. I wanted more followers than following and now I have that and I always will, because if I dip in the opposite direction I’ll just go unfollow more agents. There’s only two that interest me. The rest are window dressing so the two I adore won’t know how much I adore them. I need a fucking finished manuscript first.

Which is another thing. I’m between publishers right now. No more pitch packages and advance on royalties for me. Which means I’m also free of the rules of the genre. They were so comforting, in the beginning. I liked having my options forcefully focused. I liked advances on royalties, too. But I don’t want to be restrained any more. My last attempt at writing an erotic novella that targeted the erotica reading populous tanked. So if it isn’t even working and I don’t have to do it to get an advance, I see no reason to follow any genre-related rules. Yippee. Breath play here we come!

The bells are ringing. “Bringing in the Sheaves” or “Blame it on the Stones” depending on your denomination. Oops. The sun is off my balcony. The birds are singing. They’re the same birds that will be singing when I go to bed tomorrow morning.

I need rest.

So the nervous breakdown is one option.

Here’s the other: eviction

I try to listen to the advice of my ex-husband. The man knows from money. His ideas are usually too extreme for me but in retrospect I always see how the scheme might’ve worked to my advantage. Financially. He thinks I should get evicted.

Once again, I do nothing. It all gets done for me. Perhaps not as restful as the nervous breakdown but I don’t have to get myself to Hamilton, which frankly fails to appeal. It’s a long ride and that’s in a car.

Eviction takes three months. I could fire the stuff I actually want into some boxes and out the door. The rest could be carried out around me while I sit cross-legged on the King bed, refusing to budge. Maybe cuffed to the headboard? I knew we should’ve bought a headboard. Cuffed to something. If I still had handcuffs. Everything went down the garbage chute the day Michael died. Pity, really. I kept the flogger, made with love by my man.

When I left my home and my family I took very little stuff but I cleverly absconded with the Christmas decorations I so carefully selected over the many years of my incarceration in the Institution of Marriage. I have four Rubbermaid containers of Christmas decorations. Every member of my fractured family is moving in May. Nobody will take one solitary item from my valuable collection of family memorabilia. This pains me. What about the first scribblings of my children? Their little clay hand prints? What about my pink Xmas ornament upon which is written “Baby’s First Christmas”? Nobody wants any of this shit? That is correct. Not one member of my nuclear-bombed family wants a thing. I’m sure I’ll never celebrate Christmas again. Who’s the smarty pants now, MM?

Sun is out again after all. Must go catch some rays. Ahaha. I have a mental vision of hurling Christmas ornaments off my balcony, starting with “Baby’s First Christmas.” But if I want that corner room in Hamilton, I need to have my break-down in Hamilton.
Tossing crap off the building will just get me evicted faster. Best to . . . what’s the term? Keep my counsel? I believe so.

Peter’s doing a musical number on Family Guy. “You don’t thank the Lord, you thank the whites.” Ahaha. I laugh every day, whether I like it or not.

I really need to rest.


Pictures: nervous breakdown: haleyscomic.com
balcony shot: mine, taken with a kobo
evicted woman image: Ontario rental tribunal
baby ornament: etsy.com

Fallen

Half the trees in this town are dead. The ice-storm glazed their branches with layer after layer of glistening snow until the weight of all that beauty caused them to crack completely. The glittering ground is littered with dead debris. A natural disaster.

I came home last night. I was exhausted. They said I needed to take care of myself. I listened. I should not have come home. I shouldn’t have listened.

Passed out on the bed with the cordless receiver in my hand. The snap of dying trees punctuated my dreamless sleep until I awoke. The window lit up like a solid neon sign. A flash of orange, unlike anything I’d ever seen. Is the entire town under siege? I thought this was a private war. Who would drop a bomb on an innocent little Canadian town? Right before Christmas, too. What heartless terrorists have targeted us?
The clock stopped torturing me with time. No power.

But I must be connected to the alien ship! My fiancé was taken aboard twenty-four hours ago. The aliens, in their blue uniforms, are torturing him. What have I done? Why am I here?

The land line. I fetched it from the emergency supplies kit and plugged it in. There is a dial tone. Mr. Bee, my sister and I called it when we were kids. That was many years ago. That moment, when Mr. Bee buzzed at me, was days, no, hours ago. I listened to the trees die until I passed out again. Woke to the ringing of the telephone. And then I knew. The aliens will not release him after all.

Taxi was waiting when I burst out the front doors of the apartment building, panting from running down many flights of stairs. Don’t slip goddam it! The taxi company had prioritized me. Everyone needs a taxi this time of year. It’s the holiday season! The town was dark; no twinkling lights for anyone. As it should be. Just the sparkle of frozen snow where the headlights granted it a festive spot dance.

I was too late. Because I never should have left. They let me see the carcass. Almost all the tubes were removed, but the catheter was still in place. He hated that thing. I examined him. He was bruised; the evidence of torture was everywhere. The weight of all that pain broke him. I sat with the body, for no good reason. He wouldn’t have liked it but he wasn’t there to forbid it. I did not pray.

The deadly silence was shattered by the crack of branches, loud as claps of thunder. The giant tree at the entrance of the ship had broken. I watched with dull amazement. Was this for him? For me? Should I be grateful for this obvious metaphor: even the strongest living creature can be brought down by the force of nature. I could have laughed. No . . . I did laugh. How was it possible that this all happened at the very same time? Was I being mocked, or comforted? Did any of it have anything to do with me? Probably not. Not even the dead thing; not really.

I took his medic alert bracelet and left.

“Daddy died,” I tell the cat. I fall on the bed. If I sleep, I’ll have to wake up and remember. I don’t want to forget, not even long enough to get some rest. I cry in anguished bursts. This isn’t happening. This thing that happened isn’t happening. I sit up. All I have to do is find him.

Grope my way around the apartment. My hands press hard to the wall, for support. If I have to, I’ll search for him on my knees, but I don’t. I can stay upright, with the walls, the furniture, for help. How is it that this place has magically doubled in size? But he’s here somewhere, I just have to keep my eyes peeled. He isn’t here. He was an atheist. He isn’t anywhere. Just gone. My eyes don’t like being peeled. They fill with tears.

Oh I’m so silly. He’s in a drawer in the bowels of the Mother Ship. I need to go back there and visit him again. It’s common sense.

Or not. This must be the thing called grief. I make my way back to the bedroom. Need to remember that phrase, “make my way.” Use it properly, in the future, or maybe not at all.

Christ, how can it be that there are any branches left? Yet the noise draws me to the window. Interesting, the dead tree, where the hawks live, stands tall. You’d think it would be the first to fall but you’d be wrong.

The medic alert bracelet is on the bed. My first Christmas gift for him. It’s white gold, diamond cut. We laughed at the idea of him wearing jewelry. He loved it. He loved me. The bracelet slips easily onto my wrist. My tattoo, “M” for Michael, goes well with white gold. I rub the tattoo. I kiss it. He isn’t here.

It’s dark. The neon light that lit my window was the generating station blowing up. The great trees on King Street took it out when they collapsed. My taxi driver said so. The town has no power. We are all powerless. This much has been made very clear to me. I get it, okay? This is my only prayer.

So I stand and watch the trees snap and die. Between these sharp punctuations, everything is silent but the steady beat of my treacherous, broken heart. I want the noise to stop.

All pictures are of the Ontario December 2013 Ice Storm

1 @BenNollWeather (Twitter)
2 @JeremyGlobalTV (Twitter)
3 anglicanusefranciscan.blogspot.com
4 @MartinBPhoto (Twitter)
5 @vaughanweather (Twitter)
6 thebluebrick.ca
7 www.theatlantic.com