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.”

Written On Skin - Edgy Erotic Stories about Body Modification

Oh boy I've been published in 2014. Almost unbelievable. Not only that, but I intro the antho with my short story, "Hemosexual."

The piece was accepted before Michael died and written before I even met him. (I reworked it after its acceptance.) "Hemosexual" is one of those stories (and I have very few, as I find the promise of payment embarrassingly inspirational) that I had to write, though I knew at the time it would never see the light of a computer screen. Too weird.

Times have changed. Maybe I'm not weird; maybe I'm transgressive.
If I weren't before, I'm pretty sure I am now.

So here's the thing: It's an e-book, just published by Burning Book Press, edited by Remittance Girl.

Here's what it looks like:

Did I mention that my story introduces the anthology?
Hahaha I just linked to myself. Oh shameless one! (It was an experiment . . .) You want proof? I'll give it to you:

Contents
Preface by Remittance Girl
Hemosexual by Madeline Moore

I've been reading the anthology since I got my contributor's copy and there's something in it for everyone!

That's a lie.

It's about the eroticism of body modification. But Remittance Girl describes it better than I can so just go buy the book and read the preface. Wet yer whistle on this:

...sexual desire . . . may be born in the mind, but it is always lived in the body.

Slippery sapiophiles yer already panting for more . . .

Some of us you've read before and some of us you haven't. All of us are talented. How else do you suppose we got into the anthology? There's no bribe big enough or beg grovelly enough to blur the clarity of Remittance Girl's editorial eye.

So get yer not-quite-five-bucks together and put yer ove glove on and buy the book.

Then you can be part of the conversation. It promises to be a good one.

amazon.com
Burning Book Press
Drive Thru Fiction

photo of grovelling button from rossrightangle
All other photos from the private collection of Madeline Moore :P

The Sacred or the Mundane?

I spent the Victoria Day Weekend (referred to in Canada as "the big two four", no matter what date the actual holiday occurs on) writing a short story, my first entirely new piece of 2014. It was grueling. At first I thought I was rusty but then I remembered, it was always this hard.

The words were good but my timing was way off. Not enough hours slotted for research left me with no cool down before the polish. I submitted it by my deadline, which was Monday, my time (I decided.)

"Daao Sawang"
(Little Stars)

The English translation of the Thai words is incorrect so that will certainly have to be changed, whether the story is accepted for the anthology or not. It should read:

"Daao Sawang"
(Bright Stars)

It was a helluva way to spend the long weekend. First draft Friday night, second Saturday - more than 2,000 words over the maximum word count stated in the anthology guidelines. Two thousand words?

Generally, I eschew the use of totems to boost the fertility of my work, as I procrastinate enough without conducting a search for my lavender incense (which smells like pot to non-smokers and makes my eyes water so is, if anything, counterproductive) and so on. This time I wore my Buddha medals. I don't write to music but I did this time because the first half takes place in a little village in Thailand and begins with a true account of my location and company the night I smoked pot and heard Abbey Road, both for the first time. By Sunday I had the lengthiest brain worm of my life. Maxwell's Silver Hammer was imbedded in my head. Woah woaaaah woah woah!

I prefer that my characters submit to my whim and not the other way around. But in this case Carl and Rose had been yapping incessantly during the writing of the first draft. They'd gotten away from me.

These two are novel worthy.

That's all very well but I wasn't writing a novel. Once I figured that out, and pestered a few people on Twitter and Facebook, all I had to do was muster the words of my film mentor, the great Czechoslovakian actor and Canadian NFB producer, Vladimir Valenta, and the task became simple. "WHAT IS THIS SHIT IN MY FRAME?"

Draft words are written in sand.
But the final product?

"Keep your eyes on the big dog, baby."

(from "Daao Sawang")

I've read Remittance Girl's piece on the ERWA website, but I've yet to read the two posts she refers to, so I'm not prepared, yet, to weigh in on the sacredness of my words. But I'll be back.

Remittance Girl is one of the editors of Burning Book Press, which will soon publish Written on Skin, an anthology that contains a story by me. More on that as the details roll in.

My story was enthusiastically received by the three editors spear-heading the project. RG asked for more words. She didn't suggest changes to the words already on the page; she wanted some clarification of the male protagonist's kink.

I had the luxury of time in my rewrite. By the end, I think I sent RG three polishes. I said to someone (not Michael) "I think I've written a perfect short story."

In this case, my editor's request helped immensely. She told me on Twitter, "Still loving your story," which made me happy. But had she finished reading it? I asked. "Four times," was her response.

I didn't know anthology editors read the final short stories that many times. Is this the norm?

Alice Munro (my hero!) dedicated one of her books, "To the careful reader."


Writers need to meet, or exceed, the expectations of the careful reader. I can say that much right now.

Picture credits:

1) Star

2) Abbey Road

3) Canis Major

4) Blood

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