We’ve all worn it. The mask of someone we’re pretending to be; propping up a smiley face while inside we’re dying to gouge someone’s eyes. Marlaena Moore gives voice to that, smashing the mask, laying out actions and feelings like hanging soiled, bloodied, torn laundry on a line in the town square to let the gossips be clotheslined. It should make for some uncomfortable moments, but it doesn’t, especially because Moore’s voice is alluring suited for the task.
This kind of honesty can only be holy, draw one in, make us bask in the “ah ha” of the moment as we recognize ourselves in a mirror around a corner we didn’t expect to turn. Whether we walk with her, left by a lover, in the 24 Hour Drugstore on Christmas Eve while serenaded by feral grungy guitars, or float on a piano stream wishing with her we would be in love again, her indie spirit — take what I write or be damned! — seizes us like a good novel where the small asides capture all of us in our weakest, most screwed up moments, the ones that don’t usually end up on social media.
Biography by Mary-Lynn Wardle