foxtongue: (canadian)
Emilíana Torrini - Heartstopper

It used to be that I heard certain songs and a sweet pang of memory would spring through my body, uncoil between my legs, hold my hands like grace, and I would unconsciously close my eyes, breathing in what it was like to be there with him, the depth and width of us. The liquid vowels of his voice, the way he said my name, as if it were a word made of quicksilver instead of a single clumsy syllable, drenched in adoration the same way he could pull me out of my body by sliding his fingers through the roots of my hair.

It seems now that I can't relate, that I've drifted too far away. All I've got left is a cavity where all that used to be, hollowed out enough I can shout into it and not even hear a replied echo. Where did those mellow afternoons go? Those fantastic grins? Does this happen to everybody? I look up the names of the chemicals responsible for love and wonder if I've just been running out. Somewhere I have a photo of myself that I've never looked at, sitting alone in his bed, destroyed, taken the same day I left a line of poetry in lipstick on his mirror, the same one I wrote on his skin in ink the day he left me, the only evidence I could bear to leave, even though I knew he would wash it away.
foxtongue: (Default)
My memory tickled by a conversation I had that mentioned Victorian Memento Mori, I spent a bit of time on Sunday fruitlessly searching for a particularly nice contemporary hair artist I'd found on-line two or three years ago that I intended to post about, but never got around to. Today, oddly, not even a week later, the artist has fallen directly in my lap via my friends over at Ectomo and she's gotten even better:

"Melanie Bilenker makes jewelry from precious metals, resin, wood, and her own hair, arranging the strands into tiny snapshots of everyday life."


chocolate, 2008

brooch, 9.5 x 7 x 1 cm, Gold, ebony, resin, pigment, hair.

From her site:
The Victorians kept lockets of hair and miniature portraits painted with ground hair and pigment to secure the memory of a lost love. In much the same way, I secure my memories through photographic images rendered in lines of my own hair, the physical remnants. I do not reproduce events, but quiet minutes, the mundane, the domestic, the ordinary moments.

(I used to do this with Antony in the shower, make tiny, ephemeral pictures of our life together on the tiles of the wall with our shed hair. Our lines were not half so fluid as Melanie Bilenker's, but they were ours and sweet and fun. Every day we would wash them away and draw something new. Now, years later, I should regret I never took a picture, but it is enough for me that they were there.)
foxtongue: (26th birthday)

Me and Marissa, July 2007, by Lung

The ever groshing Meredith Yayanos (and now Alice and Sara) tagged me in the 16 Random Things meme, "Once you've been tagged, you have to write a note with sixteen random things, shortcomings, facts, habits or goals about you. At the end choose sixteen people to be tagged, listing their names and why you chose them. You have to tag the person who tagged you." I'm no good at this sort of meme, but I love rock star Mer (and Alice and Sara) with the warmth of six suns, so for her I will try.


1. "Even your voice has changed," he said, looking at me, hearing the wounded strawberry tears that caught all the way up from my heart to my tongue and out into the air. The freeway was so familiar I felt I could have drawn it in my sleep, divided the roads into lanes with a cunning accuracy I didn't understand I had. It was like the promised land, green signs marking exits as well as the graves of so many dreams. "I'm not sure what it is, but you sound softer, like you're an entirely different person here." "I am," I replied, "too full of history to burn."

2. I used to write fortunes, love letters, and wishes in spidery black ink on the dried leaves I found fallen under trees in the fall and let them go in the wind to fly without watching to see where they might land. They weren't for me, they were for other people to find.

3. Perhaps if I killed him, he would live on as a ghost, feather light and improperly dead. I woke up earlier this week, wishing I could secretly stab him in the heart with rusty kitchen scissors and open him up like he did to me with his fingers. The only thing that keeps me clear is that I don't think his murder would change anything. You can't erase memory like a stain. It would just mean a little less money coming in around my birthday.

4. When she speaks on the phone, I know my place is to quietly do nothing more than make encouraging noises in the appropriate gaps and pauses. She is like a colouring book with everything but the eyes filled in with religious illumination, as if someone spent thirty years merely shading in her skin. I love her, so I don't mind. Maybe someday it will be my turn to talk.

5. There is a pile of books in my room which do not belong to me. They are borrowed books that represent less what I would choose to read and more what people think I should. From top to bottom they are: Blade Runner: Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, Mistress of the Empire, The Complete Robot, The War of Flowers, How To Not Get Rich, (which I never read), So Far From God, A Little Larger Than The Known Universe, What Colour Is Your Parachute, (which I also never read), His Dark Materials, and Brandjam. Some of these books have been with me for years, yet I refuse to incorporate them in with my own books, believing somehow, tenuously, that they will eventually be given back to their respective owners.

6. I loved him like no one else I had ever met in my life, but recently it eased back and closed over. All it took was sleeping in his bed, knowing it wasn't mine, then driving away the next day. Now I'm absolutely stone terrified I will never care about anyone like that again.

7. For no particular reason, somewhere in my room is a birthday candle I kept from my third birthday cake.

8. Reading back entries into my journal can be like reliving the relationships I wrote about. When I started this journal, I had no idea what it would be like to have such a static essence of memory waiting at my fingertips. People I can talk blithely about now, or some that I mention not at all, are waiting for me there, frozen in time instead of (decently?) dissolved like jet streams. There is nothing in my life that can compare. My valued moments, they are not trapped in objects, they are there, freely available for the whole world to read. How I felt when that one danced or when that one cheated on me. It's unreal, the immediacy. Photographs are not the same.

9. Sometimes horrible pop music is just going to happen in my house. Life isn't all gamelan, mystery, poetry or jazz. Occasionally it is Blackstreet's No Diggety on repeat for an hour. I'm not sorry.

10. "Will you sleep with me later if I ask you to?" He looks at me, blinks a moment, and grins. (We've only just met, though we've known each other on-line for years.) For a moment it's like I've kissed him, then he ignores my question as if I never asked it, because it didn't need to be said, and reaches out his hand. The girl next to him look confused, uncertain if she heard what she thinks she did, my words a spectre in the tiny industrial kitchen.

11. I dislike religion and ritualistic behavior. It is fine and wonderful and inspiring that people like to make themselves meaningful, that people try to be more than themselves, but to require emblematic props to do it offends me somehow, as if intelligent people should know better, should know they do not require symbols to attain self worth. (Also, I will judge you if you actually believe in astrology of any kind. Quietly, but it will be there. You! The offended one. Half a point. Docked.)

12. The last time I was sick, it was because of him. We had quarelled. I had walked home. It was freezing. Standing within his gravity again was sensory overload. Had it really almost been an entire year? My hands shaking as we said hello. Watching him stand at the podium, I tried to pretend I was a solid being, but my eyes tripped, caught by the enigmatic living miracle of his face. He still had me on a string. I didn't want even a week to go by without a hello, but after the last time we'd seen each other he wouldn't even answer the phone when I called. Instead I had to crash his party, all cameras and politicians, as if I was welcome, as if it were planned instead of a lucky accident of bus arrival.

13. If there is a book in the lavatory, it's because I like to read while I brush my teeth.

14. Though Marissa, (who I later renamed Mishka, which stuck), and I were ten when we met, neither one of us had pierced ears. Mine because my parents thought it was cruel to do to a baby, her because her parents treated it as a coming of age. From this, I couldn't have cared less while she could not wait for her sixteenth birthday. As it approached, she was practically vibrating with excitement about how she was finally going to get it done, so for her birthday party, I gathered all of our mutual friends together at the mall downtown to get our ears pierced with her in solidarity. (This took some managing, as one of the boys we knew, Charles, had a highly evangelical mother, who thought this was a terrible sin somehow). After an hour of waiting for her and calling her in vain, we finally got a hold of her. She couldn't make it and had completely forgotten to tell us to call it off. Rolling our eyes, the group of us went through with one ear of the procedure anyway, with the intention to do the other one with her later. About a month after this, she went off with her mother one afternoon and had them done alone at a tattoo parlour, forgetting again about our group effort-in-waiting. As a result, I still only have my left ear pierced. For all I know, so does everyone else involved.

15. "When my husband came back from Iraq," she said, and it struck me as it has before, completely new again, "I am in a foreign country". Curled on the bed with my friends, it was easy to forget, the same way it didn't occur to me later while I was away on my trip. Even when guns were involved. Too much about the USA will always feel implicitly like the word belonging.

16. I will not tag anyone in a meme. It is far too interesting to see who will pick it up for themselves without prompting.*

Where it's gone from here: Ben Peek, Duncan Shields, Sarah Edwards-Noelle.
foxtongue: (moi?)
I am grateful for the strangeness in my life. Yesterday I was out in the desert, dingy, busted up, covered in scrapes, bruises, and dirt, camping between an artillery testing range, salvation mountain, and a hard-knuckle death row prison, but I slept in Beverly Hills at an absent ex-lover's decadently art deco house, wrapped in a familiar yakuta, all soft beds, home baked pumpkin pie, and wonderful hospitality. (Odd to be living here in the space of his absence).

I've no idea what today will bring.
foxtongue: (canadian)
Moonhead, by Andrew Broder:

did you hear the one about the day the moon fell to earth?
it had a crater exactly the size of a human head on it
and it landed on my head and now my head is the moon.
or the one about the day a thousand lives from now

when we return as a team of archeologists
and discover fossils of ourselves in a former life
on the day we spurned our nervous twitch
and found our yearn to hint at winter bliss.
on the day the stars sang the national anthem of sweaty disbelief,
of coelacanth teeth, to scream loud enough
to shatter the roof of a coral reef
and the shrapnel ground up into paint
for robin's egg colored dream and root beer float,
second hand flavored drool absorbers
and the words "hope" and "home" that sound the same,
smell the same as the day the doe caught a sad snowflake on her
tongue and melted it in an instant
and it tasted like the blackhole's wild-eyed longing for light,
whether from the starts that radiate
or the planets that reflect it or the eyes that reflect the reflection,
or the eyes looking into those eyes and seeing the reflection of the eyes,
which if all goes according to plan,
will outlast the universe itself.

..::..

Lung is talking about bussing me down to Las Vegas to meet with him and Natasha somewhere near the end of November, and then traveling with them to the Salton Sea, finally to pick up the letter Kyle left there for me sometime last year. As November closes around me and the sun drowns in fallen leaves and crowns itself in flash flood puddles that mirror the endless gray sky, it feels less like a blessing and more like a fairytale already told, like somehow I missed it between one blink and the next, as if these places never really exist, but only hover over pages of books and mimic the careless sheen of photographs, haunting our collective conscious in a waking haze of forgotten days as long as winter dusk.

Out there is the storm, strangely calmed, another twist in the river, another chapter of life. Here is a pool of known days, painting, adjusting, David job hunting, tinkering with very little, watching a movie at home every two days. I've said yes. Of course I've said yes. I've missed Lung, his crackling humour, sharing our puzzle-piece twin set of anger and frustrations. There is no other answer. Now it rests on my workplace, if they will let me leave for a week, to work away for five days. If it all works out, I'll bus down to Seattle after work on the 21st for Robin's party on the 22nd, then catch a bus to Vegas from there on the 23rd. My fingers are crossed, my fingers and my heart and my bones and breath. My hope is an elephant living deep inside the cage of my chest, pressing against my skin, forged out of a cello's long humming strokes of sound, invisible until an answer arrives.

Until then, I won't know myself. I'll be a string of notes without direction, as crazy eyed inside as unexpected blood on the hands, a tight rope walker with her lover on the other side and a den full of sharp toothed, hungry lions below.

Meanwhile, Antony and I are e-mailing back and forth, a piano falling from the sky. There's nothing quite like home. Apparently he arrived in Montreal just over a week after I left, and he'll be there until half-way through December, far after I would return from the south. Tag, you're it. Unexpected, how life plays these games of just missed, all the way through, both directions. If he sends me his address, I'm going to try and make sure he gets another palm tree, to keep in touch.

Some times I am lucky and an entire week can go by without missing his laugh. I wonder, occasionally, that I am so changed within since we met. Given all that is fixed, will I ever want to be able to walk away again?

foxtongue: (so sorry)
SleepyCanSecWestJhayne, by Julia

"I made tea."

So sweet, I stand in the doorway, looking back over my shoulder, an image from last year, why do they all sleep like that? One thin arm thrown over their face, head attempting to burrow into the mess of silk pillows that cascade across my bed. If I took a picture, it would seem almost identical to pictures I've already taken, heart warm in my chest, smile a permanent part of my skin, the camera a friend and confidant, recording like I love you, safe in this moment, embedded forever, or as long as my digital media will keep. How does life repeat like this? So slyly, so quietly, to perfectly the same, yet with different props, a different body, another frame of mind over reference over history over name. The division of minutes a lie, fabricated like music to make myself feel better about getting older while staying the same. I want flowers to fall from the ceiling, red and orange, a snowstorm of petals to announce this is new, define a change, to create an unreality in the midst of the repetition, floral scents as solid as mist, as solid as my feelings seeing this, as I look over my shoulder to see him in the bed, arm up and over, time traveling stock still, a year ago, a different man, yet still here.
foxtongue: (bright spring)


from their site:

Held this Saturday at Hans Haveron Studios this event will be stuffed full of excellence. Look forward to:

  • Art, photography & fashion exhibit
  • Refreshments, with Mer’s “special” Electric Lemonade
  • Incredibly strange music
  • Photo booth with weird medical props, straight from Zo’s cave
  • Wall projections of Issue 01 art
  • Your first glimpse at the actual magazine!

    Enjoy art.
    Become art via expert lenses of Polaroid superstar Lou O’ Bedlam and Zo! Style Technician’s own Andrew Yoon.
    Dress your snazziest and bring your friends.
    Everyone’s invited!


    I'm sending Antony as my proxy, as the second best thing to being there, but hell, if I were even a smidgen closer, I'd drop everything to attend. My friends are doing snazzy work and I support them 100%. (And, yes, one day I'll get around to writing an article, I promise). I hope every single one of you who live down there will go and send me photos! My bleak little heart will break if you don't.
  • foxtongue: (so sorry)
    (I'm not giving up. I don't feel like crying.) My restless heart is awake tonight. The love of my life so far called up from Los Angeles where he lives and works in Hollywood, tonight fixing the green screen behind a mechanized animatronic badger some pool soul created for a Wisconsin lotto campaign, because that's just how the world is some times. He moved a few months ago, changed apartments, because his roommates were having a baby, and tonight she's gone into labour. The father was text messaging him the scale of dilation as the news came in as he and his wife prepared in the same room Angelina Jolie gave birth to her baby twins in. Strings to my heart from his, I'm not sure how tonight I will sleep. David lives here like a knock-off imitation of the real thing, flushed with sleep in the bed behind me as I chatter, endlessly, joyfully, down south, a river of miles away. I wake him, briefly, when Antony's iPhone runs out of batteries, and he's grumpy with me, annoyed, red-eyed, and I wonder if he feels as displaced as I do. I still think of Tony as my boyfriend, my skinny mad lover too rich and too clever and too handsome for anyone to live up to. He's a couple of weeks recently only a month begun dating a performance artist, some woman named Michelle, I think, with a mad friend he doesn't like. He didn't tell me before for gentle worry it would be cruel to send a note. Deliriously, he is right. (We are declawed, yet holding back our teeth, soft like cats, cinnamon and sweet.) He tells me that she isn't very attentive, a whole week went by without a call, without contact, and I feel justified, while I laugh with him about fallacy, how we get caught in these dramatic traps like early twenties, just teens, just out into life. Before me, there was no-one for ten years, a decade alone, and all these details, streaming through my blood like jade in my arteries, not jealousy, but something more mundane, a sallow sadness, not very good at expression, that loves him like the sky, oh loves him still, and stronger than I care for anything else in my life, the one here I have been trying so hard to build, so keenly, like he's a knife I hold in my hand to keep myself safe, the city nothing to me, the distance, the far flung dreams of walking, of taking one step after the other, until I find myself there, waiting at his door, flowers in my hand like a scream.
    foxtongue: (beseech)
    Sidewalk Psychiatry graffiti.
    365 day one hundred & eight: have a nice day
    This is a story: ink hair, Queen street, where the roots are, I walked barefoot, crucified by how beautiful he was, how beautiful he could be, I was unknown, achingly young, it was perfect enough for me. Learning the boundaries of narrative, learning the theme and flow of biography. Another: ink hair, on stage in love, wings as wide as geometry, meeting, a lobby, a lost book, a romance of hotel rooms and late night cameras, smoked with his passions, it was more than it seemed to be, and sometimes less. Summaries, diagrams, lists. An old project is percolating in my head with a newer idea, photographs, coloured string.

    He doesn't like it when I chew gum, but he watches me take out my hair pins as if the act carries the same intimacy as removing my clothing.

    Being constructed naturally of disciplined angles, his only defense was to move with a maximum of constant, weightless grace.


    Chapter headings in the shape of their hands, page count off how much poetry I can wring from their skin. Something is taking shape: ink hair, a familiar bar, an unfamiliar feeling of awe, music parallel to skill, traveling the next day, his unmatchable grin, every day always too far away, a myth, circling the world twice to end everything thirty feet from where it began. If I took a photograph of every one and layered them, there might be details submerged, but perhaps a clarity for all of that. It looks like: ink hair, eyes meeting, singing in the street, a miracle, his poetry, his children later on the phone, impossible, the sweetest thing.

    Digital culture-inspired oil paintings.
    foxtongue: (Default)
    Twenty-six dollars in my hand

    Took pictures of a doctor today, got off the phone with a photographer friend, made plans with a painter for later, going to a gallery tomorrow, giving spare keys to somewhere else, promised to wear a kimono, promised to find a home for a house-pet. A mask waiting in a box on my bed. Cats asleep. Words glistening like the fruit juice at my wrist as the sun falls down behind clouds, too far to warm my city, to light my room more than this screen might. Double exposure, the different brands of cigarette collected in a tiny bottle on my windowsill I do not empty, a model museum of names who've stayed the night. The times I've closed my bedroom door.

    Feel sick and dirty, more dead than alive

    I have a cough for the first time in years. Walked home in the cold on Sunday night, upset, throat tight, by the time I arrived my clothes had frozen in patches where the sweat from my skin had wet my shirts. When I was done, after I had peeled off the cracking frost of frigid threads, I sat curled in front of a heater and sent a letter trying to explain why, what had been decided. Hat off as fire licked me. Silent. Too close. My body cracked open, left without a voice.

    Oh pardon me sir, it's the furthest from my mind

    Daily photos continue, more than a month now, though always in stolen moments, never more than five minutes. Trying to stay alive has been fighting, trying to catch up from where I have been behind. All of my books have been read as my writing is put aside. My back arches, hanging from one ankle, I'm relearning, examining where I put my punctuation as I redesign where I keep my bones. New skills tying into old ones, applying left onto right. Cloth flaring from my shoulders as the fever breaks. Ink and memory soaked into silk, the shape of this fall the same as my pen. Someone shouting at me about Kafka as I remember to point my toes.

    Here he comes, he's all dressed in black

    I keep hoping to hear from certain voices, dark haired creatures I've tied to the surface of my heart. Jumping in with both feet solidly planted on water, the waves of our phone numbers, the little cards I buy at the corner store late at night, embossed with maple flags, red and white, all the better when we flip through the books together, contrasting prices against countries, microscopic lists, the ritual of me and the girl behind the desk. She smiles like the taste of someone's home rests behind her teeth, waiting to get out. Scratch off the possibly carcinogenic silver with a coin, enter the pin number digits, type the long distance, make a song of it, and wait for it to ring. Terrible, the wait for it to ring.

    He's never early, he's always late

    There was a promise of shirts off, standing where I asked, the placement of a camera, the fixing of a light. No time, in the end, as expected, suspected, being justified is never any fun with the things I believe of people. It's not being negative if it's realistic, however precious hope can be. Another time, some future we don't know enough to plan, season shift, other cities, the places we choose to live, the furniture we fill them in with. Conventional wisdom. Dark lines drawn under every eye, cuffs and collar matched, like these are checkpoints to cross the same way I insist I buy flowers for men.

    First thing you learn is you always gotta wait

    If there's one thing to learn, as much as anything, I need affectionate goodbyes.

    Until tomorrow, but that's just some other time
    foxtongue: (post party sleep)
    The silence is suffocating, I can hear not only my heartbeat but the quiet susurration of my blood. The cats are both asleep, two soft weights draped over my hips. I can't hold them close, they'll wake and wander away in search of a late night snack or some invisible ghost to chase. I wonder, briefly, if it's possible to dream while so awake, at least rest the brain, but discard the thought, preferring to try and imagine where the people I love are right now. Various time-zones away, some of them aren't all that far.

    South three hours by plane, he'll be asleep, strewn like an elegant game of pick-up sticks in his bed, lying feral on his left side, pillow loosely clutched to his head, hair caught in his fingers, cute in a way that tugs at my lungs, steals my breath, inspires me to slowly cut away his invariable black t-shirt with a pair of silver scissors and wake him with my tongue whispering poetry to his closed eyes. Stories of drinking in Vegas, Passover, his panic at the word marriage, how we laughed into every single night. Somewhere there will be a red curtains, a disco ball, a potted palm tree, and a video game console.

    Another mind-set, seven hours hard drive in the direction of the impossible dawn, someone older, obsessive, more emotional than I could ever learn to be. Skin a different texture than mine, our hands exactly the same size. A half-fictional time-line, we've only spent time in hotels, I don't even know what colour his sheets might be. The only picture I have is comfort, taking second place, offering a place of safety to someone falling apart. When we were together, there were no camp ground rules, if he fell down, he would try to take me with him, though accidentally. Eventually I cut the tether. Life got better. Now we could stand on a roof and scream at the stars together, if we were so inclined. Which we're not. So don't ask me to.

    One day ahead and five hours behind, another sweet Jewish boy, like a new melodic theme, currently so far away the seasons have flipped, but not so far that we don't have darkness at similar times. It's not late enough for him to tucked into bed with the rest of us, however, so I lose my thread, can't kiss him awake, begin mentally scanning pictures I've seen of the general antipode of the North Atlantic Ocean. Lush beaches, insanely colourful coral reefs, endless summer, dry dusty wastes, and ridiculous movies I love dearly. Lethal wild-life, big bouncing rat-things with gigantic feet. Some big rock right in the middle. Nowhere I can clearly place him. I'm bad at this game. Instead, I can picture him playing, his incredible, wry smile drenched in sweat, the effort of his music literally dripping off in waves. I can picture a stage, something festival, hemp clothing, om beaded necklaces, something wide and tent-like, people dancing, and the perpetual threat of rain. Completely and utterly wrong. He's probably at dinner, I should go to bed. This is presumably the sort of thing that drives little girls mad in Victorian novels. Oh Herr Frankstein, only speak when you're spoken to. Don't use the wrong cutlery. Remember to sleep.

    Seattle: March 18th.

    delicious

    Dec. 14th, 2007 03:28 am
    foxtongue: (tripwire)
    In Finnish, "onni" means "luck".

    I think of them in metaphor. Black doves, shape changers, the old stories of Prometheus. I lick my writing from the taste of their skin, my words from the twists in their gestures. By the woods of our correspondence, a river flows. From the shape of their hands, I can place every single one against my fingers, the places I truly call home, and leaf through our fingertips touching. Encapsulated interaction, catalogued small details that I can carry later. Preferences. Coffee, cigarettes, tea.

    "Here."
    "What's this?"
    "That's a hundred dollars to cover a taxi to get you into town and back."
    "What? That's too much. I can't take that. You know most men give flowers or chocolate or, like, earrings."
    "Well, I'm giving you money."
    "You tawdry American. You're just buying off the guilt of leaving me."
    "If I give you another hundred, will you just get the abortion and promise never to talk to me again?"
    "It only costs fifty here in Canada, but I'll take the other fifty as a promise never to send you bronzed booties. Is that what they're called? Those little knitted baby shoes?"
    "Yes."

    They are the second generation warfare of my inspiration, prodigies, a reason to 'take my shoes off and throw them in the lake', the impetus I require to create, to claim the word artist as my own. Without these black and ivory dreamers, I have no focus, no lens to collect light into fire. That high holy spark. The currency of competition. Engendering wonder by twisting the world into a better configuration. The etymology of the word awesome, a sacred dread mixed with veneration, an education in love.

    In Japanese, "oni" means "demon".
    foxtongue: (moi?)
    This is where I drop being an entertainer, an entrepreneur, or even remotely professional, and just simply be A Girl.

    The Here Be Monster's Festival of the Art's was at the Dollhouse Studios this year, the burlesque bar Antony and I went to on our first date. Frank and I went and played photographer, and though I expected to be apprehensive visiting the space again, it was more difficult than I thought. Stepping past the foyer into the main room knocked the wind out of me. I had to stand still, remember to breathe, try to whistle up a smile. I couldn't help but whip backward in time, to how it felt being there last time, the two of us laying on the bed, discussing life, feeling out the edges of how much we liked each other. My heart jumped, sick with longing. I remembered feeling shocked when he offered to cuddle with me for warmth. Shocked and glad, pleased like we were inventing something new and useful, an affectionate key to a very old code.

    It had been empty then, the Dollhouse. An overly rich cover charge the same night as Sin had kept everyone away but for us and three or four other die-hards who were far more affiliated with the space than I'll ever be. Wednesday, however, it was not. The Festival's opening night was warm with people, conversation, and delightful performances. (It's on until Sunday, doncha know. Atomic Vaudeville still has one more show). Eventually, chatting with the crowd, taking pictures, I conquered my overwhelming mind's eye enough to be useful until well after midnight. Later that morning, however, I had work very early, (a six:thirty call-time in Squamish means being picked up at five a.m.), so spent the day dancing around a wicked lack of sleep, further embedding my underlying sense of helpless pining. Which felt bloody ridiculous. It's been half a year! We're still best friends! Boo helpless pining. Hiss. Derision.

    So what do I do last night? Why, go see a ten:thirty showing of The Darjeeling Limited, of course, the latest Wes Anderson film, which happens to be the latest Adrian Brody film too. Not a stroke of genius. How does this relate?

    EXHIBIT A - EXHIBIT B


    Didn't really ameliorate the problem, really, more amplified it a thousandfold until I caught myself struck, sighing with a scratch in my throat every time his character lit up a cigarette. Bah. Completely irrational. So, sound in the knowledge that Antony's been working late, I called Beverly Hills as soon as I got home. Best thing I've done in a month. As soon as he said hello, I had a blithesome smile that almost cracked my face. We talked for hours, laughing back and forth, until work was done, he'd driven home, and we were both happily crawling into bed. It lifted a lot of weight off. Life lately's been almost a terrifying amount of stress. As of Monday, I'll have gone an entire year without a Real Job, and financial pressures are threatening to crush me almost daily. (ex. I ran out of catfood yesterday, but won't have money to buy more until too late on Sunday to hit up any shops. It's scary. In September I made 80% of my income from writing, but when I worked it out, I made less than minimum wage per hour. I would have made more money working at McDonalds. It's like I'm living someone's version of The Dream, but it's not actually mine.) Having a life-line, especially one so gratifying as Antony, means the world. I fell asleep alright with the world for the first time in months.

    And yet, it gets better. Today Mike called from wherever the hell he's on tour right now. (Virginia or Indiana or something. Somewhere that ends in A, I'd check his website if doing so late at night didn't make me feel vaguely like a stalker.) I was thrilled. I've only been hearing from him about once every three weeks. His itinerary doesn't particularly allow time for anything as esoteric as A Life, so every time he calls, we have radiant conversations that go on for hours. Topics range everywhere, from the relative size of platypus to what we were like as teenagers. My favourite bon mot was that I should start a net campaign to help with the trip to Calgary I'm attempting to scratch out of nothing - GET JHAYNE LAID FOR THE HOLIDAYS: he's clever enough to fool her into thinking he's clever. Take some obliquely smutty pictures, maybe attempt to sell some prints, see if I get any donations.

    Friends of mine from all over America have been going to his gigs, actually. I know of approximately twelve visits to venues so far, ranging over both our countries. Not just the bigger cities either, like L.A. and NYC, Chicago, Toronto or Montreal, but smaller places too. Madison, Vienna, Hamilton... Some towns I've never heard of, let alone visited. It's been an incredible response. We think it's fantastic. Tangible reactions from the network that isn't just made of zeroes and ones are terrific. And thank you, from both of us. You warm my worried heart.

    So today, as Silva graciously put it for me, I'm feeling loved and appreciated, which is sometimes better than feeling properly fed and clothed and housed.



    Also: Instant stress relief in the form of a nws post-furry culture trainwreck.
    foxtongue: (so sorry)
    Tony, brilliant sweetheart that he is, was determined to get me a corset before he left for home back in May. In that entirely endearing way that only he ever managed, his first two tries were not-quite-disasters. The first one was an over-priced off-the-rack from one of those little gothy shops in Gastown, and didn't fit even a tiny bit. They couldn't even pretend it could be altered, so with after a bit of genteel kicking and screaming, the shop-girl took it back.

    The second one was wicked, a black satin Vollers. Wonderful, delicious, but too tiny, bought in a rush as a store was closing, as we were running out of time, (we only had three days before he was due back in L.A.), not the way to buy anything so unique, permanent or expensive, especially from a store with a No Returns policy.

    The third one was the money shot. It fit absolutely fairy-tale perfect. Not only was it 50% on sale, it was everything I'd always wished for, even purple, my hoped for, and black velvet, his.

    So here, after it's lived months carefully rolled in a bag on my bookshelf, is the black satin Voller's corset. I've put it up on eBay for $100 less than he paid for it.
    foxtongue: (my confession)
    August 6th is coming up quick. We are ditching my grandmother-blue velveteen sectional couch, would anyone like it?

    I have begun something this week, wrapping my fingers in scarlet coloured string. A new slice of history, doomed to repeat, something that looks like broken water - a rusty puzzle that I can lay on a table, translucent pieces breathing slowly under my fingers, like a fever building and taking away the safest powers of language. My thoughts on the topic are surprisingly vague. I am being warmed by the next best thing. Unclarified affection.

    The Boy left some things here I have yet to send back to Beverly Hills. A phone charger written like a nostalgic poem in my window, a pair of Armani shirts that I want to wear until they smell like my body instead of his. These stories are meant to hurt. This is what I tell myself as I stand over them, seconds from wanting to uselessly cry again. I can barely bring myself to touch these things, and I have made certain that it is someone else who fills the drawer I emptied for him when he was living here. (Walking past where we've been, the sidewalk is a staring contest.) Objects as a doorway, his voice over the phone describing the hot mathematical arc of Los Angeles traffic, apologizing for missing my birthday. I am caught imagining the shape of his body as he stands at the beach, remembering being in his apartment, naked on the porch except for a blanket, and us, the pictures we took at the airport, reaching out goodbye, the most honest portraits I have ever seen.

    Social Suicide, our favourite UK tailors, have an interview with PingMag.

    She stood in front of me with a rainbow of metal studded hair-bands on her metal studded belt, looking like a young crow clone of a first nations girl I used to know. Long dark hair, silver printed t-shirt, short denim skirt. Too young for me to watch. I almost said Hello. She swayed with the bus and got off at the Skytrain, oblivious, leaving me to my borrowed Pynchon, a fictional account of WW2, thick as if the paper had been dropped repeatedly in water and dried without care.
    foxtongue: (feed me stories)
    How William Gibson discovered science fiction.

    He sits on my bed, talking to his mother on the phone, his car keys plugged into my computer, taxidermy birds at his feet, familiar with my room. I have already met his scientist father and taken pictures of them both. Possibly this makes me uncomfortable.

    We have been reacquainting ourselves after six years apart in the same city. It has been interesting, though unexpected. We are very different people than when we first spent time together in the almost perpetual darkness of the constant heaven threatening raves and parties that we used to work at. (We met, like Shane and I, (and Jacques and T. Paul), as part of the first incarnation of C.R.'s Fr8-train Land.) I think we have far more in common now than we ever might have then.

    Perched on the roof of his truck, we watched the night occlude the city from Spanish Banks and discussed stars and noise, art and engineering, information architecture, and how to wire lights to make bursts of sound, constellations of old ideas polished into new. When we drove back into town, swaggered into the bar, and kidnapped Shane to star-crash on my couch, it was like we completed a circle that took almost a decade to make.

    Human After All.
    History begins now.

    At work, my boy haunts the hallway from months in the past. A reflection of when we sat here over our greasy chinese picnic and laughed over chopsticks and our mismatched everythings. His eager grin and long legs folded, the mischief in his eyes conspiring against my cleverness. It's difficult to be there some days. I catch my ears bent listening and I almost have to close my eyes against the superimposed image of his voice sitting next to me. He's hung up the mirror-ball I gave him for his birthday and sent me a picture from L.A. It looks like the perfect accessory. As consolation, it beats a drum within me like the clapper in a bell. We had a good thing. He remains the happiest part of my dreams.

    Robert Silverberg on Philip K. Dick.

    These long summer evenings have been both good and bad for me. I've been getting up early, it being too sticky hot to stay in bed, but as the day molasses crawls down the windowpane of the sky, I don't feel I'm accomplishing as much as I could be. I want to be as busy as sin, not living this meandering odd-jobs existence I seem to be dreaming up daily. Tuesday I'm on set again, but I haven't heard about call-times yet. It's still too early to say. My flashing re-boot of a film career is suffering from the drop in the American dollar. Crews are being pared down. It's not as cheap to shoot here as it was five years ago. I've been keeping my fists up, but it proves to be difficult. The industry's not being kind to any of us. It might be time to side-step into the Jolt and Doritos fuelled modern fortress of video games, like James wants me to.

    William Gibson explains why science fiction is about the present.
    foxtongue: (so sorry)
    Sorry for the pain you're in

    The last day he was here, I woke him up with a silver fountain pen. He opened his humming evening eyes as I lay upon him, delicately pressing his long body into the cotton-stocking sheets, and began to write poetry across the seamless skin of his paper white chest.

    I got as far as the end of the word "Love".

    Later, in the shower, as a miracle might, I saw the word survive hot water, clove soap and our bodies painfully pressed together in tight comforting hugs. I thought of it at the airport, how it was still resting above his heart in graffiti black ink under his shirt, and how it would travel home with him on the plane like a new neighbor. I said nothing, but my reckless fingers pressed against it, saying goodbye, and my lips, as if they never meant to stay.

    drumbeat

    Jul. 3rd, 2007 12:33 pm
    foxtongue: (beseech)
    Old space-suit recycled as experimental satellite.

    I went to sleep knowing he was in the air over the ocean, on his way to Tokyo, Japan. The ceiling of my room telescoped away from me, showing me my life as a tiny toy dragon with topaz eyes. Nothing in me seemed as effervescent as the waves speeding below the plane I could sense like smoke outside and so many miles away from me that I could not walk them in a year. Rain on the windows loud enough to shut out the streetlight, lying in the sleeping nest of salty silk pillows on one end of my bed was suddenly the saddest place I had ever been. (Wrong, of course, he goes next month).

    A photo gallery of Japanese manhole covers.

    Sasha is moving upstairs to live with his cousin. I'm going to need a new flatmate for August 1st. Anyone interested? Rent's $450/month + half utilities.
    foxtongue: (moi?)
    Tony sent me his first iPhone e-mail. iWin.
    foxtongue: (misery)
    The Boy doesn't want me anymore.

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