foxtongue: (Default)
Thank mercy for young boys. Young boys who will drive, at the slightest provocation, many many miles to come see me. On a whim. Then take me for dinner. Then dessert. They are splendid creatures. Rare and exceptional, wicked and sly. Somewhere there is a poem waiting in all this. Thank mercy for young boys.

what colour eyes would your children have?

There is a boy of my acquaintance who is far too old to be considered a boy by most standards, who is also likely coming to town soon. Any day now. There is an annual event he attends here that begins on Tuesday. We used to be close, me and this gentleman I persistently call a boy, (as well as a dove, another pet name misnomer), but there was a falling out which felled us apart, and now I am terrified that if or when he comes, he will not call.

It used to be we would talk every day. Months of it, mostly out of the same city. Logging in long distance every night before bed, turning on the camera just to have company. Reading to each other, waving, singing, writing our lives out like diary entries to be late night tattooed on our skin. Always, as ever, it was the thought of you that held me through. An entire dictionary range of love letters and affectionate inspiration. Calling in the morning, saying good night. We were perpetually in presence, even over mountains. I could not imagine a day without saying his name. When, after a very long while, he finally topped my patience, a significant amount of time after our relationship had smoothed from flame into family, my letter said I didn't want to talk for only a week. Once that was done, I sent another hello. "I miss you." After all, some people you can't but help to continually love. Almost all I've received in the year since is silence. Now, somehow, the possibility that he may not even call.

I cannot help wonder what it is I could have possibly done to be so wronged.

ps. by the way, if you happen to come across a copy of Fever Ray, (the new solo album from The Knife's nice howling lady), fallen off the back of the internet truck, I would like a copy, for it is Good.
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: (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: (canadian)
Conversations like unsatisfied lovers, humming melodies around the truth, leaving dishes of promises over night to congeal into something a little more honest. All I can hope is for the best. I hold my head up, nod when it's appropriate, smile like I don't know precisely what will happen once the lights are off. I'm not a miracle. What they make of me isn't even very real.

Violins sway, paint a pretty fabrication, a space built up like a palace of what they think I mean. Rescue, some sort of shift, a princess made of dragons who can take them away from the same scenarios they live day after day, shake up the routine, make it bearable, make it change. The foundations of fiction. Everything ideal, nothing unusual, nothing thought quite through. Such a shame.

I think to myself, this will be less, but at least for now we'll be okay.
foxtongue: (Default)
He's young in that way that teenage girls find attractive, fizzing with ginger enthusiasm, wiry, laughing, his arms beaten with a couple of tattoos. They come into the bar, feeling daring, drunk before they hit their drinks, maybe a little under age, and vie to pick him up, their phone numbers written in lipstick on the back of his neck, butterfly smudges that all start with six-oh-four. They rarely last more than a night.

He talks about girls, I talk about boys, we find a middle ground where we both get to air our complaints and offer advice. Our dissatisfactions live as mirror images, as perfect bell-curve opposite as narrative could ever wish, satisfactorily littered with cussing and laughter. Though we have dissimilar grievances, it helps. I taught him the term emotionally unavailable and he, in return, assured me that the strangely puritan streak I seem to have hit can't last forever, if only because I'm far too stubborn.

Eventually we found ourselves sitting at a table full of strangers with one of my dearest friends, samurai movies playing on the wall, music too loud to hear, uncertain entirely how we came to be there. From across the piano shaped table, too far away to say anything, he winked at me when no one else was looking, in on the joke of who I was sitting with. I couldn't wiggle free, he caught me. What else are friends for?

Later, I thought of how much I need, how little, as the man I had been sitting with fell asleep lying in my lap, tired from an overly long day. "Oh, three meager words, how they can mean the world."
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.
foxtongue: (snow)
Trucks like monoliths, grumbling gods to some sort of travel plan, the kind of yellow covered maps you only buy in gas stations. Row upon row, headlights as big as our heads, snow gritty with gravel, running to skid on the ice, arms silently flung out for balance like sweatershirt wings. We walked through them transformed from adults into children by sheer scale. Machines built by hands like ours, but unimaginable as only a collection of parts, a warehouse of nuts, bolts, and aluminium siding. Machines that growled, spit smoke, carried worlds in their bellies and dwarfed us, our chilled faces, our frozen laughter. The way I wanted to kiss him there, between the vehicles, between history, but didn't.

Crunching white footprints leading back to the hotel and I still wouldn't do up my coat.

My trip to Alberta was like a trip to Canada, too. It felt like time travel. Vancouver is warm winters, high heels in December, ocean sunsets, miniature dogs, Kitsilano graphic designer vegetarians with tans, fake nails, and eight word coffee orders. Twenty four hour internet cafes lined with serious young men with short hair, Mac laptops, and Clark Kent glasses, planning on working in video games, dreaming of going to Japan.

I've been anti-social since returning, picking my company with exquisite care, unwilling to give up my time away. My trip spoiled me with inspiration, with company, with care. The people I went to see put me back on my feet, lifted me from myself and gave me new direction. As we drove to the airport, he held my hand, and I gave him directions that included I was pretty. I worry that if I give myself back to Vancouver, I will lose the complex taste of these memories, that they will flatten and take with them that precious ice edge of rediscovery that we so sweetly forged together. The cloud machines, the black sticks of prairie fire licking the sky. How terrible to fade, to disintegrate like a chalk-drawing photograph left out in the rain.


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.

"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?"

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: (dream machine)
My nervous heart clenched into a tight fist. I knew going in, but oh, to be there, to see, to hear - there is no preparation. I could belong to this creature, I could lay down everything I am, (again), how terrifying, intimidating, how one hundred percent expected. And so, it clenched, it tightened, it stung and palpitated and, always faithful and willing, fled my chest to glow in my hands with lost promises, fingers of memories that were reaching out, forward and back, (too late), to take his in hello. He was an uncompromising hit of oxygen. The heart is created of four chambers, two on the right receive depleted blood and push it to the lungs, two on the left receive rich blood and push it to the body. Mine, to keep from being damaged, attacked, stolen, (too late), or injured, had crippled itself, had preventively rearranged the compartments. I had not forgotten even minutia, but had shifted in self defense, as one may shift weight to protect their balance in a fight. A quiet decision, made of dread, the transfer of a holy name, (a physical structure, a treasured arrangement of cells, laughter, hope), from the left to the right, like the hand he used to wear my ring. my eyes could not help but glance for it, knowing it was gone. And so it survived, infrangible, not destroyed, but starved, withheld of his presence. Sadly, achingly, denied.

Splitting from, sacrificing, those desires was one of the most difficult things I have ever done. It went against the sum of my precepts and every temptation, but not, unfortunately, necessity. I am charmed to see him again, if decidedly overwhelmed. (My powerful mess of deprived love is a dose only matched with remorse.) Thankfully, restraint is complex, and family still counts as public through one way glass.
foxtongue: (Default)

the sound of your absence
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.
It's been discovered oral sex leads to throat cancer.

I wear a pin that carries a last kiss from a common name on the lid of my eye, around my neck coils a scarf that brought my fluttering wings back to life, my wallet is camouflage for how much I still love him, it lives in my witty black bag, the stain of two infidelities. I am armoured, the only one who can break my heart. Pieces and parts, twisting my hands in the sink, water running red, the lesson of a clothed walk through life. Things, how little of them are mine. Of course I want more, to have their voices rise with mine again, to create a rhythm of easy conversation, the happy patina of bitten tongues and worlds beyond words, but these are what I have; the way I wear my pocket watch on my wrist and cradled in the palm of my hand, my ear against the door of the sky, my permanently borrowed hat always the word No. There is no cavalry.

I leave the room, hear behind me, "she's my brothers girlfriend." remember to write. My surprise is mechanical. Shelter. I rest my head on his shoulder, let the flesh give substance to a ghost, and settle in.

What is passive? This is my kit, the way I wear a skirt, lipstick, stockings, the way I shift my hips against a close explosion or brace my feet when I swing to defend myself. Nothing to be scared of. The angles of these faces, lighting up on a street corner, attached sweetly to my memory, wear quietly. Composers, compositors, blocks of personal mythology, barely attached, like birds fluttering along a wire. I have never laughed so much in my life.
foxtongue: (illustrated)
BABIES AS WEAPONS is the most twisted thing you will see today, even if you're a regular at ModBlog. It's the inelegant site of XenoSapien, a man in the States who believes he is "suffering from deep feminist-culture side-effects." I hope he never discovers gifs, as the flame motif is bad enough already. (Warning: for reasons unknown he plays inappropriate music very loudly). The front page has a pencil sketch named MyPain of a woman dressed as a stripper about to whip a prostrate man with a baby that's still attached to her by an umbilical cord that snakes from between her legs. For added wtf, the diapered baby seems to be angrily shouting into a microphone. The entire thing gives me the quesy feeling he watches Wicker Man and touches himself on Friday nights.

  • "NASA can no longer afford the future."
  • Plans for making a Jacob's Ladder from readily available parts.

    Today has been full of unexpected phone calls, disco light moments, when the blare of music fades into almost silence at the exact moment you see her face. Theatre people, friends, night and day. Someone's finally read my pen written letters, public transit edited. A long distance shout from an ex-lover, three defeated countries away, sunburned voice peeling across the lines, unexpected and welcome and a little puzzling. I love him, but why now? Little mirrors refracting light, circling in the room. Another chrome ring, pick-up-the-phone - a potential investor, in town from Memphis, surprise, someone I've been considering handing the project off to once I get it up on its feet and properly connected to my city. (We all know I want to leave.) I'm cancelling my plans this evening so as to see him.

    Just as a reminder: Bertolt Brecht's Life of Galileo opens tomorrow at The Western Front. Further details here. I'm going, are you? Especially quick comments have a chance at a comp.
  • foxtongue: (illustrated)
    There's a black silhouette engraved in the corner of my screen I find as comforting as a cigarette always seems to be (looking from the outside in). He drinks coffee and talks with his hands almost savage enough I might pick out words. I'm working on the pictures I took at the Cultch for Shane. Some of them burn with light, some of them are too blurry to use, but there's not one bad picture in the lot. I'm a little proud and yet it's anticlimactic. They're everything I expected them to be. Everyone kept mistaking me for a reporter.


    It's snowing again. Two days now of brittle sunlight and these flakes floating down like the ashes of someone's favourite million page book. It makes me want to find a vast pale room with a giant skylight and a hardwood floor and lie in the middle of it with grand orchestral pop music on, just staring up into the sky.
    foxtongue: (wires)

    picture by Lung Liu.
    Well, fine, doom us all, you petulant country, you. You're not very original.

    Quote of the Day goes to my good friend Ian. He says: "Oy. Geek boys going after you is like a guy with one week of martial arts classes under his belt going to a bar and looking for the hugest guy in there. And then pissing in his shoes." Ian's known me a long time.

    Today at work I was reading Carl Sagan and a collection of re-contextualized post-modern fairy-tales. Possibly, I need to get out more. More likely, I need to figure out which of these books are mine and which are borrowed and from where.

    Terence McKenna's library was just destroyed in a fire.

    He had been a well-lathed challenge, a good time waiting to be had. She didn't know about the long drive, about the night. In her astonished stride, motivations were uneasy, rote, at war. She said, like kicking a small cat in the ribs, "I'll wait if I have to." Almost instinctively, he had flinched and reached for her body.

    "Why does the wolf care," she asked, "for your voice?" She sat alone in a wooden room, a crumpled red cloak a metaphor at her feet. Her tongue flickered when she spoke. The floor was littered with spices; sugar, cloves, and cinnamon. She had prepared a bed of leaves, flowers, pine-needles and double-starched sheets, her smile as lemon pie. Streaked across the ceiling was a moment suspended in time, static clouds she had painted in gold. Anxious, she spoke to herself again, "It's only a story." She remembers how his fur had felt in the taxi. Like the forest, she is barefoot, in a soft and fragile state of grace.

    Blood and beauty. "Fill his belly full of stones. Cut open his belly and fill it with memories, reasons, excuses, stones. Wear his skin. The old formula - remember to breathe." His teeth retracted, his eyes closed, their mouths had opened, they had kissed. Almost ceremonially, she had taken off her clothes, undone his belt. Wood fell under the axe of her tongue.

    Alone now, she remembers how his fur felt in the taxi, and waits.
    foxtongue: (Default)

    Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.
    I got a bright rush out from a poster I saw on my way to work today: George Clinton with Parliament, March 4th at Plush. I stopped and immediately scribbled the details on my wrist. ("If anyone gets funked up, it's gonna be you"). Is anyone else excited about this? I've been a burning square the last few months, I need to get out and boogie. Tickets are a terrifying $60, but if it's anything as catchy as the Afrikaa Bombaataa last year, it'll be worth it. (I danced through my favourite pin-stripe fishnet stockings at that concert.)


    It's like he was made to be played on the piano, his body all black key self confidence and gentle pale ideals, a skeptic caught in the violent wake of an irrefutable miracle. I liked him on sight. His dreaming mouth, too busy to notice me, giving smart voice to idiosyncratic creatures of feigned precision, reminded me of an unconscious Rembrandt. I rolled up my mental shirtsleeves and tried to think of other things. Six thoughts at once, I decided, and found five easily to replace him - until he looked up and met my eyes. They were the colour of a favourite song of hard-earned nostalgia or an elegant walking stick from another age, polished from two generations of impeccably gloved hands.

    Too stubborn to look away, trapped by the pure audacious mechanics of competition, I was suddenly too close to a vanishing point to get proper perspective. Lines were being drawn around me, inked with subsumed intention, in the shape of a conversation with conspicuously missing words. Unbidden, I imagined the mark of his teeth on my neck and our bodies together like Tristan's handmade boat, rocking soundly through a storm wherever next we encountered a flat surface. The ghost of my faith shook in its sheets, unable to consolidate this encounter with its bitter heart. We crossed the space between us in an indecent freefall, threading through the crowd suddenly as insubstantial as clouds, as charming as grocery shopping alone.

    (Just as an aside, baby-ballerinas are possibly the most doll-like human beings I have ever encountered outside of a fetish club.)

    books for sale )

    foxtongue: (feed me stories)

    Jhayne, by Andrew Dimitt
    Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.
    haiku for ___:
    he reminded me
    of the twitchy tip of a
    purring cat's tail

    Paula came over yesterday and helped me begin sorting my things. Now everything's a precarious mess, there's paper piled on every surface, slippery memories tangled underfoot, stacked CD's of old music, and violently coloured stuffed cats curled up to calligraphy kits next to antique instruments and gold framed mirrors. To orate the list would make for a glorious message on an answering machine, much in the style of a baroque-gypsy version of the semi-infamous monologue from Trainspotting:

    The truth is that I'm a bad person. But, that's gonna change - I'm going to change. This is the last of that sort of thing. Now I'm cleaning up and I'm moving on, going straight and choosing life. I'm looking forward to it already. I'm gonna be just like you. The job, the family, the fucking big television. The washing machine, the car, the compact disc and electric tin opener, good health, low cholesterol, dental insurance, mortgage, starter home, leisure wear, luggage, three piece suite, DIY, game shows, junk food, children, walks in the park, nine to five, good at golf, washing the car, choice of sweaters, family Christmas, indexed pension, tax exemption clearing gutters, getting by, looking ahead, the day you die.

    Now that Wayne and I have picked up boxes, things have been going quicker. It's beginning to make sense outside of my head. Already the detritus of my life is beginning to classify. Speculations correspond with a basic duality: Things I Appreciate / Things I Will Never Miss.

    books for sale )
    foxtongue: (canadian)
    Poetic Justice found in the trailer section of the imdb page for Lara Croft Tomb Raider: The Cradle of Life.

    Landscape on skin, by Huang Yan, from the East Link Gallery, Shanghai.
    Robson street, Vancouver's brand-name straight-line shopping district. Peace as body lotion instead of solution, sold for fifty bucks a bottle behind white walls and vast plate windows, images torn from magazines that cost more than a meal. Thick with logo stamped angels, tight strappy sandals and tight strappy jeans, wide retail smiles and cocaine-bright children surgically attached to thin cell phones and even smaller hand-bag dogs, this is not my neighbourhood. Barefoot, I can feel the concrete but don't feel connected. "Can't buy me love, everybody tells me so." Looking for nothing in particular, I stop for breakfast.

    My dyed hair is a flag, marking my place in line. I look for my reflection in the black marble facade in front of me and find nothing but the eyes of red haired chef making crepes. On reflex I wink at him, but my thoughts are elsewhere, threading from the apparent cure for cancer just found in Alberta to the neuro-chemical reactions that trigger love; dopamine, serotonin, vasopressin. Triggered by the sad knowledge that I've likely burned out all the neurotransmitters that are part of the brain's built-in reward system, I order my memorized taste of a perfect oxytocin kiss - strawberries, lemon juice, and sugar.

    It works. Instant flash of a cold stone floor, the second hand taste of wine, cigarettes, a forged key to my weakness, waking with tousled black hair and my favourite voices. Music sent back and forth to finally meet in an airport, meet in a stairway, on the street, the lights strung up above the bed from before Persepolis abandoned me back. Why do they always have dark hair? I never noticed until just now. Curls. Temples going to silver, little places for me to kiss.

    By the time I reach the bus-stop, I'm already talking to strangers and figuring out who to contact to prepare my house as efficiently as possible. My roommate, Sasha and I are on the same page. Out as soon as we can without leaving the other in the lurch. He's going to be moving in with Mel, I'm still uncertain where I'll end up. I need a staging ground for our last shot at the theatre before I finally give up, fold house, and leave town. Mihi cura futuri.

    Akira Kurosawa's Rashomon has fallen into public domain and is now available on Internet Archive and Google video.
    foxtongue: (dream machine)

    Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.
    As I hung up the phone, the silence bloomed and spread petals of unease, beautiful enough to be mistaken for a memory. Art film freeze frame on a slow pan scanning the room. I let out a breath, banishing the illusion, in an attempt to force my sharp disappointment to fade. It didn't work, instead it settled deeper into my belly, as if I had been eating something bitter.

    Then Shane called and kicked my sorry ass. The beginning of the end. It was a terrible time to be at the party.

    I get out of the cab, familiar in my city, trying not to wish myself elsewhere, trying not to transform the crowd around me into strangers, the cars into rickshaws, the breath in my body into words of goodbye. I turn around, refuse to walk in the opposite direction, but do. I fall into the flow, swing my eyes away and forward. The yellow car is eventually lost in traffic.

    Once moving, the ghost of old poets take me and I understand, finally, how a person could walk into the ocean, how they could continue walking, slicing into the waves like a knife, until there is nothing but water.
    foxtongue: (skatia)
    Doomsday Clock moved closer to midnight.

    The lovely [ profile] _griffy_ tagged me for the Five Things People Would Be Unlikely To Know About You meme going around. I'm wretched at these, but she is a dear, so I'm going to acquiesce.

    1. I take his hand to mine, press the palms together. "Our hands are almost the same size. I hate that I forget these things," I frown, "but I do." Our fingers lace and a concrete feeling of being helpless in the face of wind flows through me. He feel delicate, as if I could collect him effortlessly in the curve of my arms, curled like a black and ivory flower. He glowed at my birthday present and flashed it to everyone, smile like a searchlight, showing me off, my cleverness, my care. I am drowning for affection, but I can tell I've been torn down too much. My best efforts to memorize him, the way he danced in his seat, beating a musical tattoo against the table at the restaurant, won't be enough. I will forget, these moments will fade, lost in the wreckage. Stricken with this thought, it is all I can do to put my eyes elsewhere. My role is that of the cherished escape, the lovely creature that will stay witty and safe and warm. To be otherwise would be to admit defeat. I look down at the table with relief when someone launches into a story about working with the Smothers Brothers and try to genuinely smile at the Bill Cosby anecdotes.

    2. Before my accident, I was quietly training to be an aerialist. I loved the feel of the cloth, the clever twists that let me safely drop from the ceiling to hang by one ankle, gently spinning, four feet from the painful ground, the ability it grant me to fly. My fall from grace, I have never forgiven.
    My Valentinr - foxtongue

    3. "I really do love you, you know, with what is left of my heart," I whispered. Innocent of indecency, those were the words pushing at me through the dark, insisting in spite of the forsaken ache in my chest and the possibility that our intelligent friend in the next bed was only feigning sleep. He said nothing in reply, but held me tighter.

    4. I didn't wear skirts until I was 17. I still don't wear skirts that hem above my knees unless I'm going dancing.

    5. Filling in for my ferret is a small silver pin fashioned to look like one that I wear on my coat lapel. I bought it during the holidays, though I couldn't strictly afford it, because I've been beginning to find myself standing in my dark kitchen at four in the morning, cuddling his tiny frozen body, and something in me is aware that sort of behavior is so generally frowned upon that a substitute must be made. Thirty dollars is worth a more conventional flavour of sanity.
    foxtongue: (misery)

    Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.
    Minesh has left, gone back to The Smoke. Sweetheart that he is, I saw him to the airport Wednesday and took a bus back into town. He's left me a small stack of fascinating seeming books with erudite notes written in the cover pages that I know I'll never have the cleverness to match. They're sitting next to my bed, now, waiting for me to pick them up and soil their pristine pages with my fingerprints. When he sent me a note to say he got home safe, which I never doubted he would, I sent him a copy of Maginalia.

    As if to gracefully ease absence, the airport then apologetically delivered up Michael Green late Thursday night for the tail end of the PuSH festival. Which means, lovelies, that I am generally unavailable for shenanigans until Tuesday. Call me then and don't expect me to be home checking my messenger.

    Heart of the World news, there isn't any positive. Monday I sign papers to the effect that if I give them the deposit, they will not pursue any legal action against me. There's nothing else I can say.

    It tears my heart.


    foxtongue: (Default)

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