foxtongue: (Default)
#10 - Wilson
"Why don't you just put some clippings together, get a press pass, get in legitimately?" He is obviously more straight laced than I am. I haven't sneaked into anything yet, that's for later tonight, after dinner, but even the idea of breaking the rules is making him nervous. I offer that I haven't kept track of my work. I try to spin it like it's an airy topic, as if there's no reason I would care, a faint mask of a ditzy girl, but he knows better, he presses, and so, uncharacteristically, I lay it all out. Everything. My project, what happened to it, how it failed, how it ended my life, how I've only just barely scraped by, that I bitterly swept my work away, deleted all of my writing in a harsh wind of regret and hate. This is the first time I've ever admitted what I did. He offers very little in the way of commentary, except to occasionally ask small questions, the better to clarify details, and allow me pauses to pick at my food. He is an exceptional listener. I am struck by his understanding, how immediately he grasps the heart of the thing. I think, "This is why he has me, absolutely completely. He is the rarest of creatures, one who not only looks, but sees."

"That must be impossibly hard," he says, "How do you survive?" "I don't," I reply, and he nods, "Of course." He looks at me as if I am a wonder, a myth. He says, "It is incredible that you can bear it, that you don't fall apart." Gently, he teases more from me, as if delicately pulling threads from a loom. I am Penelope, the faithful wife of Odysseus, unraveling at his feet, spilling everything across the table. He describes how he thinks it must be, mentions the word brittle, and it is so accurate I almost cry, but not quite. He keeps me balanced, he keeps me safe. It is amazing. "So this is part of the shadow underneath your skin."

When I am done my story, terrible in all its grand detail, he sits a moment, somber. "I understand why you stopped writing." A rush of heat, not quite anger, flushes up my throat, "I wouldn't have stopped unless I had a good reason." It tastes bitter. What sort of person does he think I am? But then he continues, "So. This is the point where if I were to answer as a woman, I would offer a similar story about my life, the better to offer empathy and make you feel less alone. Shared understanding, emotional community support." I laugh. "I don't think you have anything like that." "No," he says, "not really." He gestures, one hand, then the other, not quite smiling. "Or, if I were to answer as a man, this is where I would try to offer a solution, something constructive, to address and fix your problems. Make everything better." I am blinded by adoration. This is precisely the sort of reply I have always needed, but never been given. Just like that, I am relieved of my burden. He is sublime. "Which kind of answer would you prefer goes first?"
foxtongue: (Default)
The Iron Monkeys, 2011

The Iron Monkeys at Burning Man 2011 with the Incunabulum.

L-R: (non-member), T-Bone Tony, Deanna, Avery, Misty, Karla, Chris, (mystery guest), Quan, Aleks, Colin, Tabasco, Kay.
foxtongue: (beseech)
a principle source of gravity

The bus travels over the Lion's Gate Bridge and I think, unbidden, of last year, a trip up a mountain, falling down in snow, the beginnings of what turned out to be love. Inside the suddenly knotted fist in my chest, I feel a spike of cold, hateful self betrayal, and my throat pointlessly closes up. "Limbic system," I recite in my head, "amygdala, the hippocampal neurons that are associated with emotions and memory. Stress response. Low order post-trauma. Fight, flight or engage. Possibly vestigial dopamine, triggering a surge of adrenaline and noradrenaline into the bloodstream." The words are clinical, chosen for distance, for a way to codify and distract my complicated grief. I want this banished, but the only person that can break the spell keeps me bound. They hide. They give nothing. "A bodily state of anxiety", I think. "The deadly effects of adrenaline during emotional suffering may be due to a direct attack of adrenaline on the heart."
foxtongue: (Default)
Thursday, my actual birthday:

Jenn Vicki Christina
more people )

Friday, the unicorn, kits beach, bingo:

every flavour of ice-cream they had )

the unicorn we didn't mean to match, it just happened

see who won )

Planet Bingo

who's that in bed? )

Saturday, playland, chinatown night market, pho:

those darned kids )


rockstars of the amusement park )

not quite what it looks like )
foxtongue: (canadian)
Apple Store Paris set to open under Louvre Pyramid.

For a moment of amusement, I went and took a look at the yahoo-search referral terms that led people to my Flickr. In order, the top thirty are were: postsecret, cute puppies, maine coon cat, topless, oralsex, tiara tattoos, apartments, oldboy, alien animals, lesbianism, opus bloom county, gamelan, goths, animated club gif, cannibalism, sex oral, cute puppies wallpaper, maple leaf tattoo, dionysius god, pussy licking, steven meisal photography, blind eyes, beetle plate, tattoo koi, kris millering, columbia sailboat, lung, licking pussy, ferret, and topless girls.

Now we know. Go team internet.

I want to take a day soon where all I do is take pictures. Where I get up, shove furniture out of the way, do ridiculous things with random objects, cover the floor in newspaper, pin sheets to my ceiling, and treat my apartment like a set. I haven't done it in a long time, though really, we haven't had the greatest weather lately either. It's like winter just never got the hint to sod off. If I owned even one light, it wouldn't matter, I could just set it up and call it the races, but serious as rain, I'm stuck waiting for sunlight in a city where the cloud cover is so thick that two in the afternoon looks like dusk. And the cold! All of the local pundits have dubbed this month Junuary, as if it's sort of cute that our seasons have shifted by a solid three months.

Hotel Elda offers a fifteen percent discount to bloggers.
foxtongue: (canadian)
365 day one hundred & two: new tomorrow
From a letter I wrote to Juan, "I wish I could mail myself to you in a great cardboard box, foolishly mark myself a gift and sleep until you found me in your kitchen. Oh look, I would say, I'm real after all. See my problems? I will give them to you like ripened apples for you to chew. They will turn sweet in travel. I thought once that if my life refused to improve, I would just begin walking, not look back, and find my way to where you live. Life did improve, though. It feels alright now, like a place to live, at least until the next thing happens."

Edward Lorenz, the founder of Chaos Theory, died Wednesday of cancer.

My eyes slip across the street, noting where sand collected in what used to be rain puddles. I think if this moment could be collected, I have friends who I would like to send it to, who might understand the feeling of weight my blood carries in my body. Everything is heavy, even while curled on a couch, resting my head on a pile of silk pillows, my dreams full of choreographed shouting, difficult and lonely. A sheathed short sword in my hand, taken from a shelf, held in my hand, jabbed in the air for emphasis. If we're going to do this, we're going to do it my way, thick with mythology, mired in darkness, as pregnant with promise that only mystery can be. The tip of the black bamboo case held at his throat, keeping him still, an implied threat. Any minute I could drop it, any second, I could put it down, and wait for his hands on me. A pass, forensic, you are healed, lightning coming down layer by layer, impressed upon the landscape like a gravestone rubbing, rain falling without regret, reminding the grass to be green.

Behind my eyes, I rewind, reposition him, the stairs, the way I might reposition a tea-cup for a photograph. I attempt to find a configuration that has nothing to do with frustration or anger. I rewind, reposition, I suggest lines to the scene as if to an actor. My body lies perfectly still, except for a frown, one tiny crease. Why can't I be dreaming of cat strange eyes? I am sent to the river. Washed of glory, he walks down the stairs again. I again gesture, upset, incontrovertible. It is a loop, queerly criminal, taken out of time as if it were stolen. My footsteps are silent, but his are not. There is no wall where I want one.

Above all, I require grace. I said it out loud in the shower the next days, the words like soap bubbles, clean, beautiful, a renewed realization of what keeps me clear.
foxtongue: (feed me stories)

the photographer's frazetta
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.
The One Laptop Per Child Foundation's beginning production.

Fourty-five minutes until freedom. There's a loud show downstairs, lacing the air with frantic piano, lathering the foyer with a nervous energy. Some student thing. It's the sort of music I would choose to unsettle an audience with, as if I wanted to dislodge their perception of time, kick it disjointed and paste filters all over the lights. In my head, the dancers are testaments to fanciful make-up and Cirque-style motions. They kick, scream, and astonish.

It's actually a ballet performance. Something bleach-blonde and mild, culturally appropriate for the family and friends in attendance, many of whom were too old for the stairs. Many of which, I'm sure, are currently wincing at the thrashing rock music that's replaced the piano, that's begging for big hair and glittery tight pants lined-up outside of cheap bars where the floors are perpetually sticky with spilled and stolen beer. Of course, any minute now, this will all segue into something hideously classical.

And, yes, there it went. French baroque, rather, and overcooked, dreaming of soulful arpeggios that might travel barefoot on horseback in the rain along the Seine into the sunset. And it didn't do the dishes, either.

Oops, no. Now it's faux-traditional Irish rock, a la Riverdance. Mixed with beat-mix 60's remixed retro-pop.

Thirty-five minutes until freedom.
foxtongue: (dial tone)

A canticle for L. Eva

I've begun uploading my Masquerade 2007 photos.
foxtongue: (femme)
Looking for a Green Light: "Lighting is a greedy user of energy, and public projects can be particularly heavy consumers. But many lighting designers are in fact trailblazing the use of low-energy technology."

I sent you a letter with only one word, Hold. A train ticket word for long distances, a place to put your baggage, to put your arms, the embrace awaited, wished for, forgotten. I picture us as if through the lens of a camera, floating in glassy space, anchored by places we have been, where I have touched you, streets that have been warmed by our breath. It is as if an echoed copy of you is still here, imprinted inside the tiny fractures we left on reality with the molecules of our voice, our motion, simply waiting for you to come home. We are clips from some greater film, the title of which is beyond me. (Before the screen, there was the stage.) I think of our constant tired laughter and your sly technical hands, the way they drifted, fidgeting, up and down the hems of my skirts. My imagination wonders about the airport, wonders at my apprehension, (as it creates shaky lists of reasons why I might not like you again), asks why I feel so dreadfully shy.

I have been refusing to count down days; instead we are down to my Cassandra test of silence and all its implications. (Really we are down to fingers now, less the number of a clumsy butcher. I can feel my panicked heart constricting.) When, to combat my almost professional anticipation of misfortune, I sent you flowers, I irrationally felt like I had betrayed an unspoken agreement, yet my smile supernovae bloomed when I discovered the accompanying note had been garbled through a game of florist telephone. It was like discovering a new favorite song, transforming the simple into the sublime, with my eyes wide open.

I am looking forward to seeing you again.

Some electric companies have created tourist interest with their manatee populations. "... conservationists say the potential closure of aging electric plants is an unsolved problem for the survival of the species."
foxtongue: (concentration)
Paintings: The Seduction of Oedipus

going hunting
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

It has been a struggle to sleep this week, and when I do, there has been no comfort in it. I dream of California, but not the California I had lived, full of bleak stories I tell now with terrible humour, but of the possibilities I could interpret from every building I walked past, their sunburnt lawns, every house a microcosm, every business an untold discovery, and the palm trees swaying almost shadowless to the sky, perfect emblems of hot modern fantasy lining every street.

I blame my current reading material.

Before I go to sleep at night, I read. Being a basic thing, there are variations, but it always the same pattern. Finishing with the computer, I turn off my lamp, plug in the ornamental lights, and snuggle in underneath them with my book. When I am done, I pull the plug. It is almost ritual, except that it carries no meaning. It is only the reputation of necessary movements, like washing dishes or putting on a shirt one sleeve at a time, that create the illusion of depth. Every day, the same ingredients.

This week I was reading White Oleander, a harsh book yet beautiful, set in Los Angeles. I am told it was turned into a film once, but I never thought to see it. Why are all my favourite books set in L.A.? Reminiscent of buying my fierce summer clothing on the boardwalk in Venice, they are almost always written by women, couched in some foreign manner of prose that still remains english, always reminding me so strongly of my own writing - as if I were to live there again, it would be my turn to write a book, something powerful and achingly frail, like the bones of the body that I miss so much. Visiting the wild beaches was like stepping into fairyland. A fairyland punctuated by stairs and people in cheap foam and plastic flip-flops.

Sweden opens embassy in Second Life.
foxtongue: (my confession)
Pillow-fighting now a sport. Go Canada!

I have no relationship I could call such, but I am surrounded by good people. I have a solid idea and a solid model of it to work from. My voice is strong, my hands clever, and I can state my needs simply. I survive crisis calmly, expect things to be harder than they are, and laugh with tragedy. My body will not be found washed up on the shore. I will survive tomorrow morning, no matter my age or the dye staining my fingers.

Heart of the World on CBC.

Heart of the World in the Globe & Mail.

heart of the World in the Georgia Straight (bottom of the page).

Heart of the World on news1130 with errors it almost hurts to read.

Heart of the World on Beyond Robson.

Heart of the World on, (front page, no less).

Heart of the World on Cinema Treasures.

Heart of the World on Sock Puppets From Hell. (I don't know them, do you?)

Everything I've found after those are cannibalizing each other.

Heart of the World on Flickr
Heart of the World on YouTube.
Heart of the World on

foxtongue: (misery)

shooting rockets
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

New Years Eve.

Have fun, kids.

This is not OK.

I'm off to work.

foxtongue: (oh?)

trying to shut you up
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.


New Years EVE Skytrain Dance Party at VCC Clark. Meet at 7:45 on December 31st, bring everything - music, costumes, party favours, instruments, etc. "At 8pm we hop an Accordion Train to the Future." Total Trip time 1hr. 8pm to 9pm.

Act 1.

The Dancing Fields. A movement, they kiss. Every smile is a line inscribed. He makes her laugh. This is not a new thing, but another attempt. Her distance allows for the illusion of successful intimacy. This is the first time he's met her at the door with his hands.

Act 2.

Heart of the World news. The current owner has put the Bollywood films up for sale on Craigslist. The letter of my contract says As Is, meaning, everything in the building is coming with the building that was there when I saw it. I'm sure that it was implied somewhere that this was to mean only fixtures, but I'm willing to kick for a discount off the price. I think we can roll with this. The realtor, though he seems nice, as it is his job to do, is still going to receive a silly amount of money, no matter, so I don't feel I'm cheating anyone by complaining.

I'm also thinking about what it would mean to us if we bought them off Craigslist ourselves. Currently the films are stacked all over the theatre in big spilling reels and awkward tin boxes that we'll have to organize, box up, sort, etcetera. If we buy them off Craigslist, not only will we be paying less for them than if they're included in the theatre price, that will all be taken care of for us, and we'll have to spend significantly less time cleaning the space up for performances. It might be worth a shot.


W.C. Fields began his career as a juggler, so good that he performed for royalty and heads of state. A portion of his routine was committed to celluloid in 1934's The Old Fashioned Way. There's a clip of it up on YouTube.

Act 3.

An Italian cafe, Cafe Calabria. Double-consonant beverages and nude white statues of mythical heroes with santa hats perched on their faux-marble heads. A Mediterranean cover of Bryan Adams' Have You Ever Loved a Woman, "Lei mai ha amato una donna?", piped past hanging cakes that frame the renaissance revival ceilings. Two nights in a row I sat there, nursing a delicious hot chocolate to within a drop of its life, and waiting for friends who never walked through the door. Tonight, the second night, I winked at the man behind the counter who called me "bella" and decided to try to be a regular.
foxtongue: (Default)

looking into the future
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

I didn't get home until four in the morning, but I finally got to sleep at my own house for the first time in something like twelve days. I woke fully dressed, pigtails still in, one forlorn glowstick still clasped around my left arm, remembering only at first that Antonio has pictures of me that will further guarantee - "no career in politics". I think I was on a table or maybe in a cage. Either way, I look like I'm a lot of fun.

Now to go drag Breakfast out of bed. Alastair, Duncan, Andrew, and Dani. Yes. We'll be there for awhile, different people at different times. You're invited too.

Metal Walls.

You know the way.
foxtongue: (wires)
My clothes all smell like clever musician. I'm almost too tired to be writing.

Albino Moose in Norway is under threat.

Lillian Bassman
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.
Running late today, trying to figure out what I'm doing this week. I suppose today I'll try to buy fabric for my All Hallow's costume, as Wednesday I'm going over to Jenn's to try and make it. Can't forget Thursday dance class. There's a chance I might be pulled out of town for a few days instead, but I don't know when. The phonecall hasn't come in yet. There's a chance I might work tonight or tomorrow night at the Dance Center, but I have to hear back from Jay. Everything's on hiatus until I hear from other people. Damned are we whose pleasures depend on other people, because the chocolate cake breakfast was probably a mistake. Grocery shopping, need to get around to that, find time. Make time. Create, from thinnest air, the illusion of minutes to give to the store.

A coroner has recorded a verdict of unlawful killing on ITN reporter Terry Lloyd, who was shot dead by US forces in southern Iraq in March 2003.

Barely a sky today, except for the fig tree outside the window. Barely an straight thought in my head. We're waking up slowly, drifting up out of the covers like bubbles through water. The shrill alarm is terrible. I need to get home, check messages, take my daily little pink pill. Walk past Oliver's house and refuse to look. I need to get home, change clothes, pick up music, write down instructions, measurements, phone numbers. The last time I checked the clock was when I took my glasses off. Five in the morning. I'm not going to have a chance to call that dancing man from the Portuguese Club. Too busy, too bad. Bloody Monday, nothing graceful about these except our crawl from the house. I think this could become a weekly thing, though, something I could prepare for with more than the perpetual toothbrush in my bag. I haven't forgotten the tricks of urban traveling.

"Under the Cherry Tree," a new music cut-out-CG video conceived and directed by Dael Oates, (Animal Logic), for Telemetry Orchestra.
foxtongue: (Default)

Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

David Bloom cheers me up.

D: Who was it?
J: An accordion playing morris dancer.
D: You should have known better than to sleep with a morris dancer.
J: What? Why's that? How do you know?
D: I just know. Something about the little bells.

So does Michael Green.

M: Too different? That's like saying a diamond is too shiny, that it's too precious, too rare. Wait, they're not rare. They're terrible. Forget everything I said. Except the good bits. You're not blood money. Are you sure you don't want a drink?


foxtongue: (Default)

April 2012

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