foxtongue: (moi?)
Just a note before I launch into this particular rave: I don't really like bread. My infatuation with a good croissant, however, is not a passing flirtation, no, it is a fierce white-knuckle fucking love. When I was a child, my parents offered them to me as an ultimate treat, as fulfilling in their way as a the sugary deathbomb ambrosia in the center of a Cadbury Cream egg. Food of the gods, my overly literary five year old self would have told you, the cheap chocolate equivalent of the Norse apples of life.

Most croissants are not up to par. They are substandard, greasy crescents of gluey, papery, crumbling pastry, not worth the hot chocolate it takes to save them. A proper croissant is a treasure, a warm, smooth bread, delicately crunchy to bite into, tender yet satisfying to chew. Buying them from a grocery store just isn't going to cut it. Most bakeries, in fact, don't even dish out. That said, the delectable croissants at Au Kouign-Amann, (322 Avenue Du Mont-Royal Est, Montréal), blew my head off. One bite and I was dissolved, transparent, lost in the buttery, flaky heaven that had just taken me hostage.

Tony and I tried their cranberry shortbread tarts, blueberry shortbread tarts, chocolate croissants, and plain croissants, liking best the cranberry tart, as the sharpness of the berry contrasted well with the richness of the shortbread, and the plain croissants, as we found the taste of the chocolate too distracting from the flawless pastry. We would have tried the bakery's namesake kouign amann, but we got there later in the day, and they were out.

The red Au Kouign-Amann storefront on Avenue du Mont-Royal, right by St. Denis, in small and unpretentious and easy to walk by, but you mustn't. You need to go inside and examine their tiny, pretty, shortbread cranberry cakes, their immaculate almond flake tarts, or their perfect croissants, pick out slightly more than you think you should eat, making certain to try one of each of the shiniest, most delectable offerings in the cabinet, then settle into one of the two cozy tables in the window, turn off your cellphone, and prepare to be transported to bliss by the power of warm, fresh bread alone.
foxtongue: (Default)
This morning's facebook update:

Jhayne Holmes was violently woken up this morning by the ceiling above the bed being smashed in by inept contractors. Tony Jackson and I are fine, there was -just- enough of sound warning to have us in the hall by the time pieces were falling.
foxtongue: (have to be kidding)
An interesting subplot to this trip to Montreal has been the rather immediate crumbling decay of the building we've been staying in, where Lung and Melanie have been living. One of the main walls of the building half fell down recently, as it seems mold got underneath the bricks and simply sloughed the outside layer off. Not a trivial thing, this, especially as we've been staying in the room most affected. In the corner of our bedroom is a mad crack that runs all the way from the ceiling to the wooden floor, casually snapping the baseboard along the way. Every day it seems to be a tiny bit bigger. Sometimes there are threatening sounds.

Yesterday Melanie had inspectors come by, as the landlord has been too scummy to reduce their rent, and after some mandatory tapping on things, they quite promptly condemned the building, claiming that it's too dangerous to inhabit, as the ceiling "could come down on your heads any minute".

This morning they've come by banging up some sort of metal scaffolding to attempt to shore it up before it collapses, so Lung and Melanie can at least stay until December 1st. Tony and I have retreated to the livingroom with our electronics, as out of all our options, it seems safest.


Nov. 19th, 2009 03:37 am
foxtongue: (Default)

photos by lung liu
foxtongue: (Default)
Sunday : Breakfast with Lung in Outremont with Jamieson & co, shopping at Simon's, duck in a can dinner at Au Pied de Cocho w. Mike Kitt & Lung, dessert there w. Vanessa & Dee, tea and cider after w. Mike, Dee, & Vanessa at Laika on St. Laurent.

Monday: Shopping at the Le Chateau Warehouse, (coats acquired!), Michel's studio, sandwiches at Atomic.

Tuesday : Breakfast at l'Avenue De Plateau, visit with Michel & Julie at the studio, then Silophone, Body-worlds, and Avesta's Turkish dinner w. Christine, take-home cake.

wednesday: biodome, pecha kucha at SAT [Société des arts technologiques], dinner at Michel & Julie's, dancing at Koi w. Dee and Mike Kitt.

thursday: Patati Patata & La Croissanterie Figaro w. Dee and Vanessa, new moon twilight opening w. lung and melanie at star city at 10pm.

friday: write Lung's Canada Council Grant application essay, dinner at dee's w. vanessa

saturday: brunch at fuchsia w. christine & Dee, Juliette et Choclat on St-Denis, borrow camera flash, find a teapot for Melanie, dinner at La Academie on St. Laurant, Welcome Winter Prom! w. Mark Berube at 5386 St Laurent

sunday: Pick up picture frames at Zone on St. Denis, Michel et Julie's wedding, Resevoir, Le Banquis

monday: Work, terible headache, Best Croissants Ever at Au Kouign-Amann, just west of the Mont-Royal Métro stop near Mont-Royal and Rue Drolet,

tuesday: Jean-Talon Market, Santropol, Santropol w. Christine, and animated movie, Max and Mary.

wednesday: pictures with Michel & Julie, Frank Wimart's movie, "c'est notre histoire" 7 pm, cinematheque, corner of st. denis & maisson, projection room: fernando, dinner at Confusion w. Mike & friend, dancing at Passeport.

thursday: CEILING FALLS ON BED, Breakfast at Le Cafeteria w. Dee & Vanessa, St. Joseph's Oratory w. Vanessa, The Musee Des Beaux Arts (Waterhouse til February!), dinner & dessert at Rockeberry w. Dee, Michel, Julie, and Vanessa, hotel check-in, dancing at Passeport, tea.

friday: fly back to vancouver

saturday: bus to seattle w. Tony, That 1 Guy, dinner at 13 coins w. Mike, Cherise, Heatbox Aaron, Rafael.
foxtongue: (the welsh got you)

Goodbye Vancouver, see you in two weeks!
foxtongue: (moi?)

september, seattle, fire spinning at gasworks park

One of the most amazing things about this trip, past the fact that it's happening at all, is that Tony and I are going to get to spend an entire two weeks together, the longest period of time in each other's company we'll have had since we met in 2002. Once he gets off today's bus, we'll be inseperable until November 29th.
foxtongue: (Default)


Somehow somewhere in the next twenty-four hours, the maddening mess around me has to coalesce into a travel ready me. I've no idea how I'm going to accomplish this, as I've put all my warm clothes into a suitcase and discovered it's still half empty, even when it contains a sleeping cat. Apparently over time I've renounced being an Owner of Sweaters, or even of Pants or Long Sleeved Shirts, essential ingredients during the last biting Montreal winter I gleefully survived. I suppose today I'll take a bit of time, disguised cleverly as my lunch hour, and unearth some, though I'm not entirely sure anymore where such things are sold. The Le Chateau sale place is close, though, as is Winners, and if I don't find anything there, I might as well give up until I can go shopping along Rue St. Denis or St. Catherine's, a plan that gets shiner with every passing hour.

Most of our plans for Montreal are the shiny sort, (Go Directly To Santropol, Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Get $200 Dollars, and the equally obvious Purchase A Warm Coat Already You Foolish Girl), though they did a bit of an unexpected shimmy recently, shaking off the drive down to NYC with Melanie and Lung, leaving us with some uncertainty in regards to our adventures. I remain optimistic, however, even as I face the terrible pressure of being an inexpert wedding photographer, as according to a quick poll over on Facebook, which very quickly took on some serious consistency, everyone's favourite thing to do in Montreal is eat delicious food, a skill at which I am pleased to claim to be somewhat of a master. Om nom, om nom indeed.

ITEMS STILL MISSING: warm clothes, camera flash, ear cuff, bras, ipod cord, jammies, one lime stocking.


A beautiful picture of a crescent Earth, taken by the European Space Agency’s Rosetta spacecraft.
foxtongue: (Default)
His smile crackles, a semi permanent halo. I watch him from the window as he jauntily walks to work, fizzing with the knowledge that I am lucky, so lucky, to have him in my life. As he turns to wave, vanishing behind a building, I smile back, and mock groom the fluffy ears of our shared white monster hat. I love him so much in this moment, as I am sure he loves me, and with that thought, he turns, pouncing from behind the corner with his hands up like paws, trying to surprise me, as if his backpack hadn't been poking past the bricks as he hid, the feet of a child who hasn't quite grasped the intricacies of being unseen.


Hundreds of free animated all kinds of films now available through National Film Board's new iPhone app.


We're going to Montreal soon, for Michel's wedding to a very clever woman I'm not sure I've met and to visit with Lung and Christine and Dee. I've hit that place in my travel plans where the imminent departure date has begun to make me nervous. Do we know where we're staying? Where we're going? Does everyone know when we get there? Daft concerns, the sort of fretting that helps no one. If I don't know yet, I soon shall, so put a lid on it, will you brain? It's not a panic so much as a very low grade adrenaline hum, as my subcutaneous tissue tenses in anticipation, as if I'm about to run in a race, pounding the pavement to music playing slightly too loud but just under the edge of my hearing.
foxtongue: (Default)
Scientists have discovered the monogamy gene.

"Nature is trying very hard to make us succeed, but nature does not depend on us. We are not the only experiment." Buckminster Fuller

Yesterday was my sixth month anniversary with David. To celebrate, we went for La Cafeteria for breakfast with Michel, picked up the now-fixed polished aluminum deer head we brought for Christine, (a bit of antler broke off in transit), did our laundry, had pumpkin spiced hot chocolate, went for a delicious pick-your-own-pasta dinner, met with Mélanie and Mike Kitt, then for pie with them and Michel, and decided to move in together.

Nice how I slipped that in, hey? So yes, when David and I return to Vancouver this week, no matter that he just moved, we're moving him again, this time into my place as Karen leaves for Main St. We'll be a house of two people, two cats, a rabbit, and a library. I'm strangely looking forward to it, even with the pre-knowledge of Just. How. Heavy. His. Book. Boxes. Are. No one's ever moved in with me before, not really, not for more than a couple of weeks. I've always moved in with them, the proverbial them, the lovers, partners, the boys/men. I think it's going to be interesting, and less of an adjustment than I might suspect.

Today we're getting on a train to Toronto with the glorious Christine, who last night came home from work dressed as a sexy ninja, because that is how awesome she is. Once there, we'll be meeting up with my fellow-monarch-in-bad-timing Shane Koyczan, who just happens to be in Toronto this weekend, and painting the town some sort of appropriate colour, as I glory in being home for a weekend.

For the double-plus, Nuit Blance is running this weekend, so the current plan is to hang out glorying tonight and most of Saturday, then spend as much of Saturday night as humanly possible wandering the all night arts festival with Shane and the funtastic duo that is Zaiden, Will and Mellissa, before breakfasting somewhere delicious and catching an early Sunday morning bus west, back towards Vancouver.
foxtongue: (the welsh got you)
Something I can't seem to get over is how much mind-bogglingly delicious food there is in Montreal, for incredibly cheap.

Today I'm breakfasting on left-over's from last night's heavenly Turkish dinner at Avesta, (2077 rue Sainte-Catherine Ouest), and the lamb and the lavash bread, (that they make fresh, right in the window), and the everything is still so tasty that it's shutting down my ability to process any other input. David apparently just said something to me, but I was too busy communing with my food to even notice. Oh. My. Mercy. Is it ever freaking good. The lavash bread, especially, is an entirely thrilling experience, which sounds insane until you try it hot from the grill. All dignity vanishes as you stuff it into your mouth, your eyes closing in appreciation.

Yesterday we had the foresight to bring a Santropol Midnight Spread sandwich home to be breakfast. I'm not sure if we've ever had a better idea. I love Santropol's sandwiches so much that I was actually disappointed that they were out of posters for sale. I want to be able to put up their advertising in my home. They are that perfect, that delicious, that absolutely addictive. If they catered a war, the war might end. "I'm going to shoot you. Mr. Enemy!" "Wait, have this sandwich first!" "Well, actually, this is pretty good. Thank you! You are my new best friend."

And I got to have it for breakfast. In bed.
foxtongue: (geigerteller)
Stephen Fry video birthday card to the Free Software Foundation's GNU project

Tonight I leave for Seattle, which might not be the most clever thing I've ever done, considering that next week we leave for back east, (for which I have barely prepared for), but the ticket is bought, the plans are made, and I can't help but look forward to it. A group of us are going dancing tonight, there's ANACHROTECHNOFETISHISM tomorrow, then then Nicole rides into town with her imaginary boyfriend in time for Eliza's solo show on Saturday which we plan to follow with a night of sci-geek concertry at the Funhouse.

Next week, David and I leave for Montreal, (on the same bus as Karen New, coincidentally enough), and make or break our relationship as we travel together, nonstop for two weeks, six days of which will be spent on in transit, knees together, prairies outside. We've had a lot to work out since he took off on me at the folk fest, which hurt him more than it did me, and as he finds it significantly more difficult than I do to communicate, my patience has been eroded away, until I can't bear to bring anything up anymore. I suspect that being trapped together in a bus will be, at least in part, a last ditch attempt to see what intimacy we can bring back from the ashes of his insecurity. Heavy, annoying, and heart-felt, I know.

Thankfully, there will be little stop overs in Calgary, Regina, Winnipeg, and Ottawa! Yay!

In Calgary, Gavin and Michael might track us down for tea, in Winnipeg, my cousin Francis is going to swing by, and I might be lucky enough to reconnect with Darren in Ottawa. One thing remains, however, does anyone here live in Regina?
foxtongue: (have to be kidding)
Anyone want a chandelier? How about a lamp? Please?

The weekend was spent moving David from his cave apartment of the mysterious smells to a pleasantly crooked #9932CC-darkorchid room in an old heritage style house on Arbutus street, right across the street from the Ridge Theater. It was an alright move, as such things go. Nothing irreplaceable was broken, nothing precious was lost. It involved many, many boxes of books, one might say too many, really, a veritable library of books, and little else. Some clothes, some furniture, two rabbits, but mostly boxes and boxes of books. I drew a floor-plan before we moved anything, so the chaos was almost instantly organized. Already it's a habitable room, minus the stuffy proximity of the rabbits, who are currently living under the desk. I feel I should be proud of what I accomplished, though right now I'm too tired, too worn out, and too absently annoyed at my life. (I'm not sure I would date the man who would bring me back to that room.)

My house remains untidy, though order has been emerging in leaps and bounds. It's possible to see how nice it will look when everything is done, which is new, as before I would examine the apartment and see only disaster. Boxes of extra kitchen stuff, old clothes, and unwanted books have left, either given away to friends or donated, and what's left is shrinking almost daily as we recycle, sort, and dispose of what we don't need, want, or could possibly use. It helps, too, that our landlord has finally given in and provided our building with recycling. Where there were piles of folded cardboard and plastic containers, now we have floor-space. It's almost novel. I'm only sorry I won't be able to finish everything before I leave for back east.

I'm packing too much into too little time, with too little money, and not enough resources, yet somehow, I plan to survive. To start with, my next two weekends are going to be spent in Seattle. This weekend, I'm biking down with my mother to visit with Kyle "freaking" Cassidy, (who has just proved himself to be utterly fantabulous YET AGAIN), and his lovely beau Trillian, who are in for a wedding, and next weekend I'm going down with Nicole to shot-gun shoot at hipsters with Eliza, who has an art opening. Then, I'm gone for two weeks as I travel by bus to Montreal and Toronto and pray to whatever is available that I'll manage to pay for it all and still be able to eat.
foxtongue: (moi?)
Lung just posted the best thing ever.

If any of you are in Montreal, now you know where you need to be tonight.
foxtongue: (Default)

Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.
It's the people absent from my bed who are changing my name, eroding at my identity like a negative space sketch of rain. I can't help but recall my conversations, the blankets inspire me, the delicate, familiar movement of taking my glasses off and putting them on the windowsill. I've been setting my eyes down on various surfaces every night of my adult life, slowly evolving into someone who doesn't like to be on top because I can't see my love's face from so far away. I remember Marc's laughter, his climbing strong melody as he cradled my glasses and explained to me very carefully where he was putting them down. Another windowsill. Like mine, to the left, but not the same at all. A queen size bed but we still managed to fall off the sides. I remember Lidd crying, viciously attacking the life given to him, threatening to smash my vision to the street below. Too much alcohol, too little faith. I could see myself in a mirror then without them. Worse now, my astigmatism, my trained lack of sight. I remember lots of things, voices attached to shining blurry faces. Different colours. Lindsay, he had a desk with a computer from 1995. I put my glasses down next to the keyboard, under the red guitar that hung from the brick wall. Lindsay, whose chocolate hands made my skin look like iridescent milk.

A flash to Lung taking a picture down his pants on a dare, how we discussed Oliver's skin tone as something to photograph nicely against mine. To my silver haired scientist twisting away from my camera, hiding under the blankets, breaking my heart. The beautiful images Alastair would send me long distance, driving my adoration from over a thousand miles away. Kyle was so beautiful I could have cried.

Repetition with improv over the top. Notes of fire, of searing words. Burning too hot, too fast, too aware of the desperation inherent in oxygen, a poison gas when taken straight. I didn't like the wall sized mirrors in that fugitive hotel, how they turned my blurred body into a pale shifting ghost, messy hair and all. Not to say I don't find hotels mirrors friendly. The man who is named the evening star, he grasped the delicacy of my blindness right away. Gently murmuring about his father's death to the glow of craving a cigarette, he ran his hands along my arms, guiding me to where I needed to be. I took a picture in that mirror, wearing his shirt, my hand upraised, a final thank you and eventually, later, a good-bye. He undid the buttons and every doubt I had about my body fell off me in shards, never to return again.

These are the things that stick, a hundred final scenes. Kissing a man in a restaurant, only a few blocks from my apartment. Touching his tattoo and wondering briefly, the closest I'd flirted with infidelity, if anyone would see us. All a long time ago now, these memories held like dried flowers, delicate perfumed things, willing to break details if handled roughly. Photographs seen from the wrong end of a telescope, out of proportion, fading when the phone-calls do.


The Moon Festival starts tonight at 7:00. Renfrew Ravine Park, at 22nd and Renfrew.

Easy to get to by transit: Take the skytrain to 29th Ave. Station, then take the Arbutus bus five minutes to 22nd.

My fire show tonight starts at 7:30. There will be fireworks, an underage contortionist, a band made of eight trombones, a percussionist, and an erhu, and half my crew are delinquents, including one multiply convicted arsonist.

If any of the fire people on my list would like to come perform, I can toss you into our finale if you check in with me early enough.

foxtongue: (wires)

Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.
Dr. Thorpe: My car has a line of spraypainted stencils of ankhs with X's through them.

It is quiet enough in Andrew's apartment right now I fancy that I could almost hear the frequency my freckles vibrate against the rest of my pale skin underneath the constant flooding calm hum of his white enameled kitchen appliances. I would have to stop typing, however, to try my ear to such a pressure test, and I'm rather enjoying the illusion my fingers are giving me at seventy words a minute, that soft sound of rain that appears once I'm typing fast enough. I think I want to be lying in a room with a lover sometime to this kind of sound, this sort of quiet storm of water against a pane of glass. I remember days that almost approached what I'm beginning to want to look for, the sun slanting in through water distorted too much to see through to the trees.

There's always trees here, Vancouver is rife with them. It's our natural beauty, our tourist trap. Snap. Pose for the picture. Tap, that clicking sound as collected water drips from the branches after a wash. Both metal sides of it crashing then crushing your ankle, leaving you unable to walk without a limp. It's an asymmetrical sound and familiar all the world over. Here it's background, a thousand thousand moments every day in the summer, the winter, we don't have real seasons. If you live here, you mention rain. Every day it's the same. Gray with sunshine. Gray with mountains and ocean and that one single lighthouse that shines with a dull frequency, too slow to pretend it has a secret language, too regular to be kind.

Why do you live where you are?

I live here because it's what I can afford to do. Only once did I have the fiscal momentum to leave and instead I was a fool, stayed for a man. Never again, I swore. Since then, I've never had the means to leave, though there might be nothing at all I want more. Instead, I have collected a veritable army of good and clever people, the sort that a person might always want to talk to, as fascinating as a town can allow them to be and so often more. I like to introduce them to each other, spread out the balance of dissimilar personalities, like if maybe I connect enough of them before I leave the network will stay alive without my interference. It's hard to meet new people, I've been at this so long. Instead I dream of strangers and throw my hands in deeper. If I ever disappear, maybe some of them will come with me. Conquer the mountains, the constant rain, the endless small town drudgeries, and escape and be free.

There are worse ways of living, worse places to be, but when I came back from Montreal, all the wooden houses looked like shacks and all the heritage buildings seemed to me small frontier ideas of grandeur. Everything grated freshly because I'd been immersed again in a city big enough and new enough to keep me happy. No matter how ignoble some moments or how tiring walking through snow could become, it felt so perfect not to be breathing salt, not to be watched when I wandered or recognized every time I left the house. Old story. Small town, little girl. That cigarette adult craving for the big lights and endless entertainment of simply being where it's possible to get lost. I missed my people, some of them. I wanted them to be waiting for me in coffeeshops or at the Metro, ready to go to a movie or skating on the river, but it wasn't enough. There are always people, I tell myself. They are only prolific.

It's proved true. No matter where I go, it's always possible to find someone likable. There are too many people in the world for it to work any other way. You're never going to find that perfect smile unless you go outside, that perfect delightful smile unless you walk and finally say something to a stranger. It doesn't even have to be clever. Everything can start with one simple shift, one hello or complaint about the current administration. Sometimes I know it's difficult. The constant complaint of being shy, it rattles in my brain and I do my best to demolish it. Stomp it like an unwelcome insect and let my will find a way to insert that extra glance or wave of hand instead. That tiny thing that informs the world that I'm open to conversation and not as meek as previous impression may have led you to believe. Insist my chosen victim to ignore my book of fairy-tales, mentally erase my out-dated hat full of feathers, instead pay attention to my instigation, my eyes drilling into yours. Instead help me try to bring down the world, let it fall around us as we talk about nothing and finally find ourselves trading phone numbers or e-mail addresses.

I have a camera again, which helps ease. Ray was sneaky, enlisted Aiden, Nicole, Jenn, Nicholas, and Ryan to chip in and replace my dead lump of circuitry that had betrayed me viciously and inexplicably while I was away. I have to find some way to thank them properly. Suggestions welcome, though it's highly doubtful I'll take any naked pictures.
foxtongue: (misery)
Wednesday night I fell asleep with the skin of a bear's head draped over my hair and face like a mask and bodies sprawled at my feet. I was an urban medieval Frezetti painting. All I needed was a grand gold spear in the hand that wasn't sleepily curled around one of the black fur ears.

Last night I didn't sleep at all. Instead I held someone and let them come back to life. We're damaged people, love. Yes, I know we are. That's partially what holds this part of clan together inside our tribe. Family words, meaning country and lover and home. Parents, holding hands. The two of us writing words in the sand, the light off and my glasses by the side of the bed.

When I'm here, so are you. Everyone reading and here I'm sitting, thinking "what is that sound?" It's people, trying to find themselves in what I write here, as if it were important. Until recently, I wasn't aware. I've become used to being put aside. The world goes around without me, I think, it continues and carries on. I am the merest drop of rain and the rain will fall forever. New creatures will be born, they will have stories, they will stop and stare at the enormous sky that birthed them and think in tones of wonder long after I have passed my way.

I should be at a party right now. David Bloom sent out a mass invite to celebrate the fact that it's not New Year's Eve. No resolutions will be necessary, bad behaviour will be accepted, but I'm feeling a little lost for some reason. Alone and not a little intimidated, I want to leave the house and instead I'm thinking softly in excuses, It's late. I hardly know any of his friends. If Bill is there, I'll make him uncomfortable. Most of all, it's late, as if they were real. Yet in denial, I still want to have my shoes on. I will leave the house, wrapped in this feeling of abandonment of not. This is what I want to believe. Make myself over into someone who can be brave with this strange cowardice bubble of uncertainty encasing my heart. (This is what I horribly suspect that other people might feel like all the time.)

Instead, my arms are stretched out, trying to hold onto something beautiful and failing. I'm scanning every face now, trying to see into the future, trying to see who I might encounter as a friend. This city is full of strangers, they look at me sometimes when I walk by them as if I were unexpected, but rationally I know that some of them I will talk to. We will meet some day and speak together, they will tell me they saw me with that hat or the ferret or in bare feet. I'm the red head hippie that girl hated or that boy couldn't get over. A tragic figure they saw crying. I stand on the street corner like a door I'm looking out of, the traffic a heavy silence, wanting to see that perfect memory unfold before me. The one that I haven't had yet, because it's still in front of me, as far away as falling stars.

Before dreaming starts at night, there's a time when you close your eyes and pictures begin unbidden through all the caring cells in your body. Mine have been providing me with the sensation of my hands on a piano, my body held warmly against the length of a stranger in time to old familiar music. Behind my lids, it's not my hands I'm watching, it's not my feet, the pattern on the carpet or the length of the room between me and that place to stay. I'm not re-evaluating my choices, my flight, my desire to meet those eyes across a room again with an impossible question. Instead, I'm trying to explain with equal grace to those images how much my strange days mean to me. It feels impossible, like climbing a rainbow.

Where the hell are my angels?
foxtongue: (snow)
By Arnaud Frich, two panoramic photos of Paris at night: the original and a captioned one marked with major landmarks.

I stood on the street and it was like an entrance. Breath like smoke dedicated to signaling the weather instead fogging a mirror like the corpse in an Agatha Christy we all had to read in high school as part of English class. From their offered hands to their accented voices, there's no turning my back on good people. I felt like my happiness had exploded out of some strong box that I'd thought was hidden enough to be dead. That breath again, that mirror lying about the most beautiful woman who ever lived in the world, in this terrible after dancing cafe french fry restaurant dipped in grease and gravy. Too bright lights and scribbling word games on napkins, little finger trap puzzles. The alphabet in spanish, in french, and in effects, hands describing functions and sounds that can only be explained without language in common.

Kick me out of here, kick me out of all my data hacking at my heart that's been bruised beyond clear definition. I could sing you a sea if you would only remember to talk to me. Off of the street, we're singing, plates of something congealing that looks like it could pretend to be food in a seventies television commercial for something magical and space-age worthy that comes out of a box. Just add water. This is only for after dancing, I am reassured but already understand. This could only be for after the body has been wrung out in fun and tired, not enough sleep, but this is the lion and this is the lamb. I dig my fork into the detritus and try to remember that last time I'd felt like I'd been let off a leash without suspense. Ah, right. That buggered up. I should never have let him without more clarification than "Are you married?" You can't connect the dots looking forward, you can only connect them looking backwards. This however, this could rock me to sleep like the greatest band of all time, Robin Hood taking me in hand to show me the equation that gives me the time in musical notation.

For immediate download, some essential holiday listening: Peter Sellers - She Loves you (the nazi version)

The lines on a sheet of music are like the aggressive lines next to the highway that mark the fences that keep you from spilling your wheels off the side and wrecking your car. When we left the plastic tabletop full of drunk girls stumbling past, after fencing poses and flushing excavations into personal history waving conversations, it was decided we would go to a house in Outremont for coffee because there was a piano. I don't know where I'm going, I don't know who I'm with, but it's enough to end a war, this sort of delightful finding of company on the side of the road. St. Laurent is behind us and we're not slipping on the snow around our ankles, instead they're letting me steer the car. My hands leaning over Cristian, the music conductor, his hands back and away and refusing to touch the vehicle, my body a curve like the road around Mt Royal. It's not quite a mountain, it's not quite a hill and on top there's a cross all made of lights. White unless the Separatists are putting the shoulder to some action, then it turns blue. Politics, left, right, I don't want to drive into anything, this is already crazy. It's lucky I'm used to drivers who roll drugs into joints in their laps, but ice is confusing. The tires are lying different contact patterns to stop on the street. I make it past all the stop signs, it's not my feet on the pedals and it's all straight and I'm laughing, refusing to look backwards. There was no map, only instructions.

Because sometimes everything you need is in front of you.
foxtongue: (Default)

audrey-kawasaki - grumpy girl
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.
Living here, it doesn't come easy, but I suppose it's what I have to do until I find the funds to permanently leave.

Time slowed in the dark bus to the dark trickle of molasses. Travel encased in warmth and looking out at cold, the perfect orange of sodium lights, dirty highway, I felt my chest packed with string. It unraveled as we drove, sliding roughly out of a tiny hole in the center of my back, as if one end was tied to a rib and the other end behind me in the city. Oh the snow, the light crystals of shine that I would gather in handfuls and toss in the air.

I wanted to run.

Last night, for the second time in a week, I was to be found spending the night up in a home that was built from the bricks of a tax bracket that lives indifferent to my existence. But unlike the bed in Outremont that felt comfortable, redolant of music and welcome teeth, the bed here smelled like a museum exhibit, like I had crept into it past glass or a red velvet rope, all untouched history and neglect.

I fell asleep as the sun came up like a stone, trying to remember Sylvia Plath:

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see, I swallow immediately.
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike
I am not cruel, only truthful –
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Soon I'll have to explain about Outremont, the people who saved my trip and forced me native overnight, breaking my heart and the language barrier with letting me drive, a grand piano, tango lessons, and singing.

I'm still irritated that I didn't bring anything back with me.


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April 2012

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