foxtongue: (Default)
This place feels familiar, I think, in the same way I connect to the silent gestures of the person who lives here. Ikea furniture, matching sheets, off the shelf living. Not quite anonymous, it all feels lived in, but only just, in that way where some apartments function as places to work and sleep but not to eat. I have only rarely been here, and never alone, but I understand. How it was chosen and created, how it came together - the underpinnings of decision, of an entire person, laid out in a cluttered blast. Like most living spaces, it is the best sort of map. Tech casual, male, young adult, somewhere in their thirties. Clever, dependable, very little struggle, not a lot of travel, but enough to have some stories. There are some framed prints leaning against the wall, (probably line art or something Japanese), but half buried behind papers and other detritus, and very few actual decorations.

And so, curious, I look around. I see. An instrument case under the kitchen table, thinly coated in a breathy envelope of neglect, and an electric piano, folded with a basic black stand, equally unused, translate into a desire to be musical, likely long passed. I pick up a book, one of the many casually piled next to the bed, (on the other side, an empty wine glass that I, for no particular reason, believe to have been left there by somebody else), and note that it has been read, but not dog-eared, which I like, because it's the precise observation I expected and it's sometimes nice to be right. The whole place is like that, down to the toiletries in the washroom, (the correct, responsible array, but with too much dust on the multivitamins, I'm sure the bottles are still full), and the programs on the laptop, (expensive, a macbook, no stickers).

It makes me comfortable, but wary. I wonder at the wisdom of this visit. I like these places. I like the people who live in them. But. There is a proposal here, an offer yet unspoken, dreadful and heavy, laced with a false, Proustian nostalgia for a life I never had a chance to lead, "where feelings of tenderness would always be reciprocated". Not quite a lie, it rests in the back of my skull like an entertaining artifact from an imaginary era, something to dismantle and examine and potentially loathe.

We sit on the polished cement floor by the gas fireplace, turned on with a switch, click, and ignore the obvious question for more prosaic pursuits. I confirm my theories like dominoes, with only a few charming surprises, (which I also like), and gently offer too much history, the most toned down form of my best defense strategy: tragedy, violence, a childhood of poverty and occasional terror. Out of your league, it offers, a way to make a polite escape dipped in sad anecdotes of senseless destruction and death. An excuse for abdication, withdrawal without judgement. Usually this is the cue, exit stage left, pursued by bears, but instead it all diffused in the air, accepted.

I had wondered at myself while walking to meet him, why was I there? It's not like I had hope, even as I delighted in his company, but perhaps this was it, what I unconsciously expected: this gloriously uncomfortable acceptance. Superficial, possibly, and weak tea, but honest. Trust. Staying would hurt me, ruin me more, a proposition which under the circumstances I could not even pretend to accept, yet the visit was a feast. Within my boundaries, freedom. I woke up feeling absolutely amazing. All I needed was a break. There has been no one left alive to bear my weight.
foxtongue: (Default)
Today's best telescopes could see the amount of light produced by Tokyo from as far away as the Kuiper Belt.

I put the idea down, feeling like a fool as I walked down the path, dismissed from the large green house, and stepped under the arch of the overgrown hedge, a thick, living wall as solid as any made of stone. From the street, the house is hidden by its branches, as invisible as the steady burst of static that clouds my brain every time I approach it or even pass it, as I usually do, a solid block away. Something deep in my chest thudded as I walked under its shadow, wounded, let down by my own betrayal, that I had even approached that door. Why do I do these things? Why do I try? I was an echo of the spring, drained of everything worthwhile, too tired with myelf to even be angry. All that was left was to walk away.

Seattle was nice to visit. I rearranged all the furniture in Aleks' apartment while he was at work and made a bed out of pillows in front of the fire. I enjoyed the concert, then the after concert concert, and two different movies, all of them good in distinct and lovely ways. I introduced friends to friends, met new friends of friends, spent some time chatting with Amanda Palmer and Neil Gaimen, who were gracious and sweet, had a cup of drinking chocolate while I wandered Pike Place Market, and Tony bought me a steak. It was like a teeny, tiny vacation. I no longer have any comforting intimacy there, nothing deep, it's not my home, I still couldn't sleep, but it was enough to feel okay on the surface, just to navigate a handful of days without any struggle.
foxtongue: (beseech)
Portal 2: Exile Vilify, a hidden song by The National

Monday: It was just after midnight when he opened the door. In the interest of brevity, I will leave out the next three hours, excepting my desire to be wanted, kicked in like a knife, a piercing pain that has yet to fade. Suffice to say, A. has gone away. Like in the old stories, antique, anonymous and trying, everyone a letter instead of a name, places expressed as an initial and an em dash. Off to the sanitarium, he cried!

After: I sat crumpled in the street where I had been dropped, left salty eyed blind and exhausted, my glasses on the hood of a stranger's cold truck, too tired to stand, even as the the night evaporated as thoroughly as the warmth on my body where his hands had apologized and cradled me goodbye.

So that, for now, is that. After a multitude of absences and various failure situations, he has decided that he is not currently capable of being responsible in regards to my un/happiness and has withdrawn from my life. I do not know when he will return or in what state, but it is my hope, however small, however sad, that he will come home to me when he can.
foxtongue: (beseech)
When I have said "I love you" I have said
Nothing at all to tell you; I cannot find
Any speech in any country of the mind
Which might inform you whither I have fled.
In saying "I love you" I have gone so far
Away from you, into so strange a land;
You may not find me, may not understand
How I am exiled, driven to a star

Till now deserted. Here I stand about,
Eat, sleep, bewail, feel lonely and explore,
Remember how I loved the world, before,
Tremble in case that memory lets me out.
Islanded here, I wait for you to come --
Waiting the day that exiles you to home.

by Valentine Ackland
Tonight is the first night of Passover.

I am meant to be taking photos today for an art exhibition in New York. I am meant to be doing laundry, looking for work, applying to be an enforcer, editing my belongings, putting more of them for sale, and processing pictures from Seattle and yesterday's shoot with Shane's band at the Cultch. I am meant to be showered and dressed and fed. Together, sharp, useful, active. Defined. There are things to do, tasks to conquer, opportunities waiting. Instead it is as if the air itself has thickened until even breathing is an effort. I am suffocating, a captive unhappily complicit with my aching inactivity.

It has been a week of silence. Out of respect for my love, for his dismissal, his vanishing outburst, I did not call for days, even when the wet beauty of thunder and lightning was too much to bear, when it cracked me as open as it did the sky. Even when I felt that all I could possibly desire was his voice kindly speaking my name. Instead I bruised my fingers knocking at his door. Small gifts in my pockets, a snub nosed bottle of imported ginger ale, a tiny square of rich, hard to find chocolate, my hand raised once more to the wood, knuckles swollen into a pale rainbow of purple and blue from repetition, (less painful than the quiet), but to no answer, even when his vehicle was parked in the drive. At home the phone would ring in a quick, beautiful burst, but the numbers were wrong - the wrong people, the wrong names. Outside would be footsteps, car doors slamming, false hope leaping up in my heart like flames. Every night, sleep became farther away.

When Friday slid into Saturday, still without word, it became obvious that the relationship had been abandoned, released into the wild without even the courtesy of goodbye.
foxtongue: (Default)
He said he was in love with me, but he's already forgetting all that taught him, falling back on what's easy and available rather than what's worth fighting for. It is like we never existed. I see it before he tells me while part of me dies inside, a confession of old bad habits over a dinner that I am too silently upset to eat. I push my fork around, pretending conversation. I have no magic words, no way to explain that would remind him. Inside I wonder if he will one day understand "meaningful" or, worse, if in some future, he'll say these things and I will no longer care, no longer certain of his worth.
foxtongue: (femme)
What's this scar, I ask, a finger touching his body somewhere the skin is pale and slightly warped, maybe damp, warm from a shower. A crowbar, he says, or a computer case. Something fell, a knife slipped, there is a different explanation for every twisted mark. The disfiguring slice that runs up his thumb, the white curl that runs around the top of his right foot. I am collecting each story, building a narrative, assembling a picture of his body through history. Actions, reactions. Attacked, sleeping somewhere he shouldn't. Carving a fall through the air, a parachute failure from fourty stories up.

"What would you do if I cut my hair?" "Could I have it?" "That's not at all what I asked."

He looks through me like a strange mirror, the reflection off by a fraction. In the deepest center of things, the beginning of a spark. We map territory almost the same, drawing conclusions at an almost cellular level, uncanny and intimately familiar, a dance I've never had a partner for, though I long ago conquered the steps. Even as I dig for bones, there is a return archeology, a chemical reaction that burns through skin down to the raw, bloody, hard and honest, that knack of knowing without necessarily knowing why, the same way that when we're asleep, we unconsciously hold hands in the dark.
foxtongue: (b&w tony & jhayne)
I built a lovely life with Tony, but even though we did good, it didn't quite fit. Here's to new happiness in our futures and a deep abiding love.
foxtongue: (femme)
...But That Was [Yesterday]

Song on repeat, fingers frigid from typing, everything around me perfectly still. We're talking about dying, about family in the hospital, about relationships that never were, chances that perished almost as quickly as they had become. I think about fire, about how much tragedy stains my heart, how much sorrow clogs my breath. The boyfriend who committed suicide, the woman who was almost my mother, dragged to death, pregnant, under a truck. Family wrapped in white sheets, counting minutes. A different parent, one of many, confused, waiting to die. There was a phone-call. Later, at some unknown time, there will be another, and perhaps the person on the line and I will cry together.

I’m helplessly needless and needless to say I owe you.
Helplessly needless and needless to say I owe you.


Outside is cold, the rain has half frozen, but I expect colder still. Clothed in frost, in the shirt of someone I used to love, winter is crawling through the windows, offering loneliness in place of flowers, memories of years when I still had a future. They play out like beads on a string of days, tallied in small bursts, bright but too long ago. How is it that days are so long, while years are so short? Fractions of lifetime stretched out over bone. Cells replicating. I used to believe that one day would be easier. Soon I will be too old for it. I will be done, the last page written. The book closed. Somewhere out there, past the glass, there is snow.

Well I’d wait ten thousand picks for just one more chance, just one more chance to see your face again.

The people around me do not know how to cure this sorrow. Tender, they insist on holding me or pet my hair, as if rocking silently is enough. Shivering, I require more, to engage, to pull my intelligence out from my pain. Perspective as everything. (Not everything broken can be repaired.) On the east coast is a grandfather, lungs filling with fluid, and a boy near the phone. We write back and forth, filling the void with comforting words, distractions, poetry, and rough jokes. We write back and forth and I do not know if I am helping. I do not know if I am like my friends, heartfelt yet inadequate, offering solace that would comfort me, but not them.

Well I’d pull, teeter away, at the earth with my teeth, the earth with my teeth to touch your face alive.

The piano kicks in, quiet, insistent, with a sound like birds. I am collapsing, fracturing, splintering, shivering into pieces. If someone were to touch me, I would explode, shrapnel embedded in every wall, with a sound like a wounded animal, terrified and very, very young.

You lie helplessly still as your face falls apart.
You lie helplessly still as your face falls apart.


My stress betrays me. Inside of my belly, chemicals misfire, hormones fail. I do not release an egg. "Progesterone secretion is prolonged because estrogen levels are low". My womb is lost, continues singing for fertility, even with the map misplaced. The walls thicken, then slough. Bleeding seven days, eight, now thirty. A flood. I grow pale. The red spills like an endless creek, enough to fill a pail. I am a tributary, coloured scarlet. Chunks of flesh escape me as big as the palm of my hand. My breath vanishes, the world glitters, and suddenly exhaustion, fatigue. It is too much effort to ask my heart to beat. I cannot move. My body is a heavy as lead, my veins filled with gold.

With wax and wires and hair from the back of your head.
With wax and wires and hair from the back of your head.


With my blood, so sleep. I am awake in the dark, endlessly so. My breath solidifies, but my dreams do not. Instead I write, I reply, my back-log of messages attacked, finally, until dawn, the sun a smudge of gray the same tenor as a cough. To a former lover, lost for too long, I write, "Your silver hair makes me think of feathers, of flight, and the purity of light seen through the fractures of a crystal. Perhaps you are, in fact, slowly turning into a dove, one the colour of lightning, a tongue like glass and a brain ripe with electricity." Our love was a wonderful thing, poetry balanced on edge, the quirky, deprived, and mad meeting together as one. Maybe somewhere is a world where it worked out.

Well, I can make your face brand new.
Well, I can make your face brand new.


We stay up late, my current love and I, an ordinary history of affection warped by misunderstandings, his lack of experience, the way he abandoned us the first time we fought. Where do we go from here? Defining what is wrong is only a first step, almost a year late, too late, almost a year since it all began. My eyes are glued shut with salt, hot and sad. His arm bleeds where it scraped against the side of the bed. My role has been counselor, not partner. Tearing words from his tongue has been almost impossible, the squeezing of blood from a stone. Together we have been teaching him responsibility, and though he is quick, he resists.

La da la da la da da da da da da da da da da

Dawn painting the top of the mountains, the world's orbit sliding day into place. The urge to shift from bed, to draw on the window, withers against the memory of warmth, of shifting discussions, the lace of conversation drifting over my eyes like something imagined from a far away land.

You are warm, you are warm

There are only four ways for a relationship to end; stuck together or split apart, drowned with misery or flavoured with subtle joy. Duality doubled, basics, building blocks, the future laid out as cabled strings that tie lives together. Abandonment, paperwork, making tomorrow always better than today. I fought for us until he apologized, truth the most harrowing weapon of all, and then my heart burst, as if there was nothing left inside the pain but exhaustion, terrible, cruel, but free. Even so, we are lucky. Now, no matter how it turns out, as a couple or merely friends, we will find peace. We'll love each other until death do us part.

Come take my hand and I’ll take your hand
And I will bring you out
Come take the line and I’ll take the line
And I will pull you out
In the sun
.
foxtongue: (femme)
He stands apart from me, the placement of his body the only visible part of the topography we once created, who kissed who and when. Deer in the headlights, sweet as burned sugar. His gestures are shy, terrified. I wonder, when I remember, if he is happy. (If he still thinks about his decisions.) His hair still smells like heartbreak.
foxtongue: (b&w tony & jhayne)
When one is gone and far. When one is gone and far.

Leonard Cohen's, As The Mist Leaves No Scar, from his book, The Spice Box of Earth,
written on Tony's arm the night before he caught his latest bus home.

oh airfare

Jun. 4th, 2010 12:56 pm
foxtongue: (Default)
Taxes: On hiatus while out of country. Should be filed by the end of next week.
Employment: Had a successful phone interview yesterday. A follow-up in person interview is being scheduled for next week.
School: Currently taking preparatory practice tests. Acing everything but math, which is not a surprise.
Driving: Pat has offered to pay for Young Drivers of Canada classes, which I will set up once back in Canada.
Giant Mirror: Julie has kindly agreed to trade it for sewing Kyle's wedding cravat.
Painting: Out of my hands. Being done while out of the country.
Print Sale: Took and sold a number of pictures yesterday, one a commission.

Total Tally: Not too shabby.

My mother is driving down to meet us in Seattle this weekend. As a joint Mother's Day and birthday present, Tony snagged Kooza Cirque tickets for the three of us for this Sunday. Spangles, tumblers, feats of incredible beauty? I'm dreadfully excited. Our very first date was to Teatro Tzinzanni, a dinner-theater circus in a spiegeltent, and then for every other Saturday that month we went to see Circus Contraption as they performed their very last shows ever. We went again to Teatro on Hallowe'en for our six month anniversary and won Staff-pick Guest of Honour at their costume contest. To go to the circus for my birthday ties it all together so nicely it makes my chest hurt.

Part of the reason I desperately want my print sale to work is so that I can gift him back with something equally as splendid, if not more. He takes care of me in ways that I never even dreamed of, so though there are a few things I could fundraise for, what I have particularly in mind is a weekend trip to see the Funundrum, the Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus show celebrating the 200th anniversary of P.T. Barnum's birthday, playing Jun 17 - Jun 20 in Vegas, as they're the apex of American circus culture, elephants and all. The show is coming to Seattle as well, but in August, the same dates we plan to be away at Burning Man. Plus, in Vegas we could stay at the Circus Circus, the most appropriate theme-venue possible.

It's not the hotel rates that slay me, though, or even the circus tickets themselves. It's the airfare. As far as I can find, the lowest there and back is more than my rent, more than my credit card limit. It is, however, only 25 - 60 prints sold.
foxtongue: (Default)
  • An Animated Description Of Mr Maps
  • Animated x-ray examinations of speech

    It was a rough weekend, tumbled dry, scratchy eyed. I spent a night on the couch, tapping at computer keys, unable to sleep, singing my sorrow to the sky. The next day I packed, putting all of my things into a case, slamming doors while wrapping objects in paper, the better to save the glass. I felt lost, an army of emotion without will to fight.

    We went out, we walked, visited with friends and did not touch. The sun was out, the weather sweet as feathers, but things were not resolved. Returning home, suffering spiraled in again, wanting another twelve hours to be driven out. We do not argue in ritual. It is exceptional, infrequent, strange. Uncomfortable like our struggles are against nature. He is auto-defensive, I am as vulnerable as a weapon. There are cycles. Patterns of past relationships, themes of thrown history, locked doors, and memories of faces.

    In retrospect, we are growing to understand how to rarify the process. Quicken it, speed ourselves to closure, comfort, and need. If, world forbid, it happens again, we will not find pain as sharp an obstacle. This is twice, yet already we are faster. Fourty-eight hours is better than a month of weeks. I am wrung out, exhausted, and I'm sure he feels the same, but we found ways to mend what was broken, as well as affection. I am thankful for our effort, for our love. There is no better victory.
  • foxtongue: (26th birthday)
    Tony

    Tony in the morning, May 8th, the second weekend of our second year.
    foxtongue: (b&w tony & jhayne)
    I pulled back. Wait. With one hand on his chest, I reached down with the other and plucked our favourite caramel from the small, expensive box on the bed. Here, so we'll always know what our first kiss tastes like. I put it between my teeth and held it there in my mouth, then leaned forward to his, and broke the dark chocolate into gooey citrus caramel just as our lips began to meet.

    The last few days have felt like a wonderful vacation from the various crushing worries that have been become the fabric of my recent life. Instead of worrying about rent or groceries or perpetually postponed photo sessions, I've been floating, spending time in Seattle with Tony, celebrating our one year anniversary with whatever pops into our heads. I arrived to find chocolates on the bed from Chocopolis, the place on Capitol Hill where the flavour of our unbelievably delicious first kiss came from. They no longer sell that particular sweet, but Tony bought approximations, and we fed them to each other like little bullets of joyful reminder, coated in smooth, delicious happiness.

    He also presented me with a copy of Taxidermia, so Friday night we stayed in, made supper, and let wonder unfold on the screen. Neither one of us had seen it before, but I've been quietly lusting after it for years, since seeing this clip when it was first posted. I warn you now, it's one of the most beautiful films I've ever seen, but it's relentless. I've been trying to think of a way to recommend it to people for days now, except I want to do so safely, so no one ends up traumatized. Describing it would ruin it. Telling everyone to see it would be a mistake. I mean, it's heart-stoppingly gorgeous, but there is a man with a flame thrower penis within the first ten minutes. It needs one of those old thriller movie posters that didn't bother with anything but NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART!! in 89 point bright red type. Nothing else would be appropriate. I will say this, though, if you're a squeamish sort of body, either watch it with someone who will tell you when to look or simply avoid it altogether, excluding the scene I've already posted.

    Since then, we've wandered downtown, had dinner at the Space Needle, saw lightning, practiced our massage skills with ebony current cream, enjoyed at least one sleep-in of epic proportions, played peek-a-boo with a baby giraffe at the Seattle Zoo, fed popcorn to squirrels, been rained on with some red pandas, were pleasantly defeated by steaks at Morton's, and fallen asleep in front of Sonny Chiba movies and seriously vintage cartoons. Our love is awesome.



    ps. I also got him a present, but it's not here yet, so mum's the word until it arrives. Shh.
    foxtongue: (b&w tony & jhayne)
    I was considering skipping Norwescon this year now that Myke and Beth have had to cancel, but after some deliberation I've decided to attend anyway in honor of one simple, sentimental fact: it was there that Tony and I silently came to the tacit understanding that we were both going to go home, clear out any distractions, and embark upon the complicated process of transforming into a couple.

    I can't pinpoint how we did it, exactly, given that we discussed nothing of the sort, but that we did so was undeniable. (In fact, nothing related was said until I got back to Canada, where the first thing he said to me over messenger was not "hello", but "which bus are you taking down here?", to which I already had a reply.) Two weeks later, I arrived on May 1st and so began our Month of Sundays, which has now stretched out almost to an entire, (and entirely), wonderful year, without even one weekend skipped.

    Next year, excepting a social miracle, it is unlikely I will go, but this year I can't help but see as a proto-anniversary, an excuse to celebrate what I am thankful for absolutely every day.
    foxtongue: (beseech)
    spiffing

    Let me fall out a window with you. Place your hand here, upon the jut of my hip, where it rests in your sleep, where you grip my body to yours from behind. Let me lean back, just a little off balance. Let me feel the center of my gravity shift and slide. Place your other hand like a cradle for my head, as it hangs backward, trying to get the perfect shot of something sixteen stories below. The shape of you, the perfect heft of you, let it join me as I slip. Let your eyes widen in surprise, then smile with me. Let your lips find mine as they do in the dark. The sound of our clothing against the sill, the relaxed, casual laughter that will explode from my chest, these sounds will protect us, keep us safe, as we listen, absently, for impact, the beginning of the end.

    Before that, (our collision with the indifferent ground), let me float away with you, hands twisted in the cords of a enormous balloon, brightly coloured, impossibly huge. Place your trust in my wrists, where they strain at the ballast of our weight. Let me drift on the wind in your tightest embrace. Arms screaming, my fingers numb. Under our feet will be the sea, the turquoise horizon a feather shimmering gently away. Let us endure until land, our anatomy twisted into one tangled shape. Aceept that we are stranded. Let me make fire as you wave at ships, as you hold me close at the curve of your hip. The warmth of our totality, the sweet, delicious taste of our kiss, these things will protect us, keep us fed, as we signal, unwavering, for delivery, until the rescue ships.
    foxtongue: (tripwire)
    On the wall of the ladies room there is a picture, a long, soft-focus black and white photograph of a woman lying mostly naked on a bed in Seattle, only a few blocks away from where I live when I'm with you. I identify the city by inference, the lights of the tower, the three streaks of white light dotted in rows along the top of Queen Anne, washed out, pale, seen dimly through sheer curtains. There is no way to know when the picture was taken, what year, how recent, no clues, the bed is ordinary, the bedside lamp a timeless shape with a round bland shade, except that it was night. Instead it sits on the wall like a secret, knowledge of a moment, nudity, vulnerability, where I have never been, but have walked past, ignorant. Her face turned away, her luminous body partially draped with a thin white blanket, she could be anyone, somehow she could even be me. It seems for a moment like this recognition should feel like a message, that my bones should ring, that my blood should ache, and I should miss you, your city, your being, but instead I recall a memory, a terrible waking dream; how it would feel to walk by your apartment and no longer own a key, to arrive and understand that your home is my home no longer, a vibrant flash of possible self so hollow it shed time as irrelevant and moved backward, showing me a future I hoped I'll never have to see.
    foxtongue: (b&w tony & jhayne)
    Tony's Valentine from the World's Smallest Postal Service
    Valentine's is creeping up, the candy coated holiday founded on Lupercalia, a Roman parade festival celebrating sex and werewolves. It basically involved sacrificing a goat, wrapping the wet and bloody skin around you, then energetically racing naked around the city and cackling madly while smacking women with whips for pregnancy luck.

    Me, I just can't be bothered to put that much effort in. Someone hands me a goat at the crack of dawn, there's not going to be any leaping out of bed to kill it, no, nor running. At least, I wouldn't be the one running. This is dawn we're talking about. AKA bedtime. Also, seriously, what did that poor goat ever do?

    So rather than running naked and bloody through the streets of Seattle, something I'm theoretically capable of if I weren't so damned lazy, sure, I've decided to celebrate this Valentine's by sending Tony treasures through the mail instead. How pale in comparison, I know, but wait! Don't judge yet! These treasures might not involve flaying animals or whipping nubile young women, but they're awesome.

    The first present arrived last week, a new Crankbunny design made in collaboration with poster artist Brian Ewing called the Tell-Tale Heart Custom Valentine Card, a paper ribcage which opens up to reveal a personal secret message under a scarlet scratch away foil heart. My message read you have my heart. xox jh. It was a tricky choice, given that she has so many beautiful cards, but as I gave Secret Decoder and Dancing Robot cards last year, I wanted something new, something a little more to Tony's specific tastes, so I decided the macabre ribcage would appeal more to his recovering goth-osity than anything else in her shop, especially as it comes in a smart black envelope. Ha.

    The next present arrived just yesterday, a valentine by Lea Redmond from The World's Smallest Postal Service! The letter is transcribed on a miniature desk in the tiniest of script, sealed with a miniscule wax seal with the sender's intial pressed into it, packaged up with a magnifying glass in a glassine envelope, and finished off with a large wax seal. The finished letter is just about the size of an American quarter, almost a little bit smaller. Tony was absolutely delighted to open the regular sized envelope and discover such a strange tiny gift inside.

    The miniscule envelope, not having anything to do with actual mailing practices, can be marked as anything you like, so I wrote out the smoochiest addresses I could think of, mailing it from Jhayne Holmes, Lover's Court, Inamorata, L0V34, Valentia, and to Tony Jackson, #1 Beloved Blvd, suite: 2 serenade, Inamorato, H34R7, Valentia, something Tony got to read out to Michelle and her friend Kevin, who were over as he unwrapped it.

    Inside, it read;
    Tony opens his valentine from the World's Smallest Postal Service
    Now comes the long blue cold
    by Mary Oliver, (with one word changed)

    Now comes the long blue cold
    and what shall I say but that some
    bird in the tree of my heart
    is singing.

    That same heart that only yesterday
    was a room shut tight, without dreams.

    Isn’t it wonderful—the cold wind and
    spring in the heart inexplicable.
    Darling boy. Picklock.

    -:-

    Here's to closing in one one year together, to holding hands even when we're sleeping. Here's to finding love together and trust, truth, and beauty bombs. Here's to you, my exquisite love, my Tony, my only. Happy Valentine's. I love you, I love you, I love you.

    Jhayne

    purr

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




    photos by lung liu
    foxtongue: (moi?)
    f4925624

    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.

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