foxtongue: (Default)
The downtown branch of the Seattle Public Library, June 2011

demobilization escalator

Directory
tony jhayne
bridge
north america
these titles are all amazing panda
foxtongue: (bright spring)
"... the best power/weight ratio for humans is found in 12-year-old girls, but unfortunately they don't have the stamina needed to be long range human powered aircraft pilots."

I recently spent a week and a half in Seattle attempting to take care of Tony, who just had all four of his wisdom teeth yanked out. It was, oddly, good times, even though I was sleeping on a cot on the floor and he was drifting in and out of hazy clouds of drug-hammered pain. As a bonus I tried get something new done every day, like hauling all the art downtown to be framed or finally getting the upholstery cleaned, that would improve his life but that he'd never get around to doing himself. I'm not sure how much success there was to be found in a week, but at least the surface changes were drastic. (Now if only I could bring the same zeal to my own housekeeping).

We also went to Seacompression together with Aleks, (who wore my Sputnik costume, ten points for giving it to a Russian to wear!), and danced our fool selves into exhaustion. The art there was amazing, as expected, but where we spent the most time was fairly simple, a boat filled with pillows that sat on the ground between three of the bars, stocked with two bamboo fishing rods and a bucket of "bait", doughnuts, cookies with holes in the middle, and pretzels. It was surprisingly comfortable, (lending credence to my one-day-in-forever plan of using a small, hanging boat as a bed), and a ridiculously fun way to make new friends. I was hooked in with a chocolate doughnut, but when it was my turn I found the best return was in the cookies. Less of a commitment.
foxtongue: (Default)
please hold me the forgotten way

Tony and I leave for New York tonight. Here is our itinerary so far. Please, if you're around, come join us! Make plans with us! Take over our question marks!

Aside from the shows and an overwhelming desire to eat at Shopsin's, (I Like Killing Flies), our itinerary is very open. We figure any unaccounted chunks of time can be filled with sillies from the ZoomDoggle Fun List NYC.


Friday

6 am - Arrival.
??
Noon - Lunch with Mordicai.
??
7 pm - Sleep No More. Punchdrunk, a British site-specific theater company, has taken over three abandoned warehouses and crafted them into an insanely detailed, art deco, film noir, one hundred room Hitchcockian hotel, for a haunting, immersive performance loosely shadowed on Macbeth. The level of detail sounds astounding, especially given the wide range of rooms, (everything from a sweets shop to a hospital room, and the witches have a rave). According to the NY Times review, "everyone who attends “Sleep No More” is required to wear (and keep on) a Venetian carnival-style mask. You are also asked not to utter a word during the two and a half hours you are given to follow the characters of your choice from room to room. But you are encouraged to poke around in corners and trunks and bookcases, and allowed to get as close as (in)decency permits to the lithe-bodied denizens of this chic spook house. (Just don’t touch them, though they may well reach out and touch you.)".
??

Saturday

??
?? - Walk along Highline park.
8 pm - Dances of Vice presents their 4th Anniversary bash, Enchantment Under The Sea, a Back To The Future-esque 50's themed junior/senior prom at Morningside Castle. A teaser from GeekChicDaily says, "... like Marty McFly's hand, tickets will vanish fast. Don't be a slacker. Get yours before the clocktower strikes the 11th hour. It's gonna be heavy."*
??

Sunday

??
?? - Visit CB I Hate Perfume.
5 pm - The COILHOUSE Black & White & Red All Over Fundraising Ball at the velvet drenched Red Lotus Room in Brooklyn, featuring music and spectacle galore from people like Kim Boekbinder, Brian Viglione of the Dresdon Dolls, Molly Crabapple, Jessica Joslin, Muffinhead, and the Purevile! Girls. "A Love Letter To Alternative Culture" come to life! This just might turn out to be the party of the year.*
7 pm - Fuerza Bruta, an extraordinary show, absurd, messy, and very, very fun. There's bright lights, loud music, dancing, confetti drop bombs, explosions, someone gets shot, it rains indoors, and a swimming pool comes down from the ceiling. It's kind of A Thing. I loved it when I saw it in May, (thanks to Duncan for telling me about it), and now Tony is determined that we go.
9 pm - Back to the Coilhouse Ball!
??

Monday

??
Noon - Lunch with Mordicai.
??
5 pm - Departure.





*There's a special $25 package deal available for general admission to both Enchantment Under The Sea and The Black & White & Red All Over Ball.
foxtongue: (the welsh got you)
The New York whirlwind weekend seems to have sprouted wings! It just so happens that Dances Of Vice is throwing a party the Saturday we're there, Enchantment Under The Sea, a 50's prom themed gala at Morningside Castle, and then the Coilhouse crew has just scheduled their Black & White & Red All Over Fundraising Ball for the Sunday! Given that I planned this about as carefully as a drunken carpenter, this is brilliant luck. Apparently there couldn't be better timing!

Today's other good news: I've scored a ride to Burning Man with my friend Jordan.

conjunction

Aug. 4th, 2011 11:12 am
foxtongue: (Default)
just a trim
"Don’t tell me the sky is the limit when there are footprints on the moon." - Paul Brandt

As unlikely and unexpected as it might be, I have even more good news! Not only am I going to Burning Man, I'm going back to New York. Not as time-serious a trip as last time, but a weekend jaunt concocted just to see the PunchDrunk show, Sleep No More, an astoundingly intricate 100 room retelling of Macbeth.

Ridiculous, a bit, as it was playing while I was there, but I didn't find out until after my trip, when Mordicai attended then posted about it, so now I'm flying all the way back just to see it! It's wiping out my emergency savings and much of what I earned as the photographer at Mishka's wedding, but I figure that after three years of scraping, living in crazy poverty to pay back Heart of the World, it's about damned time I starve for a good reason, something that makes me happy instead of twisting me bitter. It also helps that I've been managing to move forward with surprising rapidity with Burning Man prep. Though I'll still probably be scrounging until the last minute, (still no ride, still nowhere set to camp, etc), I think it will all be okay. I don't think there's going to be any reason to panic.

In a lucky turn, Tony's going to come with me, which also makes my heart glad. I was willing to go alone, but I suspect it might have been a little bit of a tragedy, as Sleep No More is designed, down to the last bit of insane writing on the wall, to every minuscule atom of splendid performance, to be shared. Everyone that goes in walks a different path, discovers different scenes, finds different hidden treasures. Everyone gets a unique narrative, an incredible, very personal experience, so it's extra important to be able to share. (I would probably go twice if I could even remotely afford it). I'm also getting contact lenses for the first time, all proper like, just so I can wear the mask. I've only worn them once before, found the learning curve to be a little bit crazy, but this time, I can barely wait. I've been dancing everywhere, ever since we booked our tickets.

We fly out of Seattle late Thursday evening, and arrive first thing, the morning of Aug 19th. (We're staying in Greenwich and leaving Monday evening.) We have tickets to the Friday, 7 pm, Sleep No More show, and for the Sunday's Fuerza Bruta, (because Tony wanted to see it, after my rave reviews). Besides that, we have nothing planned.

Are you there, too? What are you up to that weekend? Let's visit!
foxtongue: (Default)
Rise Up Fallen Angel, an imaginary exploitation poster

Rise Up Fallen Angel, an imaginary exploitation film poster.


Yesterday was a good day. It started fraught with computer problems, the stupid sort that feel like steel wool endlessly scrubbing against the back of your eyes, but ended on a high note, with a visit to A. that left me feeling better than I have in weeks, to the point where I caught myself beaming at strangers all the way home, waving a broken stick of flowers I picked up off the ground. Oh dopamine, how I have missed you. It's left me feeling super productive and significantly less like I've been crushed by steel plates. Not quite myself again, but a step in the right direction. I got up at eight and have been working on neglected tasks ever since, answering e-mail, putting away laundry, calling people, making plans, and continuing to tackle the broken hard-drives of idiotic doom*.

*First I could see the hard-drive, but not interact with it, then after Joshua worked on it an hour, it was discovered that the case was too old to be supported by Win7. Then, after the case was swapped, the drive, ostensibly a terabyte, refused to show up as anything but 1Gb, while the SeaGate software specifically meant to fix such errors has refused to run. Kill it with fire.

There's been other good news, too. Tony's going to be in town this weekend, up for a visit with me and Tamea, and staying here on Friday, the better for dancing and Saturday breakfast together. Apparently I'm being paid for my gig with The Short Story Long this weekend and my antique bureau should be selling soon, too, (see all my listings), which should go a distance towards clearing away my credit card bill and getting me down to Seattle for my NYC trip.

Unemployment has left me financially devastated this past year, so it will be especially delicious to finally shoot down some debts. To wit: EI sends me monthly letters, asking me to pay them back over a grand. ICBC calls every three weeks, reminding me to pay off $100 in fare evasion tickets someone put in my name while I was in Montreal. My credit card's maxed out, a slow death that one, used up on groceries. I finally did all my taxes, dating back ten years, (minus 2010 and 2011), but through the magic of interest, late fees, and general tax evils, even after living below the poverty line for a decade, I still owe them $70. It seems like the worst part of being poor is that the system is set up to keep you there.

But back to the good stuff! David was just promoted to manager of the Yaletown Book Warehouse! Not only will he be finally making a living wage, soon he'll be able to start saving to go back to school to be a primatologist. Related to books, but more personally, I got to meet Zsuzsi Gartner, one of my favourite authors, at her book launch for Better Living Through Plastic Explosives. She's going to be doing a reading at the VPL main branch on May 11th that I've decided I cannot miss. Also, the Dusty Flowerpot Cabaret is hosting a pay-what-you-can, tickets-only-at-the-door show at the Roundhouse on Sunday, 2 pm. Would anyone like to come with?
foxtongue: (Default)
Novelty Seekers and Drug Abusers (might) Tap Same Brain Reward System.

The space shuttle Discovery had its final launch today. I watched from home, glued to my laptop screen, as the entire process played out over live streaming video from Florida, while Tony watched it with me over messenger, cheering for the crew from his Microsoft office in Redmond. We were a small slice of the future right then, together though separate, witnessing history through now common technology, eyes on an image televised live from the side of a rocket roaring with fire into outer space. The number of viewers at the foot of the screen declared that we'd shared the experience with over 30,000 other people. Beautiful. With that number there and Tony's words on the screen, it was the first time in almost a week that I haven't felt lonely.
foxtongue: (beseech)
Tonight consists of unpacking similarly to how yesterday was shaped around fitting things into suitcases, all things fractal, unfolding to limitless depths on the edge of a very great height, hands outstretched, my girlish heart aflutter, all wind, gravity, and power. A small break-down, page turned, chapter ended, an entire new book about to be written. I left much behind, small pieces of furniture, antiques, black and red, a crafted library of films, the gentle framework of an entire life, another city, an origami of possibilities, the word home engraved in stones. We rested briefly in the midst of scouring the apartment for my things, a dove outside, pure in the middle of a flock of pigeons, white like bone against a blue sky.

Today I cried for my city and fell in love a little bit and felt a weight on my heart as thick and suffocating as any poem. I was held, I was rejected, I cried for my city and in that moment was everything. This is the new, this place of surprise comfort and reliability, this strange mix of invisibility suddenly reversed, of truth and beauty bombs, no secrets, no delay. The new, but inevitable, even as I claimed it is not, as I tripped and fell, yet was caught. "Everything else is just filling in details." I am afraid, but inside my concern seems to be freedom, seems to be a map of what I remember being, the word thrive, crackling, the electric incredible. Deep in the center of things, essential, past the pain, there is still strength.
foxtongue: (Default)
  • Khaki Boonie Hat - $10
  • Fun With Architecture stamp set - $30

    Continuing to sell books, continuing to list new pieces of my apartment for sale. Tony's things are almost all gone, the only things left are whatever's still in the laundry. Every item that leaves my house lifts my spirits a little more. Gradually the mess, a fairly accurate way to judge my stress levels, is melting away as my life emerges from the chaos, the bones of a future beginning to show.
  • grieving

    Dec. 12th, 2010 04:10 pm
    foxtongue: (b&w tony & jhayne)
    I am fine until very suddenly I am not, chopped off at the knee by a memory cascade triggered by the most banal of things. I idly think of cleaning the shower curtain, running it through the wash, and instantly I flash to the one Tony and I bought together in Seattle, printed with a map of the world of colourful countries, indelibly marked with borders and cities in small black letters and a thousand domestic memories. Cleaning the bathroom mirror the day we moved in, hot water, hair dye, kissing through the clear plastic expanse of the Baltic Sea, the day I put his painting up in the kitchen next to the oversized pocket watch clock I bought for the wall, hauled on the bus from Vancouver as the perfect housewarming present, the evening we curled up on the floor of the bedroom closet, reading children's stories by flashlight in the artificial dark. Hours spent in every room of a home we built for two, an apartment we found together, it's all there, trapped in the recollection of one simple object, one of hundreds I've examined or held in my hands.
    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: (moi?)
    DSC09847

    Tony is in town for a long weekend this week, released from Microsoft's gray walls by U.S. Thanksgiving, a holiday that celebrates giving the locals smallpox blankets. Or something. Wierdos. Anyway, quite handily, this weekend is one of my favourite Vancouver events, the East Side Culture Crawl!

    So! Great!

    *does a little dance*

    Also, tonight is APHRODISIA, a dance party/alt local fashion/art show at W2, curated by Ash Turner and hosted by Crystal Precious.
    And, for those with tickets and a word in, tomorrow is Global Warming.

    mad skillz

    Nov. 20th, 2010 08:42 pm
    foxtongue: (the welsh got you)
    Epic Victory!


    Tony and I out on the mountain with Arron. Watch to the end for my double-take!
    foxtongue: (b&w tony & jhayne)
    Sputnik! Cosmonauts!

    Someone said we were dressed as city workers when we were out last night, to which I said, "No! Cosmonauts!".
    They replied, "But cosmonauts aren't real, city workers are, so you're city workers."
    "What do you mean cosmonauts aren't real?" "There's no such thing as a cosmonaut!"
    foxtongue: (b&w tony & jhayne)

    picture of part of a thorn, taken by tony

    Burrs in back the building, glass shard sharp, spiny as dried up sea creatures, something ancient, full of dusty venom, and camoflaged, invisible on the rough brown ground. The washroom was back there, a gray cinderblock building as inviting as a brick to the head, but my shoes were in the van. He found me there, helpless, caught like a confused fox in a trap, both feet pierced, and picked me up and put me on the stairs, where I could safely sit and pluck the curved thorns from my abused feet with my fingernails. My Sir Walter Raleigh, story told and modern, with a black knit hoodie instead of a cloak, a gesture as comfortable sweet as sitting by a fire.

    They blow in from the neighbors, said the woman inside, as she handed us plates of box-mix flapjacks, weak eggs, and hard, greasy bacon. Her eyelids were painted an oddly stereotypical blue, the living memory of an old TV show, her hair styled like she attends a christian church. We use chemical weed killer, she continued, but there's no stopping the wind. You're lucky it's not spring.

    Outside, after, as I gingerly stood on the gravel shoulder of the road, trying not to regret breakfast, I saw an RV drive by towing a tall net cube full of colourful plastic balls behind it on a trailer. It was familiar, as we had paced it on the drive down, neighbors on the highway, stopping in almost all the same places. The driver smiled at me in recognition, and waved, and it was like we were friends.

    It was warm there, once the sun came up, as wet as it is here.

    love songs

    Oct. 23rd, 2010 01:04 pm
    foxtongue: (the welsh got you)
    Tony had a wonderful surprise for me when I arrived in Seattle: two tickets to the beautiful and bizarre Billy Nayer Show, the band that birthed That 1 Guy and one of the best movies of all time, The American Astronaut.

    jhayne & the billy nayer

    Flanked by Bobbie Lurie and Cory McAbee on the first night of the newest Billy Nayer Show tour. This one's for you, Mike! We all love you!


    REMAINING TOUR DATES:

    October 23 - Portland, OR
    October 24 - Arcata, CA
    October 26 - San Francisco, CA
    October 27 - Seaside, CA
    October 28 - San Diego, CA
    October 29 - Los Angeles, CA

    snuggles

    Oct. 20th, 2010 11:17 pm
    foxtongue: (moi?)
    Conquered in the Name of Cat

    Conquered in the Name of Cat
    , Tanith holding down a sleepy Tony.
    foxtongue: (b&w tony & jhayne)
    Today I am putting together a set of Ikea shelves as an act of devotion, running the pieces through my hands like rosary beads, expressing a sweet swell of affection with every screw and wood dowel. On half a whim, Tony and I went to Ikea yesterday, fount of all things storage solution, to unearth a set of shelves to go under my computer desk and slaughter all of the spaghetti cord monster clutter there. We found some that seemed perfect - tiered, white, with a cut away back for cords - but fifty freaking pounds. Not being drivers, either one of us, it was decided that walking the flatpack box to the skytrain would count as an adventure, if a somewhat dubious one, in part spurred by the fact that we both need significantly more exercise and that the station, while a few blocks away, was in no way far. An idea which would have been completely fine if we had walked down the correct highway, which we did not.

    Instead of turning down Highway 1 we stubbornly continued along Lougheed, completely ignorant of our missed turn. Eventually we found a gas station and called a cab to rescue us, but not before Tony, bless him, insisted on carrying the unwieldy box alone for about twice the distance as would have been required to get to the train station, all up-hill, proving without a doubt that he is willing to carry my damned metaphorical books as far as a boy can and still walk the next day. And so, today, here I sit, surrounded by computer parts, boards, and pages of wordless instruction manual, assembling the shelf like Lego for grown-ups, breathing his name into every piece so that it may stand in my room as an unobtrusive yet significant statement to love.

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