foxtongue: (welcome to the sideshow)
Tonight a whole bunch of us will be performing at Catfish and other Delicacies, Beth Brown's musical brainchild. (Nicholas is coming from Victoria to play).

Johnny Depp to play Sweeny Todd.

Have you ever met someone who tasted like wind? Their hands feel pleasingly tarnished, as if at one point they were molten. One day, walking, you may find yourself an inch above the ground. They will not notice and you will not tell them. They open their clear water eyes and the earth slips away, tumbling away like rainclouds. It rushes away with the sound of quick violin.

Treading on shadow, voice like the vectors of a moths wing, he is skin tattooed with opiates. Installed into his world, I feel the fortune-teller again, like my body is becoming a messy chapbook of small beautiful prophecies. My kiss becoming inexplicable, knowledge pooling in the crevices of my joints, ready to spill out and stain my lips with black twists of old-fashioned ink. His name becoming something other in my mouth, a brocade curtain illuminated as a religious manuscript, each letter exhaled as stars, reclaimed into treble clefs, sharps, bright notes of terrifying purity.

He has built a thousand ships so that I may capsize within them, day by day, every time I step toward him. My eyes are cameras that will never be good enough. Our plans coalesce from whims, they thicken and grow from thin candles to blazing soprano ravens. This is a man who grew up in homes, celebrating roots and history and form. He speaks of security as a casual thing, the waxing of the moon, as I watch and feel as a mouse might, worried about being trod underfoot. It is as foreign a concept as a rainbow in a catacomb.

Mexico’s Partial Vote Recount Confirms Massive and Systematic Election Fraud.

For those who are interested, I have been informed that the zombiewalk will probably be covered on Canada Now at 6PM PST tonight.

CBC TV as well as CBC Radio both spent the last 45 mins interviewing Andrew and getting some of his photos of the event, including the car photos, (license plate & driver). They're possibly interviewing a couple of high school kids as well and the whole thing will apparently be on sometime in the 6 o clock news hour.

Apparently the driver of the car has only received a traffic ticket at this time. The police are getting in touch with Andrew tomorrow, so expect further details then.

Bush Now Says What He Wouldn’t Say Before War: Iraq Had ‘Nothing’ To Do With 9/11.
foxtongue: (snow)
"London, London" a video by Cibelle featuring Devendra Banhart.

I went to Vancouver Island alone for the first time in my life on Friday. All I knew was that somewhere in front of me was Oliver, whose name creates the feel of kisses on my tongue. He is an older man, as mine are, and sweet as I always wanted them to be. He won't tell me he loves me yet, but says instead that it's close, as if the words are a race he hopes to win.

I like the way he looks at me, mildly stunned, as if I am some ultimate unexpected good fortune. Silva likes it too. He is a nervous man, but his worries are only an outward mark of his extreme consideration, like a gold birthmark that stutters in the sun. He wraps his body around mine when we sleep, so always I wake with his arms curled around me, warm ribbons tying me comfortably to him.

I wonder if I will like his parents.

My inclination is for description, for setting down my appreciation for his hair and the length of his body, but no matter how charmed I am with his colours, his skin darker than mine, the streaks of tarnished blond silver that paint the frame of his friendly Brian Froud smile, it is other things that want to drop here. Moments of personality, of detached devotion. Thanks you's for finally bringing me to somewhere safe. Today he gave me a key to his house. On my way home, I had the men at the hardware store cut him copies of mine.

Mexican court rejects full ballot recount, leftist candidate blasts partial tally.


Coming back was not as difficult as going. In spite of a messenger glitch, meaning I didn't get one damned message all weekend, there was plenty of news waiting. I didn't get the job I'd hoped for and there's nothing I can think to do about it. I have a little design portfolio made-up now that was in case of a second interview, perhaps it will come in handy later. At any rate, there was good news too. This week looks to be intensely and awesomely busy.
Tonight (or tomorrow night, her and the websites have different opinions on when), April and I are going to the Thee Silver Mt. Zion Orchestra & Tra-la-la Band concert at Richards on Richards. (A group led by founding Godspeed You! Black Emperor guitarist Efrim).

Thursday and Friday I have extra work on a film named Hot Rod, out at the Cloverdale Fairgrounds. (I have to figure out how to bus there first thing in the morning, augh).

Friday is the Robot Skytrain Party plus Sam's big party at the Treehouse. ("Come to the party that will send a shiver down your back years from now as you suddenly think "Oh, God... I remember that party."").

Saturday is Vancouver's first Flugtag, our Second Annual Zombiewalk, and Bob's party.

Wolf Parade plays the Commodore on Sunday, (not that I have a ticket, I'm just lusting after one), and Andrew says there's something else but he forgets, so if you remember, I'd love a heads up.

Oh! And Snakes On a Motherfucking Plane is this Thursday at the Rio, (Broadway & Commercial), at 10pm.

If you comment here saying you can't come, Andrew will have Samuel L. Jackson call and persuade you.

Also, he checked with the box office, you can buy your tickets at the Rio anytime it's open now.

Oh, and CROSSPOST this mofo! We want to own the theatre.
foxtongue: (snow)
Toot-a-Lute has put me in charge of their website. This makes me happy, as it needs a hell of an overhaul, and they're a good group of people. They deserve a better on-line face. I'm thinking something sparse and clean, with a little bit of edging in green. In the interests of up-keep, would anyone with appropriate photos send them to me? Your work will be fully credited, with a link to you when possible.

Nouvelle Vague is coming to Vancouver!

So I've returned from Clinton, which wasn't as strange as I thought it would be. In spite of my worries, I fit in well. It turned out I had fifty or so semi-unexpected friends and acquaintances there. More than I knew the names of, by far. As soon as we arrived, some pirates tucked us into a good camp spot and we were told to make ourselves at home at a number of different camps. Everyone was surprised to see me, but glad. It was fun though the sun beat us hard enough for me to question its self-esteem.

On Saturday, after an initial exploratory wander, Isabella tied me to her merchant tent and put up for ransom. Eventually James set out with this news and fetched Oliver back to rescue me, who manfully offered them his accordion. A price too steep, we decided, so instead we dressed him up in women's clothing and took pictures. Emancipation was not so easy, as then she wickedly tied him up too.

Later in the evening, we started a dance circle and I taught steps to people and sang with the band. I'd forgotten what that could be like. Lantern lit and dust everywhere, hallelujah. Singing isn't as terrifying as I remember it to be. It got dark as we were there. I partnered with Gerald for Morris dancing after that. I don't think I would have gone through with it had I been paired off with anyone else. He's a lovely giant of a man with tawny gold hair longer than my arm, and our crazies are so compatible that I used his machete instead of a stick during one of our rehearsal run-throughs and the only thing he did was laugh. See, I had this problem where I was breaking his sticks, all of them, until he finally gave up and, because he's big enough to do so, used a length of tree trunk instead.

Sunday was more of the same. During the day was socializing with the ridiculous number of people I knew and wandering about with Oliver, who didn't know a tenth of them, playing music, and eventually visiting the lake. It was atrociously cold. When people tell you something is brisk, what they mean to say is, "I would be a coward if I didn't jump in and cowards are reviled, therefore..." I don't recommend it. The chance to wash clean of the desert was nice, but the price was a little too high for comfort.

We were dancing and singing again by the time the sun set. When it came to be night, too dark to dance in large groups, I took out my chemical packets of powder and threw them in fires as we traveled from camp to camp, acting as an alchemist, bruising the flames into different beautiful colours. Blues and greens and purples. Instead of a lantern, I used extra long sparklers. The light was fantastical, radiating magic to the drunk people who were watching and didn't quite understand. I felt like I was creating a circus all by myself. It was almost as glorious as fireworks.

On a more somber now, Veronica and I sorted out as much as is possible in such circumstances. We sat under the shooting stars and didn't quite cry together, but it was close. We are in sympathy, we both know where the other person is, and I'm glad it worked out. I believe she'll take time to vanish for a little while, but we'll carve out a place to be friends again soon. I'm proud of her as I'm proud of myself. I was going to do what she's doing now, and walk away, but she beat me to it. Honourable we. I'd like to catch her as she's falling, but it's not my place. I hope she knows I understand how it's a lonely thing to be, brave.

Nicole is needing a two bedroom apartment for September. She's looking for $1000/month maximum, East Van from Commercial drive area to Kits, and nothing over 30th Ave. Laundry on-site and with a deck or a yard. It's a tricky one, but if you see anything, please drop her a line at 604-306-6188.
foxtongue: (welcome to the sideshow)

the kiss
Originally uploaded by Agata....
Icelandic nitro-jeep hydroplaning.

The click of teeth. I kissed his mouth and felt like Salome.

Being held, it's that feeling, being held. A stone beneath my feet, the desire to both crawl inside and all consume.

Part of my recent news is that I've agreed to go to the SCA Clinton Wars this year, the west coast's biggest medieval nerd-prom. I have resisting invitation for approximately half a decade, but I've finally been given an offer I can't refuse. Terrifying, but lovely and enchanting all at once. I am both honoured and respected.

Duncan has epitomized my Clinton warnings all at once:

"Clinton's a hoot. I hope you have fun. I got married there to five women when I went. and then their head concubine killed me the next day. and one night I was a woman. and I got burnt to a crisp. The battle's frickin' awesome to watch though."

For those not stupid and or insane, this weekend can still be an exciting slew of events.

Friday is the very last day of Boca Del Lupo's astonishingly delightful The Shoes That Were Danced To Pieces, their yearly “Free, Outdoors, All-ages, Roving Spectacular” performed in Stanley Park. (At Picnic Place, just past Prospect Point, because you know how much we all love alliteration). I went today and, hours later, my face still aches from smiling so much. Their exceedingly clever fairy-tale, full of self referentials and witty tongue-in-cheek, pulls you through the forest, following the often prettily singing actors as they dance from aerial wires or hang in nets from high up in the trees. Tom Jones does an excellent job aiming humour at the children, but the over-all charm is barely limited by the format. It's free admission, but you have to call ahead and put your name down, because spaces fill up. 604-684-2622.

Later on Friday, Tiffany is in town with her Taiko Drumming show: JODAIKO, presented by Pride in Art, Friday, August 4, 8:00pm, at the Roundhouse Community Centre, (181 Roundhouse Mews). Tickets: $10 -$18 sliding scale, available at the door and at Little Sister's Books, (1238 Davie St, 1-800-567-1662), and Rhizome Café, (317 East Broadway, 604-872-3166).

Saturday is the DykeMarch from McSpadden Park, (fourth and Victoria), to Grandview Park. It starts at noon and ends by dissolving into a party, the Dykemarch Festival, at one o'clock.

Either that, or the Powell St. Festival, themed this year as Memory Streams: 30 years of Japanese Canadian Arts on Powell Street. It's fairly standard culture-fest fare - taiko drumming, sumo wrestling, martial arts demos, folk and modern dance, Kokoro, alternative pop/rock/urban music, visual arts, film/video, etcetera, as well as the expected array of Japanese food, crafts and displays.

Sunday, of course, is the Pride Parade from 12 - 2. The route along Beach Avenue is the same every year, starting from Denman and Robson and ending at Pacific and Thurlow, by the Aquatic Center. This year there's over 130 floats scheduled and approximately 185,000 spectators expected. I recommend heading down early to get good seats, the earlier in the parade, the better, before the performers use up all their energy with booty waving. (Wave at the cow-girls for me, will you?). When the parade ends, it turns into the Sunset Beach Festival, which goes until 6pm.
foxtongue: (red laughing)

Elephant Three
Originally uploaded by anavrin.
Ever speculated on how much of a bad idea something would be, then jumped off the bridge anyway, inevitably changing everything and quietly saying "oops" under your breath, almost as if you meant it?

I'm beginning to think it's simply how I run things. I can't escape my name, my natural anthem of love's disaster. Missing chances to death, walking strong and emotionally detached, I want it to end so much that it hurts bone deep. I feel like a stranger to my own body, to my own needs and choices and liabilities. Upon my breath, Sunday morning I was flying enough to let my impulses die a steady slumbering death, but today, in the smeary hour of midnight, I didn't bother to keep myself in check.

Wearing myself out with all this sticky importance, I was in my element Saturday, not a visitor. Usually I feel somewhat out of context, a tourist in my own country, but stomping around in work boots and a corset was utterly perfect. This was the first year in five that I was also a visible performer. Pyrotech, dancer, different clothes, different steps. Tiny changes and all smiles. I almost kissed someone when they walked into a room. The partner impulse there and whole, downloaded entire into my frame without thought. Familiar and strange. I almost ruined the edges of my heart.

(Today my feet are criss-crossed with black electrical tape, my answer to the common plaster. In one place, it's possible to see bone where I wore through my foot. Poor little toes, they will recover, but the body politic, it is not happy.)

I said I was planning on getting a good night's sleep last night, but subtext occurred instead. I went to bed near five a.m. full of double-meant conversations, explanations slipped between words. It's been going on all week, all before too. Supportive people, my hand being held, a place to fall to if I need it. It's terrifying, this encouragement. I'd forgotten what it's like.


(The mad poet, the awesome-sauce Mike McGee, wants the world to see this.)
foxtongue: (feed me stories)
Thunder at five in the morning. Thunder as long as my kind of kiss. I have only just sat down in my two foot office, the square at the foot of my bed, and outside, the sky has sung to me in the tones of metal shaken behind a stage or perhaps the sound that old houses use to appreciate the heavy wooden furniture that moves across their floors. Now the seagulls are screaming. Entire flocks of them disturbed by the magnificent cloud drum-roll.

I believe in anything


All day there was the threat of rain. Jay would call in and the weather forecast would give us depressing percentages. Fourty percent, seventy percent. Conner shook his head, Nancy Lee shook her head. All this work for nothing, camaraderie aside. Instead, it didn't happen. We lit fine. We lit and it was glorious. Dangerous light.

And now with dawn comes the rain. It's a sweet sound now, welcome, fresh and pleasing. I want to be out in it, while knowing that this is about the best place I'm going to get right now, warm and safe, next to my bed, with dawn beginning and threatening to crawl in with me. It was close to fourty-eight hours long, but still the nicest day I've had in a very long time.
foxtongue: (subtle feathers)
When I was a kid, I wanted a tree-house. I liked the idea of having a little place that was my own, high up, and floored in the cloth bound books I liked to read. I would hang tassels, I would paper with comics and pieces of sari. I wanted to tumble down the ladder in a rush of limbs to a mother waiting with ice-cream. I wanted what the real kids had, only to try. I could see them sometimes, transitory, from the window of the truck I was growing up in as we drove past little houses. Surrounded by trees, always on the highway, these houses, with a gas station at the end of the row that would sell cold things and packets of shrink wrapped pepperoni sticks that my father would open with his teeth. My favourite treat was the Cadbury cream eggs with shiny tinfoil that I would flatten with the back of my fingernail until I could pretend it was tain I'd peeled whole from some antique washroom mirror.

Andrew had a comment published on BoingBoing this week.

Have you ever been in love with someone to the point where you're afraid? They meet your eyes and the amount of feeling that shoots in to your blood must betray you, it feels certain, but then they blink and look away. Disaster averted. It's terrifying, like suddenly discovering you've got a red jewel of cancer in the palm of your heart.

I'm selling my old monitor on Craiglist for $50.

The fireworks last night were nice. I led everyone directly to the waterfront, with nothing between us and the show but for water. Blooming explosions of mostly gold, laced with red and Italy's particular green. Their music choice was a little damning, no match of Denmark's Abba medley of last year, the cheesiest possible clips of Celine Dion, Queen, & Ennio Morricone, but they made up for it with the intense amount of bang.

After, though, was better than nice, it was magical. Police arrived on horses, with back-up from police boats and helicopters, to clear people from the beach. Horses in riot gear, to be more precise, with little see-thru plastic helmets and shiny reflective socks. Lit only by beacons and searchlights, they came out of the heavy sulpherous smoke like a slowly solidifying dream. It was impossible to focus on them, they were so ephemeral, such perfect phantasmagorical memories come real. They seemed both bigger and smaller than horses are, because they faded in and out of the flashing lights so strangely, so beautifully. The police on top seemed grown from the same dark flesh, details were so randomly precise. A leg would show in stark detail then vanish again into the sand and night. I've never seen anything like it. Pristine wonder, approaching.
foxtongue: (subtle feathers)
She looked all curves and shiny eyes. Posed as woman as a simple cure-all, her body a pill, the waiting chemistry of the word Yes. One word untying every victim of life from the railway tracks. New blood, brooding on the futility of sexual capacity. Those bastards draped in honey-suckle, in ample feeling. Hands with too much strength trapped inside. Drunk on missing lovers, driving to the homes of people they all used to know together, they never had each other biblically, except in her city-block verses and tired dreaming. So she hotly looked at him and thought, I could leave right now. I could walk out that door saying, hey, just don't call me for awhile, okay?

Shuddering into a more sober awareness, the touch of grass beneath her reminds her of fiction. Stains of umbilical fantasy grabbing at her memories, images of kissing, of improbable situations where she gets to be impressive. Doctors saying, we don't know how long until she's leaving, but out of everyone, she's asking for you. The scream of anniversary panic, not in this life, she thought of carrying him through passageways, his body light as music, until she comes to a door with a red exit light and puts him down as if that was the plan all along. Running from wolves, pulling him from fires. Solid threats she could rescue him from. Gratitude dripping from his smiles, another day blocking the doorway with her body.

She can put an edge on any word, turning it on the lathe of her tongue to remind him of all the things that he hasn't given her, treating him like a sarcastic stranger. The verdict, hell to pay. Incredibly, they kept going. Independence a death in the family. It was like the stop-gap job she took in college, steady, with no real reason to leave. It had never been meant to last so long, but it paid the bills, and she kept hoarding his voice in her fantasies. She began to smile as if goodbye was one last joke between them, and she saw instantly how easily he could defeat her. All he would have to do is laugh. Laugh and turn to her and all her certainty would vanish, replaced by his universe. How can you leave someone who implies that black velvet threats are the smallest plant in an undistinguished windowsill garden?

This was all part of his plan, a map of telling secrets in her dancing. He knew how to pull her hair, how to find her fingertip sounds. Her limited view gave her this, like dust that persists, in spite of the fact that he'd never touched her. It was a game as sharp as the rays of daylight that sent her to sleep on winter mornings. Tall, she thinks, staring fixedly at the ceiling as if there were nothing blocking her gaze from the mirror of the sky. Did I used to like them tall? She thinks she's stupid and immature, only able to think in boy with girl relationships, unable to conceive of a place where she understands only friends. Fifty ways to leave your lover - by keeping her adoration a secret, by winking uncertainly at a taxi-driver and paying him all the money she could find, by suddenly playing aloof like she was on t.v. Running out of fingers, counting issues instead, so much baggage it's a matched set.

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