all he needs are the glasses

While watching Wasabi, (“Quite Possibly The Greatest French-Language, English-Subtitled, Japanese Action-Comedy Of All Time“), last night with Dan, I had a bit of an odd moment. Jean Reno was on-screen being a super sexy french ninja and I realized suddenly that I seem to be in a relationship with someone with who shares particular pieces of that killer style/aesthetic.

*worry* I think I’m in love with a Spider Jerusalam.

days of leisure

I start to doubt myself when he’s away. I think about how I think of him as well as simply thoughts of him. Over analyzing, I see the vast amounts of what I assume. Assuming is dangerous and stupid.  *chuckles* Bloody logic. I’m using it far too much lately as well, combating the feeling of contagious insanity that my fathers letters give me. “If I do not grip reality until I bleed, I too, will be as this.” His notes hold promise in a delicate touch. I can see him sitting in that peculiar too tall for the chair curve with fingers pecking out the words, artlessly concentrating on finding the letters. It makes me smile behind my eyes. I feel a weight vanishing, the earth no longer dragging me toward its graves, but pushing me up.
  Yesterday I was off fetching ferret supplies. I still have yet to find a suitable name. I’m trying to remember what Scaetia means. Almost sounds like Scotty. Sort of. Very old word. Google doesn’t find it in any english pages, only Scandinavian. Food, toys, treat/vitamins and, importantly, a leash with harness. Today I think I take him with me to the park and if that goes well, monday he’s coming to the slam. I went with Ray, my friend Bliss and her boy. Course, being out with Ray means dinner and after was a movie with my friend Dan over at his place. Jacques had given me a call earlier inviting me down to an actors party at SkyBar, so I dropped in on that to find no-one there I knew.
Tonight I’ve a play to go to in Ladner. (yes, Ladner.) I’ve got unlimited comps laid by, might as well use them. Plus, well – if it’s an opening, there’s snacks. Can’t turn down snacks. It’s something written and starred in by some friends of mine, Reno DeKaos and Tracy Olson. Jacques involved there somewhere too. Heh. Weird history with these folk. If anyone knows Sarah Rodgers, they may know Tracy, but as I can’t know how well any of you know the vancouver theatre community, I can’t venture to guess. I’ve got some of Reno’s clothing and her Serving It Right card, I don’t think she even knows, (Shhh – sometimes I use it to play bartender), and Tracy was Dali in a horrid show I was stage manager years ago. He was mesmerizing, but it was the one where I hid drugs before show on the lead and we didn’t cover five pages on opening night. A production that painful is a bit of a bonding experience. Like a tiny minor warzone moment. Limelight shell-shock. (Now I’m wondering when the next Shameless Hussies show goes up…)
It’s greedy of me with him exhausted, but I hope I spend time with Gavool today. I wish I could drink too much tonight. Be the kind of girl to pull out the bottle and dream of him still around. It’s more than the idea being tantalizing then the reality. I like the ideas of things often more. It’s like sex. Course, if I could do anything right now, I’d like to be able to sketch him out. Instead of a bottle, a magic pencil that would give me skill. Draw what he looked like as a length in his bed five years ago. Crunched up on his side with the covers around his waist the one time I got to only stand and look at him. When I stepped in through the sliding doors, the floor quietly complained of my weight and his hand reached out for me next to him. He frowned a little in his sleep not to find me there. I crouched down, briefly touched the foot that was closest to me and the crease between his eyes smoothed away. It was morning just barely. The birds had just begun their calls and it was cold so early, the light was buttery ice. If I could capture that on paper… If I could make a photograph in sketchpad lines… *smiles* I must be a masochist to love people who have the abilities I crave so much.
I wrote this today as a comment in a friends journal:
They’re like the cult-leader couple you meet as your new neighbours that are the first bad sign. The day you meet them at the door you begin to hope Rod Serling will step out from behind a bush and begin a monologue, just to make the neighbourhood that much nicer.
I don’t know if you know, but sometimes these letters span over hours. I creep around the world and internet, coming back with new thoughts. I seem to have given away the last Burroughs I actually owned. Fool me. I finished my book tonight on the bus home and now I’m without anything to read as Ian accidentally stole the Mervyn Peake. I bought Memoirs of a Geisha at the airport when dropping off Gavool. I read it a long while ago and have some odd memories tied to it. First time I ever heard about it was the night a woman named Nikki patterned me likely for life towards a particular form of female. *laughter* Slender like willow, with long dark hair straight flowing to her waist. A certain european cast that’s hard to find here. She was in a white cotton nightdress with ivory lace and long feathery wings from L.A. Nikki had almond shaped eyes and not a clue what she was doing to my mind. We were in a hottub half towering full of bubble-bath surrounded completely by vibrant silk flowers. Fuchsia and orange and yellow and the dress was see-through when wet. She was talking intelligently about culture and the new book she’d just read. The topic made thinking just that much more difficult. I don’t imagine I had three words to say. Hah. I just took a look at the forenote copyright information in the book. This puts it at 1999.  I didn’t think it was so long ago. I can’t remember anything to do with when but it wasn’t summery warm out and her iris were dark like gold coffee against her pale pale skin.
  I’d never felt any emotional likening to boys before that, but now I understand. It is possible for the brain to simply TURN OFF. *shakes head* There’s another girl who can do it. Mari-Anna. I want to put them on pedestals and have them talk to me forever. Every once and awhile I’ll come across someone who looks right and ‘bing!’ I went to a concert at the Railway a few months ago and one of them sat down with her husband slightly in front of me. I don’t believe I heard a single note after noticing her. If I ever end up in Portugal, I’ll be struck dumb for life.
     I was given a ring that night by the mistress of the house. A minute ago I could remember her name. Her and her man Doug. Her father had given it to her before he died, but it had never fit. I don’t know why she thought of it, but it was a Right moment that she give it to me. I carry it on my keys. There’s no better place for it. Every time I slip my hand into my pocket coming home, the ring slides onto my finger and I feel them present there. I like being reminded that trust rewards. *wicked*
It’s all part of a long story of an unexpected weekend where I went home with the band.
There’s a few of those, all perfect. This time I want to go home with the painter. Let him take me home after flirting in the white walled gallery and play me music, offer me wine and show me his work. Tell me he’d love for me to sit for him and then delicately unbutton my shirt, “like this”, with a hand slipping under to the skin of my breast.