fuzz pedal guitar

Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

I have to keep myself awake till past midnight to hit the bank properly. There’s a little bit less to do around here, but I know my room is back on it’s way to messy when x-rays are scattered all over the floor again. The ferret slides on them, sending them skimming across the carpet in little sheets of morbid blue. It’s distracting. I’d forgotten what a bitch it can be scanning darker ones. There’s no detail being captured at all. No delicate panty-lines, no arching skull screaming. I’m going to have to take them somewhere else to get what I want.

This is a one-shot kill.

Earlier today I went down and I think picked out some frames. If I can get enough money together to hit the optometrist, I’m going to do it this week. I want to see things sharp again. I want eyes in my head that work. I remember a long time ago that things had edges. That there was a line between the top of a tree and the sky, defined. I remember.

The hardest thing to lose has been faces, friends. People see me faster than I see them. I learn your movement, your shape, your sound or I don’t know you. There’s not a chance I’ll see someone from across the street. Yesterday I enthusiatically greeted someone I’d never met before because they walked like my friend. I can’t bring myself to write about it yet. Not properly. I can’t breathe. Photographs are precious things. Take as many as you can.

In fact – would everyone here please show me thier face?

I would dearly love to see my friends.

Damn you Kerry! Set him on fire!

I’m sorry, but what the hell? Have I found a very carefully crafted parody of the Debates? This can’t be it. MSNBC’s been hacked. Well, maybe no. It’s suddenly dawning upon me that Bush is actually this.. well.. unintelligent. Bush is spouting catchphrases. Kerry at least isn’t coming across as a talking monkey who blinks too much, but HONESTLY! No-one so far has said anything!

It’s Hard Work. Troops. Honour. Iraq. Hunt and Kill Terrorists. Homeland Security. Protect America.
Bush Speaks In Headlines. Kerry talks with his hands.
Every question is answered by the same things.

I’m appalled. This is ridiculous. I want to be in a room full of people shouting at the television. First impression: Stupidity incarnate going up against disarming harmless fluffy hair. That, and Red VS Blue. (Look at thier ties). At least Kerry has a vocabulary. In comparison to Bush, he might seem a little too slick, but I imagine that anyone articulate might seem such when put in such a situation. Was there even one single question without the word terrorist in the answer?

What should happen is that whenever anyone obviously is spooling for time, a large man should come out and smack them with a wifflebat. No looking silently at your hands, no ‘ums’, ‘ers’ or ‘uh’. Hesitation and you get whapped. A bright yellow wifflebat. Oh! And buzzers. Big shiny red lights that shine on with a loud !BRAMP! whenever they say something like “negotiating with enemies is counterproductive”.

This hurts my brain.

what is a pupkis?

I walked home from downtown. A bit of reclaiming my honour after being a literary fool. Michelle gave me a Chapters Giftcard for my birthday and I decided I was finally going to reclaim House Of Leaves. Black covers enfolding hot, sweaty intellect. Letting a copy of Witpunk catch my eye and softly seduce me into carrying it from the shop wasn’t so wise, nor was letting the teller get away with not using the giftcard. No deadline on the sliver of plastic though, joy. More opportunities to crash into the rocks at a bookstore. Text siren calling.

Walking my route entails striding through the very worst part of town. I know people who quail at simply taking the bus through Crackton, but I don’t worry. I’ve lived there. I dress eccentric enough to not quite have money and I walk confidently enough to never have problems. Ten long blocks of addicts jonesing, the streets a smear of hard-luck. I got the average two streets in before I was propositioned. A man in army fatigues, explaining carefully how he was available. I smile and keep walking. He brought to mind a girl I’d seen earlier on Robson. Someone I could imagine him having better luck with. She had dead eyes, dolls eyes. Made up so heavily her lashes looked like a brush. Glass eyes that would roll back into her head when you laid her down. She spooked me. For a moment I imagined her saying mommy in a small innocent voice when she finally sat up afterwards.

Myself though, I had a hand tight on my bag of books. Just a little swing and I would be free. Gravity working in my favour. Instead, I touch a gloved hand to my hat and don’t say a word. Why bother? Across the street is a knot of people, better to look through them. Tight mini skirts yelling at scruffy men who looked like they walked out of a bad comic book. Some holding eachother, crying. A bottle of liqueur’s been smashed on the cement, there must have been a fight. Calmed now. Walking through, I wasn’t paying much attention. Minimum thirty of them, but harmless if you know what’s what. Ahead is what concerns me. Someone washing the sidewalk with a hose. We all know that scum is death. Watch that man there drive his bicycle into oncoming traffic rather than into the spray of water. Who knows what might be alive in the gritty spray?

That’s when it happens.

Someone says in a broken jaw slur, “Watch your step, bitch, or we give you to Danny Holmes. Let the crazy fucker kill you.”

Mid-step, I can’t flinch. To look around is to die. They know he has a daughter. I want to pin point who spoke, but in the messy crowd I don’t have a hope in hell.

What sort of man is my father now, that he is a threat to throw? I can imagine him cornering someone in a dark alley and kicking them with metal toed boots until all thier bones are shattered. He’d spit on them, he’d grab hair and smash thier face into brick. He’s that kind of guy. I want to ask questions. I want to go down and scour the streets, drawing myself a picture of his reputation, but I don’t dare. It’s sobering. It’s painful.

He’s one of the last things to scare me. I walked home shaking.

Is there anyone who’d like to go for coffee?

Bless James, for he has fixed my photoshoppe. Had a rather spectacular crash earlier this week that took out all the programs that were open. Bloody thing never should have worked on my OS in the first place. Now to wreak doom with it. Well, later. The days have ridden past into a full month. Time to brave the office and pick up my cheques. Then the doom. Okay, first the bank, then the doom. Maybe no doom at all, actually. Perhaps I’ll end up playing with it for hours again until I shut it off in a surge of uselessness. That sounds somehow more likely.

Actually, a day like this, where even the ferret doesn’t want to play, I think I may end up sitting in my window nook writing all over myself in various coloured markers. Something to make the scribbling on my arm less noticable. Worst case scenario, people begin excusing my oddities by assuming I’m an Artist. *shudders*

Damnit people – what am I going to be for Halloween?

She’s lifting her dress up, fingers of one hand racing along the edge of the railing. Her shoes clatter hollowly in the stairway, her clothing dripping colour. Whatever I’ve been thinking’s been erased in just this moment. I want very much to hear her laugh. Thought flickers at thousands a minute, but mine’s been slowed by a sudden change in blood flow.

public service announcement like nobodies business

All the americans in the audience!!

Registering takes just a few minutes — register online NOW at http://www.yourvotematters.org/vote/vote_center.cfm?itemid=16862.

Once you’ve filled out the form, print it out, sign it, and be sure to mail it in TODAY. All registrations must be postmarked by Monday, October 4th.

Then, send this along to your friends and family. Make sure you’re registered, right now.

Like come on – look at these folk. Election Day is still five weeks away, tonight’s presidential debate is only the first of three – yet voting has already begun in several states.

Don’t let the idiots win. You guys who have the most effect on the world are the ones with under 50% of your population voting. If this is still striking you as effort, boingboing was nice enough to put together a package on how to get off your deadbeat ass.

forgive us, oh world, for the eels

This goes out to  .

 http://www.littlefluffy.com/ – free on-line games daily

http://sixsixfive.com/ – a list of potentially interesting things

http://badmovies.org/ – exactly what it says

http://www.crank.net/ – crackpot ideas

http://heartlessbitches.com/– there are terrible boys afoot

http://www.losers.org/ – sort of self mockery gone farther than self

http://www.newmoanyeah.com/ – geeky pop culture

http://www.stileproject.com/ – for when if you get any more bored your eyes will melt in thier sockets

the ink itches

cam writing
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

Does this happen to anyone else? On transit or sitting and waiting for someone with no reading material, nor paper nor pen. A passage of words occurs to you and you simply must write it down. Searching pockets produces a marker. Is not the logical thing to write it out in full on your clothing or body?

I would like to think it happens to everyone, but as I have yet to see legions of people wandering about covered in awkwardly scrawled text, I suppose I must be somewhat more the eccentric. Please – anyone? I’ve covered at least three pairs of pants now, and put off countless showers so I could write down what I so hurredly put onto my skin.

I’d like to think this isn’t pathology.

It’s a bad time to be near me when I have to write something down and have nothing. It’s one of the few times I’ll feel true frustration. Heads get bitten off, heads go rolling. I approve because I can use the blood to write along the hem of my t-shirt.

*ring ring* Augh! What’s that?

The phone just rang, a woman from Wales calling long distance. She’s doing the geneology of her family and has reached the Holmes branch. I love how her accent compliments her voice, like the ultimate strict yet kindly librarian. She was looking for a Mr. Holmes, but we chatted a little in spite of it. We’re fairly certain that we’re related. I think she’s looking for my uncle, who’s in Winnipeg.

I think I might start liking the phone again if that’s the sort of thing that ends up on the other end. I’m growing a bit distant from it. Maybe that should change. Last night I got a call from a friend of mine, odd conversation about how he can’t talk about what he’s doing for the british consulate, but he’s certain he’s doing the right thing. It made me happier. Balanced out the hippies some.

Jason’s here now, so I’m afk.

(Sorry Warren, it’s his birthday – I’m whoring you out)

now to print a pad to use as my stationary

*stretches* Now that was a bit more successful. Nothing like hippies and painfully bad text to dispel lingering romance. I’ll have to remember the trick. Keep a file on hand of atrocious prose to be offended by to banish soft fluttering. With the world the way it is, I can’t imagine it to be a difficult thing to find in spite of having never tried. My time on-line’s been blessed with the sane. I’ve been told it’s unusual to not run into horrid folk here, but so far I’ve only found the intelligent and the wonderful. Really, I hardly ever encounter pop-ups. It’s like St. Jude watches over my wanderings. (Bless her and thank her for being).

Now if I could only manage to do so properly in realtime. The world of flesh and bones. I woke to a mixture of fire painted canvases, space flight updates, and essays on Greek philosophers. My mail-box opening to give me a blueprint for a theramin and a letter from a friend trying to work me out. Oh world, how I love thee, with moonlight and starlight and unexpected friends. With technocrat saviours and microchip dreams. It’s a splendid universe to play in, in another ten years it can only be better. The trick is to make it there without someone killing me in a jealous rage.

I think I may write up a form letter.

Dear sir/madam,
I am uninterested in your suit. Your company, though pleasant, is not enough for me to desire your sex.
Thank you for your interest,
The Management.

welcome to my exasperation

The candles have made it so hot in here that I can pour the cold from my gelati in a smokey stream that pools in the hand. It’s like playing with dry ice. I feel lucky to have had my time with it before Ryan unexpectedly buzzed up. This week he’s going back east for an undetermined length of time. Tonight he brought over the other roommate Luke. He was over last night as well. It’s sweet he wants to spend time, but I’m suspecting that I was being shown off a little tonight. (Which makes no sense whatsoever). I love that I live a life where friends may drop by at midnight without preamble, but also it would be nice if they were slightly less likely to monologue about psychedelics and how world politics is the groaning of the earth mother. Please feel free to talk about such things, but do so even vaguely informatively else I will want very much to tromp all over you with verbal spiky boots. Wake up and smell the literacy people. This is now, this is when you need to know about if you want to change any of it. You need to know about a problem before you can fix it, yes? I’m not going to smile and nod and agree that “our will is the next source of power, with it we can push spiritual light to turn back the nukes”. Don’t tell me that you are uninterested in learning more about your world because you think it’s depressing enough already. Take this. What’s happening and what’s next. The Drive is endemic to patchouli children, I know, but in my box, either learn or take your djembe elsewhere. Enough, though. There, I’ve rinsed that stale water off of me.

So that was not exactly annoying, but more effort that I would have cared to spend. I was attempting to create a comforting den of iniquity, not an evening of applying warpaint. I suppose I’m just not destined for wickedness. If nothing else, my lover decided he was going to attempt to be naughty. This was a bit of a mistake. However wonderful, the man simply should never attempt to write desire ever again. Not even in waterside love letters written in sand. The ocean will erase them, but not before I get to stand there embarrassed. I would rather he write dry sermons. There is a flavour to language. There is a notation of meaning attached to the vocabulary. Want not half so interesting as need, though not to take. To mismatch splay with extract, well – there’s not a lot I can say about it. Dissection comes to mind. Frogs laid out for the incision. I thought all readers picked this stuff up. Enough books and doesn’t it bleed into your conscious? Learning the emotives and associations through osmosis. Ah well, I’m not a writer. I’m not even a hack. What do I know? Just as likely someone will now tell me that the word splay is very sexy.