Hello to the influx of new readers. I don’t know what it is you find interesting here, I have a very small life, but you are more than welcome.
To anyone requiring a ride to Victoria‘s birthday party this Friday, Ray has two seats free. We will be leaving from my box, so no matter where you are, you’ll pretty much be on the way.
Yes already. Thank you. The fish is dead and I didn’t die from drugs. That was last week, this is this week. I’m better now. Your letters are appreciated, but they can have other topics now.
There apparently is no other Johnny Boy. We might as well call off the search. Many apologies to those who are now just as hooked as I am.
Bliss – where on earth does one get ferret litter in this town?
and now the links I keep meaning to get around to;
More on antique german artists, why the states has some hope still, and yet another reason why I should never have a credit card.
Seemingly, one of the latest things here in Van for the geek kids to do is take whatever psychedelics that are lying around, (this being Vancouver and drugs simple to get), turn off the lights, then watch this. Follow it right up with this, then this, then finally this.
I wrote for an hour this morning only to lose every last letter to a system failure. Blue screen of death taking away my dreams of effort. To the wind, to the rain. It’s not like it’s art, it’s not like it was important. I don’t Write, per se. The loss is nothing but a personal irritation, but oh. A day like this, my morning following my night. Irritation borders on the despair of old Steppenwolf authors. In retrospect, trying to brush up on my German before sleep was not the wisest of courses. Not after my less than satisfying evening. The book I was reading was obviously written in the middle of a bleak winter with killing winds howling outside. The writer would hunch over the paper with his pen, looking up occasionally only to stare for indeterminable times into the fire. It used to be I could read from one language to the next without noticing, but it’s been too long. It’s effort now, a constant clicking onto the computer to use a dictionary. In spite of the distraction that causes, even the chocolate cherry truffle Haagen Daz that Ray so kindly left in my freezer could not dispel the gloom that creeped from the yellowing pages to settle on me. It was trying to find sleep. I can’t imagine what dreams I would have had if I had attempted Russian.
Gavool was at the opening of the Douglas Coupland play last night. Unsurprisingly, the man is a brilliant conversationalist. If I could have been anywhere last night, I would have wanted to be there. Red theater seats and laughing technology referances. I look out at the gray rain today and I think of my day upcoming and his. Tonight is to be at the Jack Singer Concert Hall for the unveiling of the new sound system. “Bring your own music” One Yellow Rabbit all the way. Invite only. The rooms will be filled with his friends, his family, the people I want so much to meet. I want to exist in that world. Our time can be so hard sometimes because no-one there knows I exist. I want to be a face, a form, a style that laughs less bitterly. So far I’m only a name. To a few more, I’m also a picture. The rest know me as an amusing story. “I found her on my porch one day, wrapped in a sheet. An artists dream. I’ll never forget it. I was stricken. See, I didn’t know she was seventeen..” His hands following the story with graceful lines and self-mocking gesture. Why is it I meet the interesting ones through what I look like?
Damn I miss him.
There’s a hollow feeling that sits in behind your sternum when you’re left behind. Somehow an emptiness hangs inside where your ribs meet and fills with a cold heavy vacuum. Dinner was lovely, but afterwards I was ditched alone on a downtown corner, watching my friends walking away without looking back. Really, I know I am a fool. There was a game at my elementary school actually called “ditch Jhayne”. I should be glad I’ve reached Wednesday midnight without being stood up. This past month, it’s a record. The day I get used to it is the day I’m no longer a good friend to anyone.
Walking home I ran into Alicia, I showed her the ticker tape sticker on my stocking and she laughed. Made me smile. Enough so that I stood up straight again as I walked. There was a group of older gentleman farther up who stopped to look at me. A great seriousness in how they told me they liked how I dressed. “A good eye” I can only admire and love the gravity of their respect. One man, he bowed to me and another asked if I were an actress. Old world grace and silver hair who wanted me to know that I understood his appreciation of my head to toe plum. It occurred to me two steps too late to proclaim a time for coffee to the one who bowed with such civility. The moment would have been perfect. I should have called out a time and place. “Next Wednesday, Roma’s, three o’clock”. I would have gone too, brought dark chocolate for him. An afternoon of thank you. We would have sat together drinking bitter espresso in tiny cups, while surrounded by conversation in languages he would try to teach me a few words of. In the world where it happened, it was wonderful and I made a friend.