Day: September 16, 2004

all for one black mesh glove

I’m a bit of a fool, but I’m having fun, so I hope the world forgives me. I know the importants involved already do.

Jacques play is tonight. My very last chance to see it, and I really should. Two failed attempts on the record already. Laughing at myself for ‘what to wear’ syndrome. Irony escapes anything but personal mention sometimes. I’ve finally learned a variation of the Emo costume though, and that’s clean. It’s either that or I go as a Gothling. I’d rather not, really. Clothing as costume. Costume as charactor. I’m going to a play. It’s the little things that make me lonely sometimes. Dressing up so obviously on my mind because of the startling revelation that I can be obscenely flirtatious with the ideas inherant in clothing, though like every other geek on the planet, I need to do some laundry. Slay me for this thought is so tiny. Bless the internet in that a year from now I can look back on this and try to puzzle out exactly what was going on today in spite of my not writing about it at all. It’s an eight hour difference. I’m starting to think I know you a little. Clues.

Ever get those moments in interaction where you either backpedal or push harder than you think proper? Yeah – I’m thinking that maybe I’m unlearning the backpeddle. My deadpan’s getting too good.

It’s ten:thirteen, play’s at eleven,  I suppose I should hit the road. Slip shoes on and step out the door. Lucky I didn’t leave them with Alistair this morning. It continually occurs to me how incriminating I could word our association so far. To put it mildly, “well – I met this Scottish guy at Fetish Night last Saturday and went home with him. Got a ride off this other guy in a leather kilt I met last month. Crashed over three nights now. Tuesday he’s taking me over the border.” From outside my head, that looks like something different.

I’ve seen a girl

Now could you imagine the pictures if I were a fiddle player? Silences deceiving with fruit so full and pretty. Light sinking into the velvet and gleaming off the wood. I’ll figure this out sometime. I have yet to pay attention when I take them, but I could watch myself in a digital mirror to send you something finally worth looking at. Feedback delicious.

I’m reading The Wasp Factory by washed out light while waiting for the reply to my letters. I just realized that my inner monologue has acquired the appropriate accent. I’m clipping my T’s in proper UK fashion. “Yew don’t beleeve me” No one says you have to except the yes, the eyes, the knowing in spite of myself. I don’t want this one. I want these. Racing home to fly onto the black keys, I feel like a child offered sweets. Heavens know that my mind has been raided. For some reason I could almost feel pretty today. Close your mouth, press that flesh together. What are you thinking? It’s the mantra, the constant question until the day I finish the puzzle. Unspool the story like a thread of vibrant yarn being pulled from your lips. See without having to ask.

It’s all that I need right now. Just words. Give me words, give me music. Gift me with your blessings. I wouldn’t be alone, but there would be a missing joy. It’s been so long since summertime already. Hasn’t been a sunny day since the seventies. I wish I could entertain the reader. Express myself to the point of a sensory communion. Describe a moment in details that catch it. Somewhere someone can put on paper the soft feel of those lips pressing into mine when I said goodbye in the hollow halled airport, but it’s likely not going to be me. The frustration I felt at letting my lover dissolve into a blind blur when I tried to watch him out of sight. Flooded with something I’d forgotten, I turned and walked into the bookstore. Those awful kiosks with bestseller authors and never anything worth reading that isn’t pop art. Distraction, desperate, I wouldn’t have gotten on that plane unless you paid me.

Ben Christophers, Craig Armstrong, David Holmes, Dick Dale, (still forgetting to write him back… is a month too long?), Enigma, Explosions in the Sky, Julie Doiron, The Cinematic Orchestra, The Dining Rooms, The Secret Machines, Tom McRae, TV On The Radio, UNKLE, Love as Laughter, No Doubt, Piano Magic, Republica, Spiritualized, Starsailor, Suba.

the empire state building has 5600 windows

When I got to the park across the street from my house, I ran for the speed of it. Coat flying behind me, simply a desire to feel movement.
Checked messages to find that Matthew’s asking for Nerdly Game-Addict looking types for a Nintendo Commercial this Sunday, because, hey “We know you know a lot of that sort of people”. Nintendo pays well, yes, but I couldn’t help but laugh. Anyone interested? I’ll supply you with contact info, just drop me a line.

Open ways are too dangerous. This is the first time count-down. Delicious notes floating from the speakers. Threads of music tapestry style. Warren you make me think I’d kiss you back. Lucky we don’t know if I mean it. I laugh here, like a I smile mutter hello sweetheart at your letters and laugh out loud when I read them. Spanish lyric vocals, clock ticking, all with a little false vibrato accompanying my clicking computer keys. You’ve crept your tastes into my playlist. SEND / RECEIVE. There’s the sound of rain on the window, but everyone who lives in Vancouver writes about rain. Whimsical drops, hard pelting water. Jugs of it, seas, lakes, oceans – rivulets twisting. We splash in it, we dance, we determinably hide under black umbrellas and jab people’s eyes out. Goretex is an everyday word and trenchcoats are more than mafioso. I soaked my legs up to the thigh on the way home. I found a perfect puddle next to a playground and couldn’t resist. Added a pound to my weight, the green cloth turning darker to black as the water drenched through. Slide slip tongue sound of woodwinds when I flicked on my computer.

October, November, December. Who needs saving?
Don’t let me think it. My wings are shedding thier dreams.
Sweet sweet amour

I like it when people let me be without adding presumptions. I am not what you think I am, so what? Don’t hold your settings against me. It’s not my fault I don’t match your outline. This is not a cut diamond. Heartbeats are measured but not conciousness. Figure your own out. Inhibition libertarian. I’m a prude and I’m not yours to play with anymore. Right in front of you there’s a means of contact. Today I hope to talk to my love and I don’t know what I’ll say.

Which reminds me. I called Mr. Vitka. Confirmation, William, from across the street? It would be nice.