Day: September 25, 2004

newsflash: panicky ferrets will calm down in the shower if put on a shelf made of breast. However, attempting to leave them there after the water has been turned off its a mistake. Give them their own towel and save yourself. {she says with a stinging chest}

The nighttime is too far away. I’m stuck here with this plastic box. It has no brain. Fortunately, some of the folk who people this surreal place do. I spent a good ten minutes sitting in awe at this piece of writing. Only three hours to go. I’m working, but feeling particularly without purpose. Can’t even concentrate on science today. This is the kind of mood where I suddenly want to be practicing dance lessons on a roof downtown with someone who’s just had a half bottle of wine or dressed up as a brightly swathed fortuneteller with so many bangles that I jingle when I read the palm of the hapless shills. Something! Anything! Let’s go throw bibles at children from horseback. Last night was Kol Nidre, maybe I can find some recordings of the prayers on-line to sing with. Fill my room with the click of the chat and the raised voices of those who believe in something bigger than themselves.

< rant >Thief in the night bloody hands time. I’ve done the unthinkable even and picked up the phone. Returned all the phonecalls I care to. The rest can wait. Maybe when I was fifteen I would have found them attractive. Now they’re only making me weary. The next person to suggest going back to their place is having their head chopped off with something blunt, like their intelligence. What on earth possesses people that they want me? It’s moronic. You want to get laid, that’s more than fine, but don’t expect my involvement. I will laugh at you with harsh acid. Don’t hang out with this girl with such motivations. You will be frustrated and annoyed. Slip away you horrid boys, ease yourselves out of my life and into somewhere you can date. < /rant >

Perhaps I could meet you at the airport. Too many hours sitting in canned air, stand a minute at the glass wall, watch the planes taxi in after landing. A purple head bent over a paperback book in the reception lounge where you can watch without my knowing. A split second certainty that you should just keep walking, but you say hello in spite of it. You come up beside me and I look up to meet your eyes. Silence. “Hello”, I say, with a slow, slow smile that spits feathers. Perhaps, instead, you arrive at my door. I’m still asleep but the roommate lets you in. The bedroom door closes behind you with enough click for me to start waking. I don’t flinch as you press into the mattress, but I open my eyes. In the soft light of morning, I think I’m dreaming until I reach out and take your solid arm. By then it’s too late. You’re here. Perhaps it’s somewhere else. Perhaps I’ve gone dancing and I see you in the club. I walk up to you, my mask hiding who I am. Walking up like I own you, I take your hands, lead you out into the black clad crowd. Leaning my body against yours in the thick heat quietly, “Like fire, remember?” before I make you kiss me. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong, maybe you call me and I meet you on the street. You give a little wave when you see me and all the sweetness in the world is in that gesture, fit to break my heart.

Later, I’ll arch into you. Later someone will be on top. Heavy and smooth. The sounds no-one hears lifting into you. The ones you ask for, the ones I never give. Maybe you’ll find the cigarette scar no other lover has noticed. I’ll let you guess where it is. Now is introduction. Now touches lightly until the heat is combustible. Stealing my thoughts. All of this for you, spilling like a wasted life onto the sheets.

It’s repeating, with more detail every time. Illumination from a barely open door doesn’t show me enough but to know my setting. Light glinting barely off the brass finish lamp on the side table. If I were to look at the stiff blanket, I would see that ubiquitous floral pattern that no-one has in their home but welcomes travellers into every hired lodging.

Holy hell. I can’t think straight now. Sex-drenched musky thoughts, dreaming of fingertips, teeth, and that damned hotel room. Waking to something worse, deeper. This is my bed, but I can’t lie in it. It’s empty. Trying to fall back into sleep was not working and oh terrible, as I write this the alarm just went off. I can’t stop my fingers from turning into claws, I can’t stop my involuntary curl into myself. Pulse. There’s a knot in my belly, a tender pain above my knees. Hell is made of wanting. Pooling like water, I wake when I get to the interesting parts. Desire freezing into the most painful hot fire. Perfect little dreams, the sort that seem to kill me. I’m not used to it. This is new. Open my eyes to pad barefoot and naked into the day. Insanity, these feelings. Does everyone get this? I can still feel you, in spite of the distance. Hands caught in my tangled hair even so far away. There’s cruelty here, of the most poignant sort. Poise an inch above me, waiting until I beg. I can see it. Yeah, you’ve got that soul. Don’t think for a minute I can’t do it too. Wait until I wake up, I’ll play right back.

I’ve just stumbled home from a sweet gathering up at Tara’s place. My SPANK BRIGADE sticker has been peeled off and stuck to the bookshelf. If I keep this up, I’m going to have quite the odd collection of little labels. Jen is leaving the country for her merry home Austrailia, so we got together to send her happily off. Elaine was there with Spike, and Ennis, a girl I know through Mike. Too tired to remember any more names now, though I’ve known some of them for years. Jen went for a walk and when she came back, about half of us had the stickers on. I somehow ended up being number counter for everyone. Sitting in the big round bamboo chair, my voice quietly counterpointing the resounding smacks that bounced off the walls. Crack. One. Crack. Two. Crack. Three. Maybe I should feel a little guilty as when it was my turn I broke the toy, a blue plastic shovel, but I don’t at all. The second toy to die. Elaine’s “Who’s Your Daddy’ paddle also snapped. It’s the little details that help me remember. How the little balls of chocolate crisps were greasy on my fingers and how the light shined off a silver ring shaped like a hand grasping that girls finger. I tried to trade the lube in my grab bag for candy when I left, but no takers. Candy I have a use for.

Earlier I went for dinner and a movie with Ray. He didn’t get the message that this evening was canceled, so we said to hell with it and went anyways. Zubees then Tinseltown. The restaurant was packed with film industry people. There’s a particular leather coat the men wear, I swear. I can pick them out of a crowd by that coat. We sat outside, sandwiched between conversations that had nothing to do with movies and everything to do with away from set gossip. I felt lucky we were off to Sky Captain. They sent us first to the wrong theater, so we missed the very beginning, but oh, it was beautiful. They even had dinosuars. I can’t think of one precious moment in pulp culture they left out. Even the plot was blatently foolish, yet still had that printed on cheap paper logic. I couldn’t stop smiling, not for a moment. Every few minutes one of us would punch the air in victory. “Yes! They did it!” Zepplins, towers, giant robots that didn’t look useless. Hugo Gernsback might have cried. Ray pointed out that the gun the hero first pulls out is the same make that Burroughs shot his wife with, and I wonder if they did it on purpose, it’s that well put together. It’s laid on thicker than blood. Don’t go expecting anything but raygun gothic with every stop pulled, but go. I’ll go with you. I want to see it again. Cocaine powder, right in the eyes.