Am I sick? I think I actually Wrote something…..

There’s something manic in my apathy. Too wired to sleep, not caring enough to find anything to do. It’s time for a movie, but there’s no-one I care to have over. No-one in this city, at any rate.

I’ve never decided to write anything before. As this is my first try please tell me what you think.
Because of the meme, this is for thenowhere:

She turned on the shower, twisting the brassy taps until the temperature was right. The blue bathroom walls caught by the falling water splashed cerulean into the ceramic tub. She was cold, kneeling with one hand in the spray until she decided it was ready. Checking to see the door was closed, she turned and stepped into the shower. One naked foot after the other, the hot water striking a moment of pain on her skin before blossoming into a soothing heat. It felt good to be in the warmth after a long chilly day. It’s fall, turning into winter soon. Every day will be as cold or colder. The room flooded with steam, dripping down the mirror. Her back to the water, she let the heat knead into her muscles. Her arm was just reaching for the soap when something twisted inside of her. Someone else would have cried out, but she merely caught herself with the wall. A tight feeling, catching in her gut. For a moment she thought she was dizzy with fatigue, but no, the feeling came again. A hard knot, trapped under her stomach. Looking down, she saw the water turning black. A stream of thick blood had gushed from between her legs. Darkness swirling around her toes. She got to her knees, leaving the water running. The clear water mixing with her fluids and staining. She dipped a hand in and it came up clotted with flesh. “Am I sick?”, she thought.

making up for it

Sharing the tidbits off my friends list.

Full Body Vibration Coat made of Tickle Me Elmo Dolls. (replace your lover)

Electronic Voting, see: Florida. 

Alf, the alien pornographer (I don’t miss the telly)

Spider Man & Friends, the album. (snippet here)

The War On Terror (propaganda = good)

Next the Hologram will flicker. (president listens in)

Exploding clocks for sale. (this is a re-post, but from awhile ago)

David Stoupakis. (art that makes breathing worthwhile)

and a meme from that would make me happy to have a chance to participate in:

Write something for me. Just for me. Post it in your journal so everyone else can see it, too. A sentence, a paragraph. Nanofiction. Short story. A scene, dialogue, a picture described, a moment, anything. Long or short. But it’s got to be just for me. Tell the world you wrote it for me, even. Mine.

Then feel free to put this up in your own journal, and I’ll reciprocate.


If someone can explain the senior citizen in this, it would put me slightly more at ease. I’m well aware the 80’s were a strange time for culture, but somehow she doesn’t fit in some disturbing way. You would have many thank you’s because at the moment I think my brain shuts down in denial. Only a little, but it’s enough to bother me.  It’s difficult to actually break something in my mind. Used to heavier lifting, I suppose. Something more like this. I’m telling you right now, straight up, not to click on that. Chuck Palahniuk is a wretchedly talented man. Just don’t. It’s not the sex. There are plenty of sexual horror stories. It’s that the man can Write. I’m not a hateful person, it’s not like I linked to The Eels Video. This is not a passive piece of pain. The old lady though, if you can figure her out – you’ve made the world a better place.

Or well – give a looksee at this instead. It’s harmless.


Have you got the Prince in a can? Better let him out then!

It was nice to curl up with someone last night. Stupid, in it’s own special hormone driven way, yes, but nice. Allowing me to hold a body, it’s like a gift. This week it’s not so simple as sleeping. It’s a void beside me, a lack in the night. I despise need, but giving in can be like breathing fog. Letting in what beautifully obscures the world.

We left just after the halfway point, Robin and Alistair and I. The poetry was uninspired, uninspiring. Robin to the bus and we on our bicycles, riding homeward. To his home or mine, it wasn’t spoken about. Instead we called back and forth about desire and emotional entanglements and what we mean to eachother in our actions. First Street caught us for a pause. Jacques was just arriving home as we whirred past. I left him there, after confirming Withnail and I on Friday, to continue to fly. The weather outside cold yet pristine. Riding with someone else feels so right and perfect. No light in the sky but for the chilly moon, everything lit by sodium lamps. Spinning in under blocks of orange light and black shadow, commercial sold halloween colours. I can almost ride again with no hands steering. Freedom to move, like soaring. Standing on the pedals, I brace myself and let go. We went and picnicked at Trout Lake. Nutella sandwiches and an apple each, like children. There was no-one else there at midnight. Only the two of us discussing wretched literature on a bench dedicated (like them all) to the dead. We can go there now, though it’s raining. Clouds came bringing water sometime in the early morning while we lay asleep. It’s cold today, gray and Fall-time. The ever present Vancouver Talk About the Weather.

I want there to be great damp piles of coloured leaves today. I want there to be pumpkins wet from the sky.

Javina and I are going to meet for coffee tomorrow. The internet becoming a tiny bit smaller. I’ve noticed that people tend to flock by interest here. No matter where it is I’m going, there’s some incestuous overlap of friends. Less than six degrees, more like three. Where I find is defined by what I like, roving tribes of us brushing up against eachother. Who are you that you read this? How do you know me?