When Gavin and I went to meet Jenn, we took Skatia. At the park were Neriad with her daughter, and Satisha with her father. We escaped quickly to get a present for Max, Ellen’s youngest, who only turned one this week. We discovered today that if one blatantly hits on the gelati girl, the cone you recieve is about half a foot high piled with deliciousness. This is a good discovery. Almost as good as coming across Alli & Co. at the gelateria. It’s a treat to finally meet her husbandlove, Nate, and to meet Andrew, who very obviously swims the same media pool. I’m home alone now asking the world about electric cats. The idea Blue has been downloaded successfully into my brain. I’m already planning on lighting up. Gavin is out over at his friend Johnny’s and I’m due in a few hours at the Media Club, for a gig of Alistairs. In fact, I have just discovered I have an extra ticket. If anyone would like to join me, it would be a fun time.
James sent me the Shatner album today, but it’s being shunted aside for Curiosity Valentine. Something Wicked This Way Comes summarized into sound. It’s my new happy addiction. Music like a scene from a circus horror film. Swirling gypsies and swooping camera angles. Badly lit acrobat music in the best possible way. Tornados and covered wagons with bright peeling paint. I need a source I can put on repeat.
Does anyone know a good source for LEDs? Preferable on a string. Even better would be a place to buy plastic lumescent cords. They look like the headband/necklaces that are sold at the Fireworks, but run off a battery pack.
What does an electric cat look like? I think the sinuous movement purr of victorian clockwork. Black fur arcing sparks and light up eyes.
It’s a phrase, a small one, but perhaps enough for Halloween.
I feel as if I have splinters for bones.
Gavin leaves Friday morning.
Thursday a group of us are going to Massive Change. A Future Design installation encompasses enough personal loves to perhaps make some happiness spark from these tired fingers. I can feel my lack of sleep in my knuckles. Stiff cello swaying in the turn of my head. I’m visceral under the knife, my skin peeling back to expose nerves. Slick red hands with glass fingernails.
That I’m typing at quarter to five in the morning tells some serious lie to my assertion that I would finally sleep. Forgive me, world, for I have sinned. I am pulled from my bed by textual hands. I rise, letting the screen bathe my flesh in blue-white light. Light the colour of tinted static. My fingers on the black keys in front of me, I realize horribly that I’m awake perhaps for the day. My natural hours of sleep shrinking like wet leather in sun. I am here, wondering why I cannot dream. How many days until it becomes a problem? I don’t remember statistics, my recall is growing too hazy. Unreliable machine, this body.
I’ve collected some Spam in between checking before bed and now. Be Paid To Drive Your Car, a scheme I’m not familiar with. I remember reading somewhere that Wired Magazine tried following up a slew of Spam Mail and couldn’t get any replies. They tried to Enlarge Their Penis, Increase Your Bra Size, Buy Prescription Pills, but to no avail. I wonder, really, what then is the point? Some weeks I get nothing at all.
I’m sure it’s going to be a beautiful day. Angsty boys will lay down their razorblades for the crisp fall air. The leaves will rain in the parks, a fluttering slow dance that catches the heart because it carries too much childhood promise of candy. Remember darling, down the street not across. The internet bleeding for us in iconic glory. Bless this. Teen girls will lay down their glitter inked pens for the taste of the wind. The blue of the sky will drown them out of themselves, watch it deepen.
Dinner at my mothers was the mental equivalent of a stiff drink. It hits the back of your throat and burns into your blood. A quick shot of something nasty that helps later be slightly better. This has been the final lamb led to slaughter. My skin sings a different pitch. It’s been an interesting year. Many new people, handsome, wan, and thinking. So much is here, in this box. This screen lighting hours of silent clacking conversation.
The three days are up. “Should I wait for you again? I’m waiting for you still though you’re here now”. He hasn’t answered, though we know the honest reply. There is love, but the desires are hollow. Kissing a simulacrum of a relationship. There is a time for things. Earlier this year, we synced in need, now we do not. It’s simple and clean, offset by the quickness of his smile. We match even now in this.
My stomach is heavy now, feeling so weighted that I fancy if I were to lie down, I would be able to feel my vertebrae pushing into me from the inside. Each one a jangling note of pinched flesh. Jagged edged notes of sensation. Synthaesia creeping into my perception the less sleep I get. Tomorrow words might have colours again. It’s been a long time. I can no longer judge. A jade statue of a woman, blindfolded, with a measure in her hand. “They worshipped Justice”
There is something all together too adult in this. My arrangements, my interactions with trust and defense. They work, but should they? I catch friend behavior changes, it starts with vocabulary and drifts silently into action and attitude. Mine are not the average kittenpaw, but they make sense. Livingroom anthropology, it sounds like a plan, eh? My music is on your playlist too. Twang pffffffffffft spark.
She’s standing alone with long hair in her eyes. She’s singing. They watch as her slight body tips, leaning into the embrace of the wind. She won’t die this time. They put her together better. The red girder bridge is only a prop for the greatest of all shows.