I am girl genius

get down get down : play that funky music whiteboy

I am finally getting my pyro tech tickets. I will be legal when I blow things up. Paid to set fires. Apprenticeship begins this week. In my insanity of motion, I already have a gig. Saturday I’m working the Parade of Lost Souls. First one’s free. Another two shows and I can legally buy the Pretties What Go Boom. Send in my upgrade petition and bang – bang – my baby shot me dead. Tuesday I take the indoor course and Wednesday the outdoor. Two full days of training I suspect I should be well prepared to handle. Not only is this a poetic accomplishment that likely compliments my world quite nicely, being able to list Pyrotechnician on my resume will hopefully raise all the right eyebrows. If it doesn’t, well, soon I’ll be able to buy level two explosives.

a total eclipse of the heart : once upon a time there was light in my life : but now there’s only love in the dark

I’ve never made a tutu before. I know nothing of their construction whatsoever. I have no needle. I have no thread. I am not prepared to sew anything. I do however have a shining heap of painfully pointy safety pins and six metres of black netting. (Now twelve as I, in my arrogance, dared the scissors.) In spite of the obvious drawbacks to this situation, I seem to be doing alright. I hit on the idea of making an inside-out kilt. Odd, but it seems to be working. The fluffy is happening. Note: I have never made a kilt either. What I know of kilt manufacture is entirely gleaned from a ten minute conversation with Ross Nukem as he was making us food in my kitchen at four in the morning. A ten minute conversation filtered through the euphoric exhaustion of a heavy night of dancing at SinCity.

I was alive and I waited for this : right here, right now : watching the world wake up from history

don’t judge me like a little girl

Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

In another world, I have passion burning. There are grand and glorious eruptions of creative lucidity. Lying men don’t ask for my number. Brave darkness, troublesome lovers. Watch me take this and plunge it in, branding the heart with echoes of my voice. My hair’s only honey when I hate you.

Wax this moon budding into beauty. Preserve and control, bitch. Take this devil time and pray. Find someone to care about the rains devouring because I like it. I want it wrapped around my legs, a pet to play with. Sleek glistening lines, you know I never lied to you. There are no two ways about it. Only one path to this salvation. It cuts you because my blood burning is made of pain.

She rules the mountain, she throws you off the cliff. Watch where you land, boy. Break your bones on the shattered lives. Logic patterns circular. She’s addictive. She’ll eat your love. Spit you out, take your bets, toss the money down. How many fates will you lay on the table?

A woman unsheltered says anything, this woman unsheltered is divine. Face sculptures out of freedom. Acutest angle, this merry-go-round. Sweetest dreaming. You can wait until I say so.

inhale your breath as mine

You’ve got one of those seven faces of the pale skinned world. Every time I leave the house I see you. The shape of your skull catches at me from the passing crowd, the outline of your face. You’re so made of where you’re from it makes me ache. Pedestrian pub-crawl hair over perfect even teeth. Everything in between photographs badly because you think about it. I saw what you did with the camera. You move like a bird. Jagged, almost quick, everything you pick up a seed. I want a history like you have. I want a land, a people, a family culture. I want to walk on stones, feel the dead rise up beneath me in a rising tide of What Has Been. I can speak your voice now. You’re not getting it back until you beg me for it. This place is too new, too lacking in blood.

I’m known for desiring architecture.

Falling inside like water from a great height. Crane my neck back hoping to catch a glimpse of what I’m given, but I’m drowning in it. My eyes are closing. Slow lapping waves in this pool at the bottom. The base of this, this wash of caught tears. Strychnine stimulant for the central nervous system. Just add your hands.

Bleeding me like an older century doctor. Taking my pulse with a soft sweet tongue. It’s singing again, my bones living crystal. You shimmer and break me. This tone raining from your letters. It’s glamour you cast. Lasting for days, blossoming into heat to warm my fingers. I want to touch you to show you. I want to touch you to make you Mine.

Where are you taking me?

a rat brain they made themselves

There was a Harry Potter theme party at Alex & Neriads last night that Ethan and I attended. There were some people there that I knew already, albiet not really. One man, Devon, had caught my atttention a long time ago by sketching me once. I had regretfully lost his e-mail address in the Grand Losing My Religion(contactbook) Disaster of early Aught-whatever. Now it seems we are all in contact again, thanks be to the internet.

I’ve been meaning to post this, though forgettting. It was brought up last night.

Rat Brain in a Dish Flies Plane Simulator

A University of Florida scientist has created a living “brain” of cultured rat cells that now controls an F-22 fighter jet flight simulator.

For the recent project, Thomas DeMarse, a University of Florida professor of biomedical engineering, placed an electrode grid at the bottom of a glass dish and then covered the grid with rat neurons. The cells initially resembled individual grains of sand in liquid, but they soon extended microscopic lines toward each other, gradually forming a neural network — a brain — that DeMarse says is a “living computational device.”

The brain then communicates with the flight simulator through a desktop computer.

excerpt from the doctor thompson. May he prosper

Hunter S Thompson : Fear & Loathing 2004.

in The Rolling Stone on the Bush/Kerry election.

………..Some people say that George Bush should be run down and sacrificed to the Rat gods. But not me. No. I say it would be a lot easier to just vote the bastard out of office on November 2nd.


“Four more years of George Bush will be like four more years of syphilis,” the famed author said yesterday at a hastily called press conference near his home in Woody Creek, Colorado. “Only a fool or a sucker would vote for a dangerous loser like Bush,” Dr. Thompson warned. “He hates everything we stand for, and he knows we will vote against him in November.”

Thompson, long known for the eerie accuracy of his political instincts, went on to denounce Ralph Nader as “a worthless Judas Goat with no moral compass.”

“I endorsed John Kerry a long time ago,” he said, “and I will do everything in my power, short of roaming the streets with a meat hammer, to help him be the next President of the United States.”


Which is true. I said all those things, and I will say them again. Of course I will vote for John Kerry. I have known him for thirty years as a good man with a brave heart — which is more than even the president’s friends will tell you about George W. Bush, who is also an old acquaintance from the white-knuckle days of yesteryear. He is hated all over the world, including large parts of Texas, and he is taking us all down with him.

Bush is a natural-born loser with a filthy-rich daddy who pimped his son out to rich oil-mongers. He hates music, football and sex, in no particular order, and he is no fun at all………….