mental shrugs

Opening shot: A screen: first of all no offense to gay ppl,but there is no posible way ppl could be born gay it is not like they were gay their whole life it is just a dumb excuse i think and anyways if god made ppl gay dont you think he would have made a way for gay ppl to have babbies just my opinion

Dissolve to the girl. She’s sitting with an open book in her lap. An open field. Head is back, she’s screaming. Pan back to reveal a CG nightmare of swirling text. Sound: fade in slow on loop. “The children. They’re killing me”. Baffles blur the edges of the words. Let her arms hang down, lifeless.

Relationships have contexts. Patterns of self-esteem and interaction. Particles spin, wave-forms collapse. Wrapped in this sari of dark fuchsia silk, tied on with a gold edged knot. This is all I have as a protective band wrapped around my desire. A brocade blockade of word, broken by distance. Fade out, but not to black, to something different. The substance of breath.

Did I just do that?

onto the stage

Work has come crashing.
Sample-snip drum ‘n bass clipping text. Burr hum, sitting in nothing but a few pieces. Sleep, dreaming, thickets. Child, no, don’t ask me these questions. Thickness like a swollen tongue. Wisdom laughing, impure thought. Dance now, feet catching the fall. No grace here. Grace is for those who care about how they move. It’s time to get a little groove on. Mark the names down at the door in the dark ink. Flicker flash on, strobe black bright. Let everything loose, they’re just dirty little snapshots. Let your body find the skin.

Overhead off. There’s no saving face. There’s only you and the floor and the lights. It might help if you close your eyes. Hips rolling into rhythm, ess curve electric shocks. Play the music, recordman, keep us heavy. Feels like water, the hardest spots. Strike you down with this. Too pale and purple. Feeling it all from this bedroom throne, I’m spoiled. Complicated cheap shots. White cloud trail behind the littlest plane. The day it comes, I’ll be watching.


because, gads – Sigismondi. I want to be Mark Romanek in my next life.

Last night I was reminded of the Submarine Channel. Haven’t been there in at least a year in spite of my watching films from it just about every work weekend. I was naughty, you see, and nabbed almost everything they had. There’s quite a bit. I dropped in on it to find they have interviews with people like Sigismondi now. The tricorn hat is pulled out again.

Awhile back someone put up a handy to download list.

care to join me plundering?

dripping wet with it

Skipped on dinner to afford seeing Hero again. It hurts my heart to see such things. A physical response, my sunday sweetheart best. I hold my breath and my teeth grow cold. It gets harder to breathe. It is this exactly why I keep on. My mother never told me about this when I was younger, no-one ever has. Blood catching it’s breath, everything the very last image. Clouds of rippling colour falling, pouring onto the floor. Crimson and gold, let it never end. Let this fill my mouth with the taste of everything pure. Sweet torture.

Sure, I’ll whore myself for Art. Take that slick blade with it’s sussuration between my pale ribs to feel that knife edge moment of This Is It. Creation, the dance, forever right this minute. I’m flooded. Sticky sweet caramel alone with you. The thought of it makes me want to bite my fingers. Let me touch it with an uplifted tongue. Anyone can take a pretty picture, it doesn’t matter. There’s thousands of us. I need the beat. The passionate ones. Kill them for me, my soul, I want to touch the heart of it. The vibrancy drying on canvas. I will always love you.

from eikenai, to be like, seem.

It’s the closest to orgasm I’ve ever been.

if there were someone for me to love, I might be happy

In my considerably pathetic attempt for wisdom, I set aside Friday. Now I can’t think of why. Reversal of fortune, too soon to tell. I’ve been alone in my head  too many days now. I’m starting to get a bit wierd again. I’ve found my bottle of random raver drugs and I think if I don’t go out tonight, I’m going to start looking at it a little bit more speculatively than I care to currently admit. I’m almost certain it’s cocaine in the gelcap.

The internet can tell me what to do with them.

It’s another week before I get to go dancing. A long seven day countdown before SinCity.

Ethan was kind enough to messenger me. Hero tonight at seven. I’ve already seen it, but oh the beauty. I can go see it again. It stops my mind. The tumoult ends for just that moment of crimson and gold and Now. Silken folds clamouring in graceful sheets of rippling movement. oh . so . slowly . The theater in it is tangible. It’s like watching music elegantly unfold. It made me think of Bill, the way he moved when he was singing sometimes. Right there, in the thick of it, lost with his eyes closed. Chestnut hair for a mahogany voice.

Yeah – he’s never yet called back.

For months I’ve been trying to get myself back. Tear myself from strange dependance. I need an invitation to the world. I’ve been disconnected. Black and almost hitting the high C. I don’t know how to interact anymore. You know where to find me. I’m always at the computer, just corner of your eye. Hit me now, please. Bare your fangs and sink them in.

I don’t know if I’ll go tonight. I’m feeling fey. More than I feel free to inflict on anyone. Nightmare laughter curling out to lash blood. Lick these lips like a pained cat.

I’m certainly the eccentric of the building.

My day’s been improved. The backyard might go belly up in lava and flame. Seems St. Helen might pop her top. There’s little seismic shudders and steam and ash are pouring from the peak.

It’s about bloody time something happened today.

   I have nothing to do in the slightest today, so I want to saturate myself with colour to save myself from lonely madness. I’m weighing the pros and cons of it being rent day. At some point the landlord will come by. It’s the timing of the two actions that I’m wondering about. Actually – there’s only one real question: Do I really need to be shirtless and covered in plum when I answer the door?  It’s something to ponder. I will answer my door dressed mostly in hairdye and a bra. I know this, yes. I answer the door in practically towels. (They’re not quite towels). As well, knowing my life as I’m beginning to, I’m almost certain that would be when he arrives. It’s not really a dilemma, but it’s enough of one to make me consider how much of a twit I am.

I think I’m going to go for it because I’m stupid. To be fair – Pictures if you want them.

Mental notes: Hide the pet. If need be, put on the elbow length gloves again to hide the writing. (*rolls eyes* because that would make a better impression. sheesh my brain.)

But don’t you dare ask what sort of shampoo I use.

Spending the night at a friends place = goodness. Spending the night over with a friend who is also a sometime professional masseuse = extra good. Spending the night over with a friend who was recently in a play about peadophelia and can quote it knowing that you’ll get the damned creepy references = bloody wonderful.

Suddenly exploding into laughter is a good way to wake up.


“hey hey hey-a now now now sing this corrosion to me”

I got in to find out that I’d left the ferret out unattended overnight. I have a new carpet of clothes. The floor and bed are covered in jewel-toned purples and greens and blacks. I also left a drawer open.

To hell with it. I’m singing. Alistair may be on the Jhayne version of suicide watch, but there will always be some that are safe, sane, and a-ok. *waves to A.* (I know you read this. Sorry.) I assume that people can take care of themselves and lately I’ve been wrong. Fine. I should stop being so concerned. Dominique – you want to make a documentary? Go ahead. I’m off the hook already by deciding this.

“hey hey hey-a now now now sing this corrosion to me”

You know what the problem is? You need a boyfriend.
I have a boyfriend.
No you don’t.
You’ve met him.
Yes, but this doesn’t address the difficulty. There’s two, no, three points.
One: you should be crushed. He’s not around and so you should be making us sick of hearing about it. You should be crying yourself to sleep on us every damned day.
I’m not fifteen.
Doesn’t matter. It’s the form of it that counts.
Two: you should be over in the other province or
Three: He should be here.
As none of these apply, you are single until spoken for. Now I am willing to be the gallant and take you on myself. For the small price of $14.50 a month I will pose as your boyfriend.
*explodes into laughter*
No – really. We’d make a terrifically cute couple.