The phonecall came today. My glasses are ready for pick-up unexpectedly early.
Five in the morning can be sweet. Sweet like nostalgia waiting to be made. I feel like a scene from a film, a three minute bit where the girl is sitting with a keyboard in her lap and typing like she has something to say. My room certainly has enough props. Feather wings, faerie wings, a hunting horn, some feathered masks… My Bare legs stretched out before me, I’m not quite cold in spite of being in my underwear. I’ve got a mans shirt on, the pre-requisite one size too big for me. The LEDs twined through my hair might be construed as a bit untraditional, but I don’t care. It’s between midnight and dawn, I’m allowed whatever I feel like.
On the table there’s three red velvet boxes stacked one atop the other in descending size. I don’t know entirely what I’m going to fill them with, but I’m getting there. I went out shopping with Ray today. We went out to a mall, a rather far-away one, the other side of Burnaby Mountain, and got what we came for before escaping for dinner. We’re not very original people, we never know where to eat. Unfailingly, if a group of us get together and someone suggests dinner, we will have only three or four suggestions. Zubees downtown, Wasubi’s on the Drive, Martinis on Broadway by Main, or sometimes, but rarely, the Greek Restaurant on Robson what has the stunning bellydancer.
Tomorrow, when I’m out, I’m going to pick up stamps. There’s someone in Quebec who’s getting a letter in realtime sometime soon and my Painter deserves his package finally. The last one seems to have gone missing in the mail. It might have been the opium, but that doesn’t excuse his lack of dress-shirt. He left his darts here and as much as I like having a solid reminder of his presence, I know it would mean more if I were to send them back to his frozen city. He’s doing the upcoming Suicide Girls show too, so that cements it. However small, I have to send him a weapon of some sort. With his luck, he’ll need one. I want to send cards out too, like I did when I was little. A snippet of something in every folded page, a good-luck charm of a thing unexpected. I’m stronger now, my inspiration still non-existent, but maybe that’s beginning to be enough for me.
My music is soft, soothing, but I don’t feel like sleeping quite yet. I should, I will need to force myself back to a diurnal schedule. I need to buy groceries at some point. Right now, though, I’m happy to write story seeds over chat to my friends, little fluttering pieces of violence. The word haberdashery is open. Paragraphs hidden in violin cases under black coats, I like it. The image of Up For Sale and mirrors splintering, exploding into a thousand silver hologram reflections as I fire words at them. It’s facetious, but an image I’m deciding to keep for later, as if one day I’ll know what to do with it.
Ah, my tongue and teeth. They’ve been superseded by fingers and recorded breath.
I’m still popping my plosives, but I’m beginning to think it might be the mike.
Now if I could only get my damned cam to stop damping down the contrast…