button those lips

sleeping with skatia
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

The plan : meet tonight before The Heretic at Granville and Robson for ten o’clock.

I want to dance away the metres between here and then. Slide on the balls of my feet in some scientific network of choreography which lets me bypass my empty afternoon. I’ve been trying to get the laundry done for three days and whenever I crawl down to the basement with my bag, the machine has been taken. I tried at four in the morning but it was already full of g-strings and soap suds. Sequins wetly glittering in the low watt light.

There will be a windstorm later, nothing spectacular. I can tell by the trees bowing and waving outside my window. A cold air blast from the ocean tonight. It feels like fall today, the drifting into winter hibernation sway of weather and the sun going down later and later. Whispers of equinox just around the corner and masks made of leaves, like I used to make when I was little.

Strange to think it’s easter next or valentines day. Alicia’s sending out her Valentines Sux invites already. I’m planning on going, like I have every year. Last year Valentines was a depressing waste of time and the one before that I gave to someone but didn’t receive anything back, but her parties are always fun. Groups of people I wouldn’t otherwise get to see, brushing past eachother drunk. Goth folk and gamers, there’s been a core group which has remained unchanged over the years as on the side bit players come and go. I hear some of them are married now, having children, or living in other places in the world. Occasionally I’ll run into some of them in the city and we never quite know what to say. We know eachother, some better than others, but not enough to keep track of anyone’s lives. Bright moments of remembering names.

I’m going to be naked on a table with a sinful delicious cake

I want to put some of my past in a vacuum sealed jar and toss it into the ocean for someone else to find. The weight of other people can be a panic button sometimes. When I realize at two in the morning that I’m going to a play that Bill may be attending, I’m fine. When I remember that we worked on it together, I smile. When I realize I’m going with approximately eight boys, I get a moment of panic. I worry for him. It’s a thrill though my body of sorry sounding adrenaline. The reality of such a situation probably won’t matter, I’ll simply be a slut heathen. It’s a rather large chain around me, if I look at it, but I don’t think I’m going to care. I’m better enough that it’s okay if he continues to see me skewed. I know that I can’t help it. I’m myself and I like it.

I woke up this morning to a phonecall. “Hi! I’m calling for Jhayne. This is Sweet Confections! You have won a cake!” I think we need to throw a party to celebrate. This is a limited time offer sort of thing, so I have a time limit on when I need to pick it up. I want a sunny day and ten people in a park, but the weather is unlikely to co-operate. I have another one, as well, from my birthday, that I haven’t claimed. I’ll have to fairly soon. What say a group of us go for dessert sometime soon and I ask after all the details?

My other news I’m going to toss into bold is that I’m going to be a lifecasting model. Fifty bucks for two castings. His website leads me to believe that he sometimes makes bronze, but I believe these are going to be plaster. I’m rather excited, or if not excited, then happy. Moments connecting into place on this one, an experience I suspect I’ve always wanted to try, and I’m getting paid for it. I thought I had someone to go with me, but scheduling may be getting in the way. Is there anyone available to jaunt into North Burnaby with me early Thursday morning?

Attendant circumstances just to be with you.

I always have so many things I’d like to write about and never the place to write them when the time comes. I’ll be on the bus, waiting in the rain for transit to come, and a word will hit me, a phrase related to something I saw that day and there’s nothing I can do about it. I feel somehow that something is starting to infect my brain, some sort of prophet is calling vocal in my head when I’m not listening. Where are the words coming from? I’d like to tell myself I’m imagining it, this growing desire to share the world, show you and you and you the man on the bus who talked like Kurt Vonnegut to his beautiful shining son or the delivery man who mistook me for a hooker on my way out the door because I looked too good to be leaving the house at six p.m. I want to sing knowledge into being, shine it from my bones in a bioluminescent fame. It’s not about proving the importance of anything, but showing a little that maybe everything is. A point of view from a different part of the world. I don’t know what my intention is, I certainly don’t believe I’m any good at this. I can’t even pretend.

Someone wants me to write them a story for them to publish.

Take my heart and crush it in a fist, I don’t know what to do. They want fiction, a certain number of words, more than I’ve ever written at once. They want a story, with plot and idea. For some reason I think of fairy tales, Rapunzel let down your hair and let me write about it. I’d love to take the quills of angels, but it’s not going to happen. There’s rain outside my window and I look out into an empty sky, unfufilling. I don’t know how to write stories. I don’t think I understand how words lock in place together. I don’t want to do this unless I can touch where I need to.

I want you near me. I want you to hold me and let me write to you. I want warmth to take me, seep into me. I want your hands locked around my waist and I want your breath to flutter in my hair. It’s an empty thought, just a palisade regret of another time and place that I’ve never had happen. Digital cloud and air. I need a better chair, for one. One where we can both sit and drowse in being comfortable. Just to be with you might be enough, but you know I want to write about it. Take these hands and let the fingers dance across my black keyboard with the white printed letters. I could never be anything like you are, I could never see that waxy light burning on the inside of my skull. It’s not why I love you, but it helps sometimes, when I miss you. I can take out the pain in the stories and dream us into being. In my mind, your tongue might taste of lemonade and I like it that way, that I don’t know right now because I’m tired and it’s late at night. If you were to stay, it would be anti-climactic and the worst day of our lives. I suspect we’re monomeric and playing attendant to it, our house falling down into something beautiful. I’ll drink to you one day, when you’re not looking, but you’ll hear me. I’ll make sure of it.