happy 62nd birthday christopher walken


Yes, I can play french horn… And?.

Signals of history now:
Pope receives Last Rites.
Biometric Lock foiled when thieves steal finger.

Wet again. Rain and rain and rain and rain. No hat now to keep the water from my eyes and alone I’m not an umbrella girl. Syncopation, footsteps, walking. The trees are heavy with the water in this anti-nature preserve pathway lined with hookers in puffy jackets. This place straddles the sell-your-sex industrial and this cities only culture of neighborhood. I am solicited once a week. Patterns pattering, would anyone like to go to IKEA with me next week? I want a bracket shelf and a lamp where the light-bulb does not explode. Once is an accident, two is a hazard.

SinCity, true to form, is here with another mention on the f-list. We group are going for the 4pm show at Capital 6 on Granville street. Some are meeting beforehand at Taf’s at 3 for food across the street.

I talked to Brian today about time in motion, the endless stream of observation and extrapolation. How today I’ve been immersed in the splendour of what happens next. Control and decency, the power play of the common form. I have something in my head today. I can’t see it, as it’s inside my skull and has a firm grip on the back of my eyes, but it’s taking up space. It was good to babble blather to someone who doesn’t expect me to speak in a linear fashion. I had to firmly school myself, however, against Tyler‘s insinuations from a week ago. There are some ideas that I don’t appreciate having planted in my head. I hope he gets the job he’s applying for, however. When Matthew and I took Robin to Constantine, we went for burgers and strawberry lemonade first and were served by perhaps the best waitress ever to take an order. Her name is Texas, go give her money. She gave us a pitcher. The thought of both her and Tyler working in the same place is a guarantee that we’ll be regulars.

He’s filming tonight and last night. A body double running from an alien in muddy fields. My image of him doing this is dada enough for me to want to be there, standing on the sidelines with cups of hot chocolate. It’s called Slither. It can’t be good, but I’ll go opening night with him and we’ll cheer and throw popcorn.

it’s going to be two days in a row

At least I’ve found my wright brothers kite.

I opened another set of boxes today. One seems almost exclusively filled with small cement cats. As well there was an illuminated medieval letters colouring book from when I was four, a purple glass pyramid, and a dinosaur tooth. At the bottom, under the cats, I found a pocket size journal filled with someone else’s handwriting. None of these items are likely to be particularly odd on their own but taken as a whole, they’re making me laugh at myself. There were letters in another box, to myself from when I was in grade ten. “Are you even there to read this?” This is getting to be too interesting. I’m stalling trying to read all the papers I’m finding. At this rate I’m never going to get to inspecting the plastic champagne flute full of rare earth magnets and pieces of twisted silver solder or the instruction pamphlet for the pyramid, let alone drag another box into the room from under the livingroom table.

The second box I chose was entirely filled with fragiles secured in plastic bubble wrap. One bulky parcel unwrapped to reveal a clear glass christmas jar with a decorated tree enameled on. Inside it was half full of marbles and half full of ribbons with a few amethysts I’d carved with runes filled in with gold tossed in for safe keeping. It brought to mind Sunday, when Matthew had told me stories to keep me awake to combat my possible concussion. I looked at him through dangerously drowsy eyes and asked him to tell me about his childhood, tell me something I didn’t know. He replied by he recounting his most epic battle of marbles. It ended in a three way defeat, all contestants with bruised and broken fingers. He promised to teach me how to play. When he came over this evening, I had already hidden the jar aside behind a musical wind up clock and underneath a silk scarf patterned with the heavens that I found in the graveyard when I was fifteen. Other people had arrived and were arriving, filling up the livingroom in preparation for movies, but I took him into my room and closed the door. “Sit on the bed, darling, close your eyes and cup both of your hands in front of you. No, wait, we should put something in your lap to catch anything that falls.” He said I was making him nervous and I replied by telling him to leave enough room for me to sit with him as I draped a black skirt over his lap. “Close your eyes, no peeking.” I can’t imagine what the glass jar behind my back might have sounded like. Something clattering and hollow sharp. When the cold globules of glass began to rattle from the jar, pouring into his hands, I told him to open his eyes. It was a look of wonder. “These are oilies,” he exclaimed, and began joyfully rattling off the names of the different sorts that I had spilled into his hands to overflowing. Galaxies and speckles, cat’s eyes and champagne.

They were forgotten on my bedside table, wrapped in pale grey silk, but I know I made him happy.

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