there was a wind once that destroyed the hearts of all it blew through

I decided last night that I was going to dye my hair scarlet. I smeared flesh red gel stickly onto my brush and then through my hair. I was thorough, I was neat.

It didn’t work.

The damned gunk turned out purple.

I am less than disappointed. It seems that I am now genetically predisposed toward purple hair. Sadly, it is a limping along purple, a timid pale patch of purple, purple that would get run over if it tried to cross the road, so I’ve doused myself in plum to fix it. If anyone would like an almost untouched tin of Punky Colour Red Wine, it is yours with my blessing. Next time I try, I will pick a more ridiculously named red in the hopes of serendipity forcing her tongue into my mouth a little sexier. This time it was like she was counting my teeth, and who wants that? She might take one as a souvenier.

Chris was my brilliant company today. He looks out from under ice lashes and decries politics and history and ethical being in the system we call society currently. He tells of how change is slow, how people are afraid, and yet he paints a picture that educates in all the right ways. I wish I could speak evenly with him, that I could keep up. I learned today that Vancouver is the only municipality in Canada with an ethical purchase policy. In spite of spending time among protesters for years now, I’ve never heard that, but I really like it. I’m glad somehow of our parks that use plants that weren’t sprayed with pesticides, that our city works brew fair trade coffee.

Tonight there’s a group of people going to TheatreSports. We’re gathering at Granville Island, meeting at the doors at quarter to nine.

I’m considering my options in the realm of travel. It seems that I’m going to E3, but I’m not very certain what it is. I only know my hooks have been thrown at me, Road Trip, Technology, Down the Coast, by Andrew and Ian. I’m embracing leaving, the images of highway and blind kinetic energy. Fluttering my hand out a window as water flows by, watching the sun rise and set over unfamiliar horizons. I don’t know if it’s going to be enough to save me, if it’s going to take me out of myself to the point that I can wear my skin again without feeling too small. I’m shearing off tiny pieces of person here, sloughing them off so I can continue to not care a little longer, so I can hold on until I’m hanging by my nails like I do financially. Not taking Robin out lately has been hurting, wounding the pocketbook to the point where I’m beginning to actually worry a little. My work doesn’t cover half of what it should. I catch myself almost relenting when Nico wants to send me a towel.

If my laundry gets stolen again, I’m going to be old again before my time.

I’m waiting for the red to set

My skills are an attic full of dead birds. My hair is full of flame and my lungs murky with fuel. I remember heat dripping from my fingers lighting my chain with blue fire. I would watch it soar above me to flip in gravity like an arcing ball of physics, waiting for me to catch it and bite. They used to have wings, they used to fly. My tongue stings in memory, my elbows chafe with rope. Twist, turn, feet planted never as firmly as they needed to be because it was dance, darling, not serious, no, in spite of the crackle swish of fulmination this close to your face, this close to your hair. Fury when it tore out, treating it like a whip to crack, bring it back, gathering cord in one hand out of the other, play them off each-other, the congregation is beginning to murmur. I remember that. I remember how it would confuse me if I listened, so I tuned them out and only listened to my own artificial wind. I miss it. Never caught in my own photograph, I’d forgotten how rich it was, how much I miss the taste of white gas on my fingers afterward. To the sky, both of them, like embers, like suns. To my back to catch on my neck and twitch, kittens to scratch me with red little welts later, when I paid enough attention to bathe in cold water. Learning never was this fun. I can’t bear to think of it now, but I have to. I want it back again, this home I had, the conflagration surge of death in my heart.

Darren’s making pretties again.

I’m in the process of making a modern day mix tape for Ellen. It’s a group project, everyone making copies enough so that all involved may receive one. I’m discovering, however, that in spite of the fact that I have several thousand songs to choose from, I’m failing short of having some sort of theme. I think I have a nice idea, then “but I’m currently listening to Alphaville, who on earth am I to claim taste in music?”

Oh the shame.

In other news, I’ve been personally asked to participate in B.C. politics as part of “the worlds first serious political party devoted exclusively to sex positive issues” by a friend of mine who’s apparently involved. I don’t know as what and I suspect that I’m to get up and read raunchy poetry. This is my general impression. “Groovy,” I said, “but I don’t have any.” Monday the 18th of April is a supporters meeting. There’s an open invite to anyone interested in the party to drop in. They’re also having an erotic art show, are accepting submissions of art, and are seeking volunteers for the event. Platform, candidates, events and volunteer information at I’m likely to spend a day or two volunteering for the sake of it.