Day: April 30, 2005

Sad music and aussie accents. I’m glad I’m leaving. T’hayla’s gotten ahold of me. She lives across the river, vaguely in the beaches, but closer. I called Joseph last night and listened to him wake panicking. I wonder how jealous the girlfriend must be. It’s wet out now, but warm. I’m hoping for lightning tonight, but the light is wrong, the taste of the sky is wrong. It’s like I could lick it and taste baking bread, there’s no spark, only comfort. I’m not on-line long enough to properly reply to letters, but know Michel, I got your comment and I’ve written your number down. Maybe I’ll come out on Monday. I miss Montreal too and it would be a delight to finally pull your hair.

I’m lucking out a little, but not too much. The hostel I was counting on still existing, surprise, does. Globalbackpackers, though I can’t afford more than this one night. The harsh colours aren’t much better than a park bench, but there’s apparently showers. The lounge is full of pretty people being jovial and I feel a bit out of place, but as it’s only one in the morning, I’m going to stalk out into the Friday night streets and see what I can do about getting picked up by some pleasantly drunk buzzed locals. I used to walk here until dawn. This place isn’t as acidly etched into my copper head as Vancouver, but I remember my way around. I’m trusting that people I run into tomorrow will keep me occupied nicely for the weekend. I’ll call those I can in the morning and I’ll hope for letters in the meantime.

Somebody tell Nicole thank you for me. I think if she hadn’t come to the airport with me, I wouldn’t be coming back.

Silk scarves and harsh edges, tongued stories into sympathy and little pieces of vengeance. Somebody up and for once it wasn’t my turn. There’s doubt about a month, there’s doubt but premonition. I clap my hands because I don’t believe in fairs nor cage matches. Dominque and Andrew have decided that for my birthday there’s to be a Cage Match To Be Jhayne’s Next Boyfriend. She wants them all in Speedos. I’m rooting for Alan Rickman. Someone behind me is singing about the moonlight on your skin, desert wind and your aching head. These days you can’t buy. I can’t place the words but I’m singing along as I type, sending letters out in term with the chords. I still don’t know what I’m doing here. Why you even try? I’m glad that you, sharp one, am writing poetry to me out here. I understand, but I don’t think I burn with any flame. There was someone on the street a moment ago, sitting in the doorway and they had your hair. I had a momentary urge to go pet them better, but then remembered. Wrong place. Treacherous road, desolated. The next room over has the Fugees, it’s comforting somehow, like music doesn’t die if you know it well enough. Like you and I, my taken man, like we can manage still in spite of whatever it is you’re not telling me. In spite of silence and leaving me to fend for nothing. Make you want me. There’s so many stupid words I can think of, silly phrases and none of them mean much right now. The anger is fading, which is nice, but it may be that I’m overwhelmed with being back, with grinning like a loon at everyone who says hello to me on the street. You fucked up.

You should be with me here.

Can you believe I still dress funny for this place?