couch install, long hair check

Mike Kozak is coming to stay with me for a few days. I was expecting him for the first of the month but he’s only just called now, at one o’clock in the morning. My policy of “you can always call” kicking in. I haven’t properly known the boy for years so, no matter the result, this will turn out interesting. I’ve not any clue what we might have in common still, who we might know in contact.

I was the Goddess Canabasita once to our group of friends, there would always be a pipe, papers, a light in the darkness, the third feedback member, the Technocratic Concubine. This is House of Slack memories and living with Grady and the flaky painter Chris in the worst back alley of Canada’s only slum. Rabbit would spin decks in the renovated bank safe and Merlin and I would dance, throwing our heads back until we sat exhausted on the chroma key green of our studio floor. I grew into godliness on that rooftop my first night, watching fireworks with half a stranger and half myself. We would cook with peanut butter, we would make clothing out of silver tape, we would create something better than the two dollar blow-job with a heroin kick in the street outside our window.

I don’t know if Grady succeeded, I only know that I’m not sure I did. We split ways when he got lonely, when he peeked when I used the shower. I’ve heard since Trypped On is still going, that Merlin had a depressive crash but is now recovering, (recovered?). I’ve heard that Grady and Roz have been together for a few years now and that he doesn’t come to our god-childrens birthdays anymore. Our relatives together see him barely more than I do, and I see him never past chance meeting where we don’t know what to say to each other. I know too much again. The phone number changed, the famous one, 805.trip. When I called it last, the girl who picked up cried with frustration. I imagine she must have received twelve a day for a year after the switch.

Mike is older now and I suppose so am I. A few inches taller, the both of us, he’s got longer hair and spikes in his hat. I remember him as a child genius inventor, always fiddling, making new things. Skully says he lost something along the line, that he lost impetus. They lived in the same building fairly recently, before Mike and his ex broke up. He never contributed apparently, which is why the girlfriend left him to fend on his own. Tomorrow or the next day I’ll comb some truth from the wool of rumour, I hope, though I don’t know exactly how reliable he is these days. So many years apart has left a bit of a gap.

there is a second guess lately

It fit yesterday as a second skin that just when I arrange to wander out of doors with Patti is when I remember that I was to call Shane. Futility squared, that thought. I imagine that it’s likely better that I see him later, after this tainted bloody thinking drains from my body. He would have too much fun running with it. He used to call me the Ice-Queen, now he introduces me as the heart-breaker, the lost love. A girl took it seriously a few months ago and stopped me on the street later, “I couldn’t help overhearing…” Earnest in a denim hipster skirt kind of way, her questions trimmed in pretty little girl lace. The joke is spreading, I’ve been spending time with a completely other group of people lately who as well decided I must be told that I’m attractive whenever they write anything down.

Tonight Ian and Andrew and I are taking Robin to Kung-Fu Hustle. (Andrew – this link is for you.) Granville 7 at 9:35 for anyone who’d like to tag along. We’ll have a vehicle and can give rides home after as if to flick the finger at our newly discovered summer weather as unexpected as whale fossils in desert Egypt.

Silk and fathers, go to bed, love. No I’m not, it’s time for me to go, but not now, no, not now but yesterday, last night, I’m putting on my coat and realize his eyes are open when his voice darts from the darkness to ask what I’m doing. “I’m going out.” “Where?” I don’t know, there’s no reason to know, it doesn’t particularly matter. I’ve cut off my places to drop by partially for you and part for me. Across the street is a park to sit in with damp green grass and messy playground love waiting without swings to let me cry on the plastic slide’s knees. Farther up is a house I used to throw rocks at, farther up is an apartment I grew up in. My father hung me out the window once, it was hot out, the sun blinded me from my ankles down. He and I would look so sweet together, still now I’m sure there’s a resemblance. The body and blood, they scream to each other. I want this, but it’s bringing me flames. My flesh is crackling, skin black and splitting at the merest mention of everything I’m trying to keep away. I’m not as strong as I could have been, my resistance goes down when I like you. There’s prior damage, neglect and poisonous accusations every night for dinner over books we’d both read. This is the History Of A.I.D.S., the biography of WWII, this is paper pages too thick to throw anymore. I didn’t go walking. I didn’t find a cold moon staring at me through gaps in the darkness. I didn’t pause halfway through a gravel field and look out over the city and decide to never come back. There is a chance still for a waltz to save me. There’s a hand reaching to sweep me into skirts and out of them. Now I have to remember your name.

Thank you for the picture. This is a listing of every MP3 that has for download and this is a stunningly stylish animated Ramayana, one of my favourite books.

I can’t help being meaningless. There’s nothing yet that catches me like a fishhook to the heart.

Waking, I wonder why I’m bothering. I feel like my bones were sketched in, and my skin, but nothing in between. Like the center of a birds bone, I am hollow. Voices over the line mean everything to me and nothing. Paradox machina, it’s my mind, it’s my frame. Hanging up, cutting off words, sentences, I don’t know because instead of listening I bring my knees to my chest and perch, trying to remember what it felt like to have wings, what it felt like to fly. Is this peace of mind? I wasn’t aware that my eyes were liquid, that the world had blurred, until I heard a drop of clear water tap into my leg. Every finger on the keys is dreaming of a piano, every letter a little note of melancholy, of something that I don’t think I can name. How can I suspect myself of being so fragile? I tried for something beautiful. I used to know how to be angry, but now I know how to hurt. Sometimes it’s better, everything inward. What is the use of broken pieces to collect and toss in the bin? Inside me is a place where every moment of irritation, every interaction that leaves me wanting to rage has instead been moved into shining pain. It claws up from the top of my belly into my throat, leaving me useless in words, leaving me as nothing more than a doll without voice. I tell myself I don’t mind as I tell myself I love them. There’s nothing else I can do if I’m going to stay except say please. This is not for me to change. This was an anomaly, this wasn’t me in the scheme of things. This was being swept up by left behind promises of trying to combat an everyday existence with nothing in it.

not once today have I put on my shoes in spite of walking miles

Because it is four:twenty and therefore Hitler’s birthday, here are some Pope links:

  • bunny addresses papacy
  • all of your pope are
  • the very secret diaries of
  • it has father ted

    (this explains my logic)

    Your hand holds mine as a glove would, fingers crept down to the joints and our feet our feet swing in surety rhythm. I wish we had a signature reaction, some little thing that would be only ours, but I know it’s rather impossible these days. I can only measure our interaction with your presence, your loud voice and my intimate glances when I pin you to the wall with my tongue.

    Nowt exactly new news, but important: Google is now hosting video. Now it’s time for everyone to boot up the BroadCast Machine. As Warren pointed out, there’s no excuse any more for not uploading content on-line, especially with OurMedia‘s recent launch. (My account there is still too glitchy to work, is anyone getting results yet?). I’m looking into picking up a borrow on video gear from a friend of Alastair‘s for thelastfridays. P’raps we can edit something together keeping this in mind? It would be nice to have something to show for our efforts.

    There’s a certain language within language to interaction that’s not so much structure as road signs. I think my friends are lucky that I rail against, I realize that this would be simple, this would be effortless, so this is what I shall do. I realized with my hand on the latch how easy it would be to turn around, knock on the door, and shatter a mirror with two words or one or none but a touch of fingers on lips. I like knowing how to read allusions now. I like how I can watch a question coming in the way someone looks at me, by the silence of their face. (Once you, today’s you and a different you from my first paragraph, looked stunned and it wasn’t the turtle hat.)

    Do you ever visit a feeling which tells you, this, but for the grace of chance, is where your time-line would have led?

  • with surprise guns blazing, she crashes down the door

    Thank you sincerely Christine!

    The most ravishing Ms. Neato to ever draw breathe has gifted me with a pro Flickr account.

    I am rather excited, as well as flabbergasted, which is resulting in a rather hyper bouncy Jhayne. I’ve almost 700 photos available that I couldn’t get at before, [insert *squee* here], mostly art and interesting vintage photography. Some of it needs labeling and all of it requires sorting, my folders having vanished into the ether when my pro account defaulted back to free in the fall. Parts of my personal history are emerging like ancient history from a few months ago. Last year is becoming like the unearthed greek texts that will be revolutionizing mythology now that they can be finally read with infrared.

    am I a scarlet woman now?

    I require going back to bed, but the body is not done yet. Blood propelled me from the bed and into the bath this morning at an hour I’d rather not admit to. I’m barely into the tub when it hits, splashing, filling the bottom from side to side. The red flushes the pastel ceramic into B-movie horror colours between my feet and I wonder if anyone else ever has these mornings. No matter that I had water running warm enough to burst into flame, I was cold, still am. The sun will be warm today, I can tell by the blasted blue sky above my window and the birds who won’t shut up, but I can’t imagine it particularly helping. I know me well enough to know that I’m unlikely to leave my house alone. There’s a LastFridays meeting tonight at my house, 7pm

    The needle slipped in with a prick like every asshole your best friend ever dated.

    Ophelia is my sister under my eye’s skin. Right under the cornea she sits in a giant plush chair, waiting for the water to rise and drown her in her pretty pale dress. Old scars line her white skin but she smiles, imagining the colour of her flaming coffin, picturing morbid fantasies of lovers and stars. Her eyes are violet and green, the way mine never will be, and her hair is somehow perfectly coiffed in spite of her general dishevelment. All her hems are tattered, mimicking the flutter of my heartbeat when his hand touches mine.

    Kyle was practically voiceless, as expected. We conversed with notes scrawled on a flip-pad notebook back and forth across a crowded booth table. Poetry went well, nicely put turns of phrase rolling mostly off the stage into the audience to break like a wave when I discovered unexpected people there. The couple who were stripping me at SinCity were present. I have phone-numbers now and more proof that we mesh well. The two of them are a delightful couple, they let me in like I’ve always been there in spite of the fact that I’m shy in odd ways. (My bra was undone enough times last time to drive me away dancing. Also, nipple tweaking is just not something you do to me. They want to be torn off when it happens.) To combat this, that he can clip a bra together with his teeth impresses me unduly. I want to find a woman who will let me practise this. I imagine much laughter and far too many instances of wiping drool from their back. I never knew it was possible. Obviously my imagination needs either a kickstart or a boot to the head. The latter seems more likely, what with my inadequate ability to easily or pleasantly think of fantasies.