trying to look again

So as a more then random question, if I were to be a fool and kill myself throwing myself around the world as much as possible visiting people, who would like to have a plum girl on their couch for a week or two at a time?

I’m starting to consider just vaulting off the airport for a month. I’m dreaming with my eyes open of the sound of the plane tires and vanishing points. I can’t wake up, even in the burning harsh light of my bank account. I have a motivation for coming back, so this would be more of a scout out than anything permanent. If nothing else, the ferret needs travel shots and I require another passport.

two words which come to mind when I think of david byrne: phospheressence effervescent.

unrelated news: happy birthday to the better woman

The window is cold against my forehead and I think Well, this is it. I have called out the name of this intersection and got it right without even opening my eyes. I know all the streets, I know all the people. I need to get out of here or die. Rock music from the nineties is playing on the radio up between the front seats and we’re all moving to the music in small subtle ways. We went up the mountain to look at the Japanese totem poles then came back down. Youth in car in a minor way, {choir} piano [violins]. We read out loud the public announcement rocks by the light of their cell phones, moving the instruments line by line across the carved rock like poorly written film characters. We ran as if the camera was not a steady cam behind us and one-eighty-ed out of the parking lot. We were heroes on the hunt for the worst doughnuts a human bring being could consume. It’s always a shorter trip on the way back. The mind has collected the data and knows the length of the words, the notes to the verse. I wonder how many places I’ll have to live before I’ll begin to drop this place like crumbs for the birds to eat behind me; how long do I have to grow my hair until the prince climbs up and I blind him on the thorns of my castle, the short curls that spike gold in the shower that I refuse so far to cut.

I should be asleep now, spreading my hands and naked but for a whimper in the darkness waiting for the sun to rise but it doesn’t seem to be happening. I’m wondering instead the etiquette of sending someone flowers and when on earth is england going to wake up already. Daylight savings, savings and penny-less moments, false hood fake button up oxford, I’m not cut out for this. I want to shout from a rooftop but I never was any good at that. Yes I could get the volume, but never the right kind of witness. There’s something fey in my bitterness, there’s something wild in my mind. I can’t let it out, I don’t know how. I want to tear its tongue out, and pour out the collected spectre telling me that I’m not good enough. That no way will I ever find a life to hold to my heart as something I treasure and want to keep. Never will I get out of this place. This city is so small to me, I bat against the edges like a moth. The lunar ghost glittering reflected against the rim of her mountain basin world. The curve of my back is the curve of a bow, my joy used to be an arrow.

when the sky opens and unfurls my plans

We are The Last Fridays, a group of friends who do a silly project or performance art piece on the last friday of every month, beginning with April 2005. Most exhibits/activitites will take place in Downtown Vancouver, though occasionally we may have them elsewhere in the Vancouver area.


While the core group is composed of friends who knew each other previously, membership is not closed to simply those people. If you’re interested in being a part of our monthly StrangeThing, then put in a request to join and you’ll be considered.

see if you’re already involved

the backseat is a good place to pretend to be a stripper

Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

I can taste you in the rain. It’s a clean sad feeling, looking up into endless gray and seeing no future. I’d like to think that I’m calm about this, but I’m hesitant. I can’t keep my eyes from lying when I’m not successfully hiding behind my inhibitions.

We had a fire on the beach last night. Andrew and Ian and Matthew and I. We wrote secrets down on slips of paper and bartered them back and forth before burning them. Name a price? An everyday night, eyes scanning the horizon for ships when the water slapped too hard against the shore. My shirt kept slipping down, it didn’t fit me. I’d bought it new earlier. Andrew and I were in the line-up at the bank and I declared that it was time for a new shirt. We cut through the mall on our way to meet people and I picked one off the wall as we walked by. How about that one? Bright pink halter top, not really my kind of thing at all. When I plucked it from the hook, I knew I wasn’t wrong though. Sale down to five bucks from forty, we were pushing an odd boundary, but the world approved. We were at the counter in under a minute. I paid the girl and walked away without a receipt. I handed my coat to Andrew as we stepped out of the shop, my courier bag a few feet later. We stalked to the other end of the mall while I stripped down to my bra. Not one broken stride, though I waited a crucial moment to get past some children before revealing lace to the public. The shirt was on in barely three paces. I fixed my breasts in a mirror quickly and I swung my coat on at the escalator. By the time we hit the outer doors, we were done. It was a triumph somehow, getting past security. Andrew couldn’t stop saying, “That was awesome dude!