may is over

I wrenched my ankle last night badly enough that I can’t walk. I called my mother, she’s going to come ferry me home and help me pick up rent from the bank. This means that I’m going to be house-bound for a few days, three or more, at a guess, so if anyone feels like visiting, oh gee, I missed her birthday, I should have tea with her, you’re in luck.

for people connect from this weekend: nicholas, andrew, chris, matthew, james, dominique, jenn, angus, reine, beth, derek, sophie, tyler, and ray

edit: and emily

little girl smiles when the lights go rushing in

Originally uploaded by decembre.

Mike Rae, the comic-shop manager, just called. Out of nowhere he’s taking me to a premier opening of the new Miyazaki film, Howl’s Moving Castle. There’s to be a reception dinner party at Wild Ginger, the William Gibson-esque restaurant that I’m planning on addicting everyone to. attention townies: it’s one of your best kept secrets. This will result in my being a weensy bit late for my party at Chris’ place, (1530 E Broadway, knock on any windows on the left side), but not enough to be bothersome.

there’s steel

So this is the future. It’s a self replicating virus, everything is going to be better just over the horizon. This is the future, my hands here, on yours, and my eyes lucent from crying. I remember this, every day it wore at me, every day it caught my throat, pacing back and forth, counting the minutes in between until I could find my flying car.

My fingers are longer now, I can feel it. I’m changing every day, cells replicating something with a slightly different chemical balance. This web of veins and neurons, cycling through a thousand things we said to each other.

This is the future, this is learning. It’s bitter like the coffee in the morning that you required before you put your clothes on. Red pants or the open front house-coat I gave you for the last Valentines we ever had, our first. I remember tomorrow already, I know it backward, every minute flowing from me. This time it’s a prison, because I can feel when my smile’s going to crack.

As I grow older, the concept of meaning something has been pressed to me more and over, little sticky pieces of paper that scream at me that I don’t mean anything yet, that there must be something more, that these people with fire in their eyes, they know the plan, they can see, and I am not one of them. I have no creative soul to touch, I can only support these angels above me who fly with visions, who know how to put objects together and create. This is the future, they make it, not me.

Then this happens. I wake up and want to take my clothes off. I want to walk down every crowded street and silently shout a misery wider than a sky can hold. I want to let the sun touch my skin to flame and tell people to make something, to stop playing house and try to find out what they need. I want electricity to crackle off of me to spark wonder in the worlds jaded eyes, because if this can happen to me, it can happen to you.

I’m going to be a father

There’s a reason the world dropped me to my knees. It put me there so it could kick me in the teeth.

I can’t write anything down without the word travail right now, without the word abort and birth. I can’t deal with this new bit of information. Ray and I, we ran into Bill this evening. He waved from a corner and we were trapped in traffic and a red light. Of course I leapt from the vehicle, of course I ran to his arms and asked he come with us to dinner. You are still one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met, I thought, and I almost blurted it out. I almost ran my fingers down the side of his face to tuck his hair behind his ear before I remembered. No, we’re not together anymore. We said we would work on it, but it’s his turn to call me, I thought.

I can’t tonight. I’m putting up a show. You know.

And I do. I love this man and I remember. Everything hurtful was erased already by how I know with every little memory of his back hunched over the console, every sunny afternoon through a duplex window while explosions rocked the tiny living-room. I love his hands, how they’ve bent to the guitar, how he plucks soft notes from everything, how he tears sound from the world with them, from me. He lives in red in my body, but when I met him tonight, he was in black. Theater dress, and I matched. It made me grin a little to think that now I was the red, that his smile was real to see me.

I have some news for you.

I’ve been thinking of him lately, how part of me is still clamoring for his voice to talk to, how it’s been maybe not too long yet to fix this, how we said we would and that maybe it’s time to look at that. When the right music comes on, I can’t help but think of him dancing. A muppet shake of back and forth, the sweetest goofiest shake of the hips and hair. My first reaction was to stop. Everything stopped, the world continued, traffic around me, but it wasn’t real, because I was stopped. You’re putting me on, I said. I looked at him with the first denial stage of shock. No, you’re not, I said.

It’s true. I met a woman and

It’s the violinist, it has to be, it is. The woman with the wonderful name who I wanted to meet because she could be making music with him. There’s a V and maybe a Y. The time-line, tell me the time-line. Tell me when and tell me why you didn’t tell me before, why you didn’t think I should know, why running into me on the street was enough to balance three years, was enough to balance you.

We’re not really telling anyone yet.

but I was dying. I was not breathing, not seeing. Everything was too hot and blurring and I wanted to reach out my hands and crush him to me and say,

but I still move like you. The tilt of your head still crosses my body and when I dream, you’re there.

Instead he gets on a bus and calls from the window,

Really, this is good news.

and I say probably

and I fall as the bus turns the corner and he can’t see me anymore. I killed our child with him. I was sick, so sick that I coulnd’t see. That death, I could feel it dying in a knot inside me, felt like this. I fall and hit hard, the pavement unfriendly. It doesn’t matter anymore, however, because again, I’ve stopped. I’ve stopped and my heart has ceased breathing.

amber is pretty in ways I am not

thenowhere posted my piece for her meme.

It makes me sad to talk to him on the phone. Everything I don’t have but need becomes apparent. Each word thuds into my heart. I’m reminded why I said No, why I said I Can’t Do This Anymore, while aching throughout for even a tablescrap crumb of affection. I lean into the receiver, trying to press myself closer to what hurts me, as if by curling up with the snake, it might become friendly and decide not to bite. I feel absurd. We get closer to Goodbye and my eyes grow hot. If there had been an explosion, a blooded kill of an end to us, I might be able to suspend this endless crumple as I hang up the phone. Instead he didn’t even understand until I asked for my keys back, until I demanded that he change something and pointed out how rather than put the effort in, he’d been coasting. Nothing less, I said, I can’t live like this.

When I went away, he was the only one who didn’t send a letter.

this is what memories are made of

Our Dailies
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.
  • Childrens Manga: “Just about everybody who bought the book here was a man in his 30s.”
  • Protest over child brides.
  • China outlaws ‘naked sushi’ meals
  • Crying while eating.


  • Newspaper giving away classic novel PDFs.
  • “The Cartoonist’s” ultra short story collection.
  • The DC Circuit of the US Court of Appeals struck down the Broadcast Flag.
  • Senseless Acts of Beauty