the trick is to convince yourself that you saw what you wanted to see

the correct answer is (C)

I’m waiting in harmony. Skinning my relationships down to ‘crave the flesh, crave the affection’, hasn’t been working. I’m still caught in the web of words and desires without boundary. Fingernails against the glass. He sat there, I sat here. It’s something to do, you know?

He’d point me in the right direction but give me an extra turn so he could laugh later over his hourly shot at the bar. Last time we went in together, he held my hand, put his lips by my ear and whispered delicacies as he stole my key passwords. That he talked dirty later wasn’t enough of an apology. This time my fingers slip lower than he intended. I touch fine wires of hair. This time it’s a little war.

I’m considering making PostSecret cards and plastering part of my wall with them. These white walls are nice for photography, but I’m feeling recently that I can’t get myself together enough for what I want. I used to make boxes, a few years ago. Black things, enameled like a carapace, that opened to red and the velvet taste of kisses. They were full of twisted silver, little jet beads and embroidered poetry. I made my last one for my ex, right before things went bad. It’s summertime, I’m thinking of starting up again, but I’ve given away my materials. If anyone has a cigar box, one of the old wood ones from Cuba, if you would be kind enough to drop it my way, that would be a kindness. I don’t know where to get them anymore.

My neighbor called. I think she heard the screaming. I told her it was a lunatic outside yelling at a whore. It happens here. She was mollified and hung up the phone. This is my world, I thought. Tired from tying my lover down, he struggled more than thought he would, I only wanted to lie down and rest, but I couldn’t. He was still awake yet, and that would be rude.

My toe-nails are still chipping red. I’m in lime green and black, dressed right for an old apple convention. My hair is a blood rainbow with black purple at the bottom cascading down from brightest gold. I can’t explain how appropriately dressed I feel for something that’s not happening. Every step I’ve taken today has been back to my computer, not toward anything.

It edges against sacrilege as heavily as the skirts piled against her waist, she’s thinking. Arthur’s head is between her thighs, almost invisible in the gentle moonlight, and in spite of it, her mind is elsewhere. When her eyes roll back, it’s not he husband she sees, nor even her lover anymore. The attractive armor of the knights had grown dull, scratched by the daily wear of routine. After the most honourable light in the court became hers, it all lost lustre. There was no challenge anymore. She laughs to herself, “Who knew being Queen could be outre?”. So now she dreams of a boy she met in the forest. His vows are to be silent, to worship until the priest declares him one of the brotherhood. Instead, she goes to him and he screams for his thorned father to forgive him and he grinds her hips into the ground.

there’s a lot with that last paragraph in my head right now

  • The Last word on Bush-ism from Alex

    The only thing to be right now is the pause between one breath and the next.

    Navi gave me a shirt yesterday I’m rather in love with. It’s mocking so much and yet so very little. I knew I was in trouble when the instant I put it on. Angus says, “Well, that accentuates things” and all I did was grin.

    In a little vivid green box, text says:

    Don’t sit too close to the television set. It is best to sit (6 )….. the room from it.

    6. (a ) near (b ) across (c ) under

    Mike is on-line asking me if it’s alright to fall deeply in love with someone from Crying While Eating. He feels her pain and likes that she’s making chocolate milk. To me it sounds like the seed of some perfect novel with the love story kicking things off. Next he’ll track her down, flying from point to point on some cybernetic globe while digging himself deeper into some other mystery.

    I’m wondering something myself, though not about love. I’m trying to find if hydergine is legal in Canada and if it is, where can it be found. There was something St. Jude wrote about it years ago, (may she rest in peace), she made it sound like the only drug I’d really want to take. Something about reverse nervous system entropy and bushing up dendrites. It was an article on Smart Drugs, what was available and what they did. Does anyone remember this? I’m almost certain I was ten, so that would have been back in ’92. It’s difficult to look up such specifics from back then, the world wasn’t as wired as it is now, (more’s the pity).

  • make your own soda fountain
  • I sat here (j’vous dit pas la fumée dans l’atelier…)

    From where I sit, I can look up to three black birds I brought back from L.A. They rest on a garland of sage that I’ve carried with me since I first started having sex with boys. It was an afternoon of singing for strangers in a strange land. Six years ago I was beginning to claim this city for my own. The birds look alert, like they could spread their fake wings and fly through the wall to some place I’ve never been. Pop out the other side of the white stucco and into a night sky with unfamiliar constellations. I can’t imagine them having any natural sound. I can imagine the computer hiss of an old modem maybe or the blurry tone of a rotary phone. Blackbird call home, blackbird eat the clouds, blackbirds that carry an analog name that I don’t know.

    I’ve got days hanging from a dreaming tree, branches tearing upward and leaving contrails behind. The sound of shoes in an airport, the hallway, the picture I took there, the way the pictures were the same coming back. I fly and I follow by accident, by motorway, by the wrong direction.

    This is a simple transition in my mind, Los Angeles to Vancouver to Toronto. There’s no disorder, only misplaced moments melding themselves into the best home movie. Hands in every shot, the evolution of devotion lagging behind the reality as my eyes sweep past out plane windows and I try to find my way home. There’s a dead child out there, hanging from a damned red moon, but I don’t see it, I’m blind from the panel glare, the colours that are printed in three little dots at a time. Something broken seems to flutter from my hair and the world changes, the person in the seat next to me has seen me cry.