because god doesn’t always have the best god damned plans, does he?

And so we taste the seeds of sewn discontent. I was out with Matthew this evening. I saw Ryan off at the airport, he walked across the street like a traveler from the old world into the new. Goodbye to everything but a statue of liberty. I told his father that I felt as if we should have tattered his coat, but then thought that it was exactly right just the way it was. This gives me what I need as much as he always does. There was a bomb scare at Metrotown today. play the piano for me. I stood outside and looked up at the black towers, imagining orange billowing out, glass smashing into the sidewalk at my feet.

I left him, my Matthew, on the train almost after midnight. The presence of my thought, I could feel it beginning to sink into the skin of my heart. He left me, I left him. They’re words. I’m afraid a part of me will always be waiting. It’s a good fear, the flee-fight reaction that bolts me upright in unfamiliar beds. He stood in front of me and I looked a little closer. His hair is longer but the mannerisms are the same. He quotes instead of knowing how to speak. He tears my world apart. I was waiting for a miracle, and then the end days came. Before we began, it was timing that did us in. Timing and his youth holding so tenaciously to places that I haven’t seen in myself in years. It will take a long time to forget how to hurt, but as I’m sorry that there’s no simple things to say, I’m also wanting to be glad that I’m not as shallow as I sometimes suspect. This year has been good to me in perhaps that respect. I know that my motives are exactly as I perceive them to be. I’m young and think love is paramount, and I like it that way. There is a deathgrip on substance standing over illusion, and my version of romance savours simple facts and dedication. It’s as it should be, no matter how much pain it’s been giving me. Strawberries are what the young should live off, what we should carry closer. Bite the sun or you’re simply taking up space the rest of us could be using.

We eventually sat on the stairs of the courthouse, just like everyone else does here. It’s a place to have it out in privacy without taking the other person home. There’s darkness shrouding everything and yet enough light to see by drifting in from nearby buildings. There’s skyline to stare at, and water, and trees. Details that capture the eye and allow the conversation to wander. It’s important, that wander, that description into meta that creates an emotion check, that creates the proper distraction to bring things closer. Often what I said wasn’t much, but was hurtful. The truth is my weapon, it cuts like nothing else can. It was understood, the depth of my attack describes the enormity of my reaction. It’s not being volatile, it’s reining back what I want to do, what I want to say. There’s been too much waiting to find these things out, I can cry again. Forgiveness will come for some of the things, though likely never all of them. Deception is a big red button, the distrust bomb waiting to annihilate everything that went before. I go through my days deriving optimism from pragmatic descriptions of the present. It’s not positive, but it’s enough to live off. It’s enough that I can still put my arm in his to walk down the street. I can adjust.

I’ve said before that there are no heroes for me to follow now, but I want to say that I can draw figures on my soul instead. I can draw lines of respect and honour, I can steal voices that speak wisdom and inscribe lessons inside my body with them, I can learn and I can be holy and I can be more than the literary definition of the ghost inside deux ex machina. However, it’s going to take time. More time than has passed, for this wound shattered my sacred into dust. Against usual expectations, not mine, but I’m sure some of yours, more contact will help me. My anger is at betrayal, at falsehood, at taking me with him when he fell, when his wings were wrenched from his back by a picketing god. Grabbing the root by the stem is the first step to preparing a salve. My flight can be returned to me. My depression is action based, an ocean of reaction that I can eventually drink.

Cory appreciates our efforts.

We’ve been hit by BoingBoing!


“This past weekend a zombie quasi-flashmob two or three *hundred* strong materialized in the center of Vancouver and staggered through an upscale mall, onto the skytrain and down Main Street before joining their resting brethren at a local cemetry. The Flickr group has hundreds of pics and some discussion.” These photos are *priceless*.

zombiewalk 2005

***ZOMBIEWALK 2005***

Saturday, August 27 – starts 4pm from the VAG (and 5pm from 15th and Sophia) (near Main St).

Come to VIDEO IN (1965 Main St,) for zombieriffic fun starting from 9pm!

Jello, movies, unbaptisms and a pinata or two, all to the sweet sweet sounds of:

The Creaking Planks
The Cranberrys
and more . . .

The walk will start in two-stages as follows:

1. All non-lazy zombies (or “super zombies”) are invited to gather on or around the big steps at the Vancouver Art Gallery no later than 4pm. From the VAG the horde will be skytrain bound. After a stumble through the mall and a short jaunt on Vancouver’s fine public transit system we will de-train at Main St. station and stumble on up to the Bethlehem Lutheran Church – 320 East 15th – two blocks east of Main. Once there, we will take a short pause to collect ourselves, gnaw on brains, and meet up with . . .

2. The lazy zombies. A second group of zombies will gather in front of the above mentioned church (Bethlehem Lutheran, 320 East 15th, at Sophia and E 15th) at or around 5pm. Remember – zombies tend to move slowly and occasionally have problems with limbs falling off, body stiffness and possibly skytrain security officers. If you do not see any of your brethren exactly at 5pm, be patient. Mill about and look scary.

Once all zombie factions have massed at the church it will be time to head to the final destination


The park at 8th and Brunswick.

We can pretend it’s a cemetery. After all, who knows what’s buried under everything . . . the consensus seems to have been: skytrain good; cemetery good, but too far and skytrain better. So park it is – there will still be games and fun, an a whole block of grass to wander about and fall down on. Plus – it’s close to Video In (1965 Main Street) – which is where everyone should go after the zombiewalk for more zombie fun!
That’s right . . . if you’re not sick of the living dead yet come for music, movies, participatory fake ritual, more games and more fun . . .

Video In
27 August
9pm, by donation

Yes, you do have to dress like a zombie. Those who do not do so are welcome, but risk having their brains eaten by confused zombies. You have to admit – they’re not all that smart, but they know a good living brain when they smell it.

Potentially useful things to keep in mind:
Causes of zombie-ness:
As everyone knows – or should know – zombies are usually attributable to one or more of the following:
1. voodoo
2. science gone astray – chemical or biological accidents, experiments, viruses and the like
3. the apocalypse

Of course, there are many more possibilties. Be creative. Corpses in all stages of decay are encouraged.

For the low-budget zombie:
Oatmeal and liquid latex works wonders.
Food colouring and corn syrup makes convincing blood, but sticky. However, also tasty.
Value Village – but I’m sure it’s hardly necessary to mention that.

Finally: As mentioned previously – zombies are only really effective when travelling together in large groups. Bring your friends, foes, family and other loved ones. Nothing says you love someone quite like caking yourself in make-up, limping down the street together and eating them in the park!

Bring along make-up in your pockets in case you eat anyone along the way

no brains at 2:30 a.m.

Evening Standard: AAARRRGGGHHH!
Originally uploaded by DarrenS.

Sadly mirroring personal mythology, the enchanting piano man turned out to be fake. Blond, handsome, slightly strange, it blisters the mind to think of what beauty the original story creates. Avoiding the world, he lived there as a broken prince successfully and brilliantly, filling the void that so many of us have in our most secret of romantic hearts.

Today Ray and I went out fetching undead attire. A liquidation house near Aaron’s house just got in wedding and prom dresses. It was just what we needed to go with our dismembered arms and shrunken heads. We’re going as a possible wedding party.

Scott, lafinjack, is here, having flown in from Texas for Saturday’s ZOMBIEWALK 2005.

For those who asked – Yes, meeting up at my house is an available option. We’re going to likely start with make-up around noon and there are tentative plans to gather later at April’s apartment downtown, as it’s closer.

the evolution of hindsight

I saw him in a photograph today, handed casually to me across a table. Part of my heart remembered and died, the rest of me got caught in the night captured. Shane was on stage that night, in a way he never had been before. We were there, this place, but across the room. It was this person, and my person, and Him. We sat bunched up on benches, layered like only the most comfortable friends can be. One in front of the other. I could lean back and taste happiness with my skin. I did. I could lean forward and see god on stage, orating. I cried. Later became one of our own little secrets. The image of him waiting outside, “I thought you would never leave.” It was too cold, we said, we thought. It would have been perfect. A silence held between the bare space between our bones, the breath that never came after the knife slid in. I don’t love anyone else, they’ve been pushed out, replaced by this one terrible figure. This creature that drives me to need blood, to need touch, to need… to need at all. I didn’t know how before. I haven’t drawn breath since he left. I haven’t drawn breath since he returned.

I should have pressed harder when I knew something wasn’t right.

This is the oldest story. My name is Psyche. It is widow. It is dust. I am a woman and my love has left me. Thrown me over without word, fled in the night when the candle was lit, but without a stanchion of rules for me to lean against. Fled uselessly, as I have no way to find him. History says I may get over it. That is all history says. It makes no promises for having a future that is not bereft of happiness. It is more honest than that, for all that it was written by man.

He called today, maybe while I was being handed his graven image. My vulnerability flared bright, limning my walls with pain, then flickered out. Flame requires oxygen and I have none. My blood is cold, sluggish and heavy, the same as my hands dripping letters upon these keys. I love him. I finally understand an aspect of religion I never did before, the desire to have protocol, to be able to hide behind ceremony. My child inside has revealed itself to be a newly lonely thing, unholy and made of roses. Petals are falling, He loves me, he certainly loves me not at all. Maybe he did once, but he forgot. He spent too much time as a bear instead of a mouse. Living in the skin of an animal, it’s said you lose your way. I’m uncertain if allowing such creatures into the home is a good idea. They make messes, they desecrate the sacred places. He used to sleep in this bed. We used to sleep in this bed. I remember being touched, being touched without crying.

When he left, I wandered the airport, refusing to leave without finding myself a memento, a tiny piece of sadness to carry as a solid thing. You’re like a dream, what if one day I’ll wake up? My eyes grazed over tables for silver and found nothing until the very last shop. There, on a shelf, a necklace of glittering red crystals that looked like a slashed throat set in victorian pewter. I put it on before I left the building and I have yet to take it off for more than one day or one night. It carried the promise of his reality with it, holding my neck where he kissed it, where he touched me goodbye so sweetly that a porter smiled into his sleeve at us like in an old-fashioned movie. I took a picture of myself on the bus back into town, trying to see what it looked like. I tried to smile, thinking how stupid bravery is, how I wanted to cry. Black and white and read all over, that’s me, I thought. He’ll call when he lands, he’ll call and I’ll tell him about this and he’ll laugh.

I feel better that I didn’t believe him when he said he was writing about me.

А робот красивый всетаки.

There’s something outrageous in the soft budding implications of the right kind of whorled red roses. My fingers want to slip inside the warm coloured heart of them and stroke outward. Then lick. Usually I am a sane girl, careful in my associations, not prey to flighty fancies, but occasionally there’s just something about flowers. The impulses leap, as if from a slipped leash, and land, quivering, in front of a garden of alluring possibilities, fiercely demanding meaning to be applied to simple explainable mundane things.

I bought him flowers here before I left. I wonder what happened to them. They were beautiful enough to eat.” She’s standing, weight on her hip, with her head slightly tilted to the side, one hand making vague gestures in the air. In her pocket was a gun made of black ink, a paper paged monstrosity of honest secrets, his phone number. He hung the moon. Her eyes tighten. “No, I don’t want to know.

  • zombie make-up tips.
  • a bloodsucking dalek
  • zombie infection simulation

    The owner of Love’s Touch is a pleasant coppery woman, friendly and prosaic. She’s asked me to start tomorrow for a short shift beginning at eleven. In my interview she asked my age and after my family. Both of which are usually not allowed, but in this case I understand. Significant others or parents are known to threaten girls who work in such places, as if the sex toys on the back wall mitigate them from all social responsibility. All bet’s off, there’s latex present. “You don’t have the kind of boyfriend who would crash in and grab you by the neck, yelling, if he found out you worked here, do you?” My first reaction is, “Dear me, people would put up with those people?” before I remember, well, yes. Of course they do. Everyone does at some point or another, it’s just a matter of extremity, how willing one is to be victimized.

  • a black and white picture day

    Robert Moog, the gentle genius known to many as the
    father of electronic music, died at his North Carolina
    home yesterday. He was 71.

    “One day after losing Bob Moog, the electronic music community has lost one of its greatest composers, musique concrete and found-sound composer Luc Ferrari. Ferrari not only was the founding director of an academy dedicated to musique concrete but continued to advance the notion of recorded sound as music with experiments like turning a recording of a Yugoslav village into music. The fact that we now find such innovations old-hat is partly due to the influence he had.” link

    Moog link.

  • Beths’ concert was delightful and Ethan’s sister very very sexy.
  • Tomorrow I have a job interview at an erotic costume shoppe. I am amused. There may be enough irony to give me escape velocity from the tawdry implications.
  • My keyboard seems to have died. I’m currently using an iMac keyboard off my roommate. It’s literally a pain to use, further proof that the designers were all sadists. If anyone knows of a cheap place to get ergonomic keyboards, my wrists would be exceedingly grateful.
  • Also, zombie make-up. Anyone have anything particular in mind?

    … and from zombies, we get:

  • remote controlled humans

  • where are we going for breakfast?

    Originally uploaded by nowhere.

    Mishka’s in town for the first time in a year. We’re building a house of everything that happened since I saw her. Mine’s five fingers of clumsy pain in a cut glass cup that never existed, hers is three of short-girl cuddly with a dash of boy complaint for good measure stuffed into a tanned pillow. If you knew her, that sentence would make sense. It would be concise, even. As it is, barely anyone I know has ever come in contact with her. This should change.

    I’d like for my friends to meet her.

    She’ll be with me today until six-thirty or so, and I may be seeing her again this week during the day sometime. She’s back in Victoria for a show on Friday, then back here for part of the weekend, then off to Calgary to visit her relationship.

    Also, tonight is Beth‘s show:

    stay and

    &nbspLV sez to BoinbBoing, “Lia over at annotated the Electronic Bard’s love poem from Stanislaw Lem’s The Cyberiad, for those of us who are not quite mathematically savvy but still want in on the joke.”

    Come, let us hasten to a higher plane
    Where dyads tread the fairy fields of Venn,
    Their indices bedecked from one to n
    Commingled in an endless Markov chain!

    Come, every frustrum longs to be a cone
    And every vector dreams of matrices.
    Hark to the gentle gradient of the breeze:
    It whispers of a more ergodic zone.



    I can’t tell if I got enough sleep. My bedframe of bones is creaking, unready for heavy use. The springs are fallen, rusting in thier saltwater sheath.