charmed, I’m sure

how old-fashioned
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

Every day has been something new that stretches late. Dawn has been the time I put my head to the pillow for sleep, quarter past the sun has begun to come up. I’m buried in this thing then that thing. It’s good and I wonder where my phone-call is. There’s a boy in the shower and I wonder if I’m going to do anything about him. Cult of personality and we had sandwiches for breakfast at four in the afternoon because we’d been up watching Emma Thompson swan ravishingly through Much Ado About Nothing.

  • EU launches first phase of satellite navigation project.

    I breathe and the story continues. Backward, last night was Patti‘s birthday, the night before that was Tilly’s. Sitting on a ball at the Treehouse, eating green icing from a giant glass measuring cup and harmlessly flirting with old friends. Wednesday was Kareoke at the Veterans Hall, spending time with Ray alone for once and Tuesday I’m not even sure I remember, except I know I walked home from Christopher‘s place, a bedraggled leftover from Monday night Korean Movies.

    The days go back like that until the flatline day I got off the plane. It’s an obvious try to pick up the telephone and connect the wires between me and the rest of the world. It’s been so long that I feel like I’ve forgotten the number and I know that’s terribly wrong for me. Horror movie music inching under my door like a flat killer realization, that’s what that is. Walking into a basement with only a flickering flashlight, the spark-plug smashing the car window moment of let’s Split Up.

  • Retrievr is a Flickr hack that searches a database of images based on drawings instead of tags.

    The window didn’t give me light today. The city’s closed against it, our ceiling of cloud is endless. Ice-skating will be the brightest place in the past twenty-four hours. The inside of my eyes are thinking of a bed underneath a star of lights. Ask me over or come yourself. You knew where I was living before anyone yet you’ve never visited. The number’s been the same, electric tattoo easy. Consider this an invitation.

  • the spell check does not auto-correct

    Sunday night, after the excitement that is Morris Dancing, there’s going to be a small group going ice-skating at the Burnaby 8-Rinks. The plan is to meet on the Metrotown Station platform between 8 – 8:15 pm. If you miss us, take the 144 to Sprott Street. (If you’re driving, there’s a Sprott Street Exit from the highway.) I don’t know the price of things, but I suspect ten dollars would be enough to cover both skate rentals and ice-time.

    I’m carrying myself lightly. My feet are lifting slightly off the ground, though the toes are still dragging. Again, I am lifting my head and holy. Welcome to the sacred. Service begins at waking.

    Patti’s hot-tub party was relaxing, a pleasant group of people in the house I spent my Christmas in. Nick had a smaller turn-out than expected on Thursday. At least five sparkling people who had asked if I was going to go were no-shows. Silly people, they missed out on cake.

    Sociability is breathing into me. On my return, I have taken up the ropes of friendship and madness and have begun tying myself back into having some sort of family. It’s difficult, relearning all the different knots, the phone-numbers, the remembering names, the confidant stride and swing of contentment. I’ve held in these hands the strength to carry on, but it’s like the callouses are gone. Everything wears anew, roughing up aspects of myself that were all but forgotten.

    Oh yes, and TooTaLute will be playing at the Work Less Party’s showing of “Alarm Clocks Kill Dreams” on Tuesday at 8 at the Pacific Cinemateque on Howe. (Which, by the way, is showing Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance January 5-9. Excitement!)