too tired for anything but 99c pizza

I really appreciate Tilly. Once a shaved-head lesbian who wrote bad poetry, she’s such a heavily blossoming human being now that it gives me hope for my body, for the wreckage of emotional scenery that surrounds it. I love when she explains her past, if she had a job somewhere as a programmer, she would be the power-point perfect love interest for a Douglas Coupland character. She groans along with us at the more delightfully embarrassing habits she used to have, and it plucks out my hiding grin and shakes it in front of my face like a dusty rag.

jacques' b-day

Outside black clouds are chasing sunlight across Davie Street in waves. Shadow, sun, shadow, darkness, chilly, light. I want it to snow. I want flowers to bloom so hard they pop in small explosions. I want my feeling of betrayal to launch into the air and be hit by a large blue truck. The snow would be crunchy as I walked out slowly into the street, and the yelling of the panicked driver, oh my god, I’m so sorry, it just ran under my tires, I didn’t see it, would be quiet compared to the styrofoam compression of ice-crystals under my feet and the scorched flower petals falling from the trees thick enough to blind.

Today will continue Mandarin Movie Tuesdays with The Promise, Chen Kaige’s newest and phenomenally beautiful film.

Perhaps irrationally, I feel this psychedelic cartoon of “Love is All,” performed by Ronnie James Dio of Black Sabbath, explains my ex-husband, Bill, somewhat more comprehensively than I’ve been able to myself. It precisely encapsulates a chunk of the media mind-set that he grew up with on Vancouver Island in the 70’s, one that I’ve always had troubles mentally capturing outside of films like Wizards. It’s like those taupe and dark brown houses that cover swathes of suburbia, little tear-downs always with the same hardware store cupboards and red brick fireplaces, nestled in trees that look like they need pruning, that are like fading photographs of twenty minutes before I was born, when he was a teenager fresh from conquering high-school and discovering Vancouver as the fresh place to be.

I found a picture of him while I was tidying this week. It’s a photograph I insisted on taking from the stage before we mounted a play, possibly The Heretic, in Waterfront Theater. It’s him with a bunch of people who used to be our friends, Johnathan Ryder, his wife Nancy, (still pregnant with the baby), John Murphy, and Tom Jones, sitting in first row. If anyone has a scanner I could use, I would like to make a copy to send to him. I think he would like it.

Download Music: New DeathBoy Track: Anuism (feat. Mog Xykogen)

I remember the feeling of being a widow

Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

As if I’d conjured him with thought, I encountered the sweet latin-american cocaine dealer on the bus again, the one I’d lent my copy of Pattern Recognition to weeks ago. He was sitting in the back wearing a black oversize Francisco football jacket, huge dark blue jeans, and a face that cheerfully lit up with recognition when I said hello. I like him, he doesn’t know what to do with me, and past our brief conversations, we have no social connections. When he told me he’d called me, I belatedly realized that he must have been the mystery caller that I’d been neglecting to call back, assuming, due to the timeframe, that it was the producer creep who’d got my phone number off a drunken friend in a nightclub. I hope he calls again. I hope he reads the book. I picture him at home, flipping it over in his hands, reading the back cover again, wondering what sort of person I am to give it to him like that.

Trojan Nuclear Plant Implosion – May 21, 2006

My birthday is quick coming up. Celebrations are to begin this week. Wednesday evening, there will be a gathering of like-minded individuals for an All-You-Can-Eat chocolate fondue at the Capstone Tea & Fondue (1118 Denman). It’s something like a $10-ish minimum tab per person. I would appreciate an RSVP as the venue is very small and I feel we should warn them if a slavering horde is to descend upon them and ravage their fruit like a glittering pack of starving crows.

Next on the list, I’m trying to find myself a ride to Seattle for Sunday, May 28th, the day before my birthday. After that, there’s talk of a party at my place for June 3rd. Nothing concrete yet, but words have been happening and words tend to have this nasty habit of becoming plan without anyone noticing. Just keep it in mind is all I’m saying. The week after that is the masque June 9th, (which you’re also likely invited to, just say the word and I’ll see what I can do).

Man with viable(?) rocket boots – 2005

My brain keeps playing callous tricks on me, blatantly assuming I have someone to come as my date to various special things, (a birthday dinner with my godmother, the party in Seattle, the masque), then reminding me as I reach for the phone that I’m not welcome to love certain people anymore, that I am to remember that such thoughts are supposed to be anathema. It’s frustrating, to be so pleased and then so hurt in the flash of a second. It’s not like I was shed yesterday or even last week. I should be used to the thought by now that I wasn’t worth more than a beddable test-drive instead of these contemptible, brief, indefinite intervals of softly smiling, touchy-feely experience, thinking that there’s someone special I’m still allowed to see.