this was much harder to write than I thought it would be

your fashionable whore
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

Hair like clutching moss today, skin and energy slathered in exhaustion, I feel like I need to either sleep a week or force myself to run a marathon. Sasko asked where my beautiful man was, summoning a moment of all the electric chair ease I’m carrying from yesterday’s dream of the airport. Suddenly the full power of my newly absent desire clawed into my chest. After I caught my breath, pasted a half-lie of a smile on, I told him in return about how my last trip to L.A. was a disaster.

Walking into Compton, religious zealots, being kidnapped. A TV movie with no budget. I can’t help but picture him there, my strange and beautiful kindness, somewhere, graceful, smiling. Not the city, but the beach and an apartment I have never seen. Rolling out of bed to look the morning in the eye. Fishing in the sleeve of the yukata for a package or a lighter.

Yesterday he gave me money for a taxi back to the city, but I couldn’t think of anywhere I wanted to go, so I purchased a new ten dollar pocket watch instead to get change for the bus and watched as the minutes ticked past to his take-off.

Now I’m filling my days with make-busy tasks, as if my week were a small bottle to fill with the blood of a murder victim. When a chirping is heard, I’ll know I’ll have conjured my demon heart successfully. Usually invisible, she must be fed blood from my fingertips every day and in exchange, she will cause madness in whomever I desire. Enter writing, creativity, creation.

Or so I hear.

(he is still in the air), this is a gift, {welcome home}

Winter creeping back in, as if it forgot something in the front hall. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out. Our card keys not working two nights in a row. Black suitcases, brocade. He bought me a corset, he did, my heart glowed. It blazed from my chest, a red light to guide the blind, but it didn’t fit. They’re tricky things, all boning and busk, slim lines and I’m ten inches too wide, too thin, too shaped already. An hour and a half at the shop for them to take it back. An hour glass slumped in an old diner on Davie st. falling asleep on a shoulder, yawning wide, teeth shiny like the chrome lining the tables. Formica, red seats, milkshakes, it’s been here forever. Everything already ten years old. This place, these people. I never told you his name. Words flashing by, sparking sweet recognition, laughter. Clouds, muslin, always, always writing about the sky. His brown eyes. I am a gosling, torn. I can feel my heart like a light, blazing, bright, and happy. Inside my chest is thin starshine, the dust we are made of, picture perfect, luminous, shining, only imagined. Plastic bags of yesterday’s dinner, breakfast. It blazes, burning my skin. Stopping in to buy more cigarettes, more prophylactics. Two boxes and one. Our gratitude no less than our compassion. It’s the best shopping list. On the magazine cover 10 THINGS HE CRAVES IN BED. Denied. Trees sway when we laugh, damp with warm Vancouver rain. Nick is down the street, waiting, walking. I recognize his stride, his big black coat flapping. Spring steel, dark with light purple, Valentines, Elizabethan, so my middle name. We shared a taxi up to Broadway before I tried it on. The mirror lied. Construction zone jack hammering on a Sunday morning.

Opening envelopes, my house slowly being buried, neglected, unseen. A bracelet, a pair of earrings, a card, two stories, my name. Green, green, so messily written, so charmingly crafted, a treasure trove. My name. It’s official and legal and I already tore the paper pulling it from the envelope. My birthday present from last year. My Name. I turn to him in bed to say I don’t like how if movies were true, all men would have a father complex. Suicide, murder, be proud of me pops. Gonna be a soldier, gonna take down the man, fight for my country, stand up and be counted as another worn hero, broken bones and shallow dialogue. Don’t like it, don’t want it, don’t have to have it, but here, I insist. Paperwork, with years, with spelling, I erased my parents. Created only my mother, mouse haired, we don’t look alike, to have and to hold, to protect and cherish and yet my last name is mine. Always will be until I can pass it on, give it over, give it away. here, a present. My name. Amazing what spelling can change. Two letters and already I am disconnected from my family. A million cousins, a thousand brothers, stories from farther away than outer space. Sicilian mob bosses, gypsy queens, grandfathers wandering the wars. When she was rescued, she was told she couldn’t eat more than a single slice of bread. Everyone who tried to carry gold was shot crossing the river. Vanished now. Wiped away. My name is mine. These are my hands, capable, but unattached.

The second attempt fit better, a satin shell. It creaks like a ship. Sailing, the sweep of hip, memories of leaning out to catch water in my hand, so blue in my head it looks like the sky had drowned there like we can’t breathe, like we clip our fingers together above his head. No one in the world could echo in such slow motion. Sailing, one of those strange skills. We’re full of tricks. Destruction and beauty, everywhere I swerve, he is straight. Never before have I been so aware of the word flesh, his lack of it. Sticks and stones, my body the anchor, softer, heavier, more capable of balance. I carry him. We are a Waterhouse painting. Idiosyncratic, aberration, he calls me improbable. He tells me I am to die by vanishing in a puff of logic. The pattern of our presents drips off my tongue, the hollow of a thought, the success of clear thinking. The girl at the shop had a tattoo of a heart beaten full of nails, she stays open an hour after close, as he peers in, asks questions. We burn my back tightening the cord. This was my place. Walls lined synthetic pink, soft jelly plastic, PVC on hooks, cheap zippers, bright wigs. Bones. Glad to be gone. Trapped, caught, tying me into another one. Too long, too short, nothing’s just right, velvet, no velvet, we’re on a time-line. He leaves on a plane. Flies away. Don’t let your arms get tired, we’ve got one on the counter, spread like wings, untying, tying, these things take time, grace. Our impatience crawls. His hair like feathers, it’s just a little wind. Outside, we won, satisfied. He flings his cigarette into the street, it arcs, splashes sparks, any minute now, he’s gone.

Personal mythology, the bits and pieces, trapped in amber, rising like liquid. It’s a battle against clocks ticking, this emotional arsenal, holding his hand on the way to work in the morning. Every day back to my life, the shadow of a girl filled in with colours, traced on paper and brought back to life. The crown of my head, a picture on the screen. Smiles that cover my eyes, the lines defining how we fade into one expression from another. The shutter flickers and I keep another breath. It’s important, lining, tracing the slow blast radiating out from his chest, quiet, mine. Safe from sun, safe from dissolution, memory, considerations falling apart. This place, this locket we make of fingers he wears in his sleep, my hand as a bracelet, safe. The unfamiliar feeling. Kind desires bubble under my skin like blood crawling under dew, breaking our bodies into confusion, stroking mythical bees over my shoulders and belly, cool and soft as a swarm of blossoms. Clear, particular, apparently we’re dangerous, wicked spirits, too welcoming. We don’t follow the instructions printed on the box. Housekeeping must hate us. In a way I am writing a eulogy, dramatic music, a canvas of kind words that might glitter the way I see us, might explain what has happened, how ten years out of date, out of synch, our cities matched up, found their names. We’re reflections on still water, a moving knot of stories, my faith restored, an inhuman sound, this comfortable glide from one moment to the next. The last time a long time, five years, seven, we’re moving cities, changing places. Our friend’s wife, she doesn’t understand how much is unspoken. We’re too easy, too familiar, it’s the greatest thing, his leaning over to brush my hair with something clever, sarcastic. We laugh, electric, the three of us, shutting her to the side. We are a postcard. I keep this. It feels important, this odd situation, necessary to get it precisely correct.

This is a pleasure, healed, to be human, flawed, merciless, and embraced. His voice, memorized, I can pull it from air to read my books for me. Inflection perfect, the tilted angle of his head, so fragile, the secret heart of bravery. Experimenting, an inadvertent witness, it changes how I move. There are seams in the edits, wafting hints of his cologne, indications, evidence, digital pictures, him on a beach somewhere in Calfornia, another on a red carpet, the opening of his film. A collection I am creating. Out in the world are wonders, full of third and fourth chances, ocean backdrops, doors opening, alarm clocks in the morning, sunsets, inspirations dramatic and banal. Whispered stories of light and wind, architecture, as escape from sick green glass, the scratchy hotel towels. We are subtle, traveling on each others clothing, creating lines and sine waves on the side of shower walls, not a future, but a conjunction of trust. We are concatenated, tied from every side, unlikely and appropriate, suddenly dead centre. Stories made of endless threads pulling in every direction, the way he looks at me, how I am distracted by the shape of his thinking. Dinner with different friends every night, angles of incidents, who did what, tighter, charming and expressive, radiant. Rock solid truth.

At the airport, sunlight, security. We smile. Quickly, have a bad habit. I live in L.A. That will do. Hug. Hold. Our pictures are few, hopeful and happy. We kiss.

Every journey should be so well lit. (Welcome home).

I need distraction, what about you?

Hobo Party!

Dress up as one of the John Hodgman’s 700 Hobos!

April 28th! 7pm!

The Concrete Lean-to on Richards and Smithe (Michael‘s house)!

Step 1: Pick a hobo name from THE LIST, (pictures are also included, if you need insight into how best to bring out your inner hobo nature).

Step 2: Dress as that hobo. (I am #253: The Young Churchill’s Hated Bride).

Step 3: Come to the party and mingle with all hobokind!

If you want to head over to Sin City at Richards on Richards later on in the night, try to dress as a sexy hobo, or bring an outfit to change into.

BYOB, there will be food, a pool table, and general socializing…as HOBOES!

children of men much?

Offshore abortion women’s group is given licence again:

An “abortion ship” is planning to sail to countries where the practice is illegal and take women out to sea for terminations after the Dutch Government lifted restrictions banning it from international waters.

… Under the terms of its licence, the group is able to sail under the Dutch flag in international waters and hand out “abortion pills” for women up to seven weeks pregnant, causing them to have a miscarriage.

I find it perturbing that this is required yet proud that it exists. I had an argument with an ex once over the term pro-choice, because though he believed it should be the woman’s choice to terminate the pregnancy or not, he mistakenly believed that because he would wish to keep it, he was anti-choice.

FYI: Miscarriages can be safely induced using only Parsley and Vitamin C. Pass that info on.

please note the comments to this article as well, if you go. they’re even more interesting when clustered by location.

need a picture in the yukata

Jesus Monkey Pants in Space has a FACEBOOK Fanclub based out of a college in Michigan.

I saw a poster on my way to the apartment this morning I found interesting: EMPIRE NATION, GOOGLE IT. No other information. These are the same people who’ve been leaving tiny logos stenciled all over town in odd spots, like the underside of curbs or the back of traffic signs. As viral marketing goes, I expect they’re doing rather well. Not that I have taken the time to properly look them up or plan to, (a quick search brings up nothing), but I appreciate the sociological assumptions it makes. It reminds me of Lily Allen recording Smile in Simlish, the language of the video game Sims 2. (video here). It’s just so precisely directed at a demographic that I can’t help but like it.

I’m such a sucker.

Tuesday Confession : When I was about six years old, I was so desperate for sugar I once wore off all the skin of my tongue trying to lick all the calcified sugar-now-sandpaper icing off a petrified gingerbread house.

What’s yours?

aaand, he’s just walked in. I am the luckiest thing on two legs in all of Vancouver.

a better view

I did not get to go to Regina Spektor last night, due to a serious of misfortunate moments of Drama ™ where I should have let off trying to respect someones apparent Sudden Dislike For My Company and beat them up-side the head with my presence anyway. Lesson learned. Next time I will be more callous. Yes, I am un-thrilled. Apparently it was a very, very good concert.

However, I was shown off last night and that was wonderful. It balanced out my hot disappointment rather well. We gathered people at the Jupiter Cafe, had a politician buy our drinks, then went to True Confections with Aeon and his wife. We went to bed exhausted, amused, and well. Apparently, when we are tired, we are hilarious. As such, we are clever all the time.

Today I am nervous, as the boy took my measurements when I was distracted and sleepy and seems to be making corset-shaped noises. As he’s ten years out of practise with this city, I’m feeling fairly safe with whatever he’s actually doing. It’s not like he can get very far, she says to herself, doubting.

Predators of the Sprawl

It occurred to me this morning that we have been co-habitating since, essentially, April 1st. I wonder if I will remember that in a year, the most comfortable joke I have ever encountered in my small life. His apartment was an odd compartment, the hotel feels more temporary, somehow increasingly realistic. Our toothbrushes cradle.

Winter is over, the streets are coated in pink flower petals as if the sidewalk was about to be married our shoes, and the clouds are taking on the consistency of still life paintings from places more interesting and decidedly more Italian. Construction continues everywhere, it is still possible to count cranes like a trail of shooting stars, but somehow, I begin to hope in two generations, what is above water in Vancouver will be a fascinating place to live.

(LJ now lets you embed anything, as long as you wrap pointy-bracket lj-embed pointy-bracket around the embed or object tag.)

as I worship the interpretation

received as a letter, authorship witheld:

Once upon a perfect moment, stretched & bent & folded
in half & sewn end-to-end, when the stars were in faultless
accord & the world turned with dignity & solemn grace,
when even cruelty was polite, even cynicism holy, a girl
with flowers in her hair & a song on her lips drilled a
hole through her liily white palm & stared out through it
at all the ugliness that lay beyond.


She turned away, as all things turned, with effortless
elegance, her skirts sweeping through rose petals &
crisp autumn leaves, blood dripping from her fingers
like the final notes of Libera Me, & in her wake the
shocked silence was worn away be birdsong & the
thoughtful murmur of the trees.


She turns again, later, with long-practiced unpracticed
grace, not away but in a wide, slow circle, arm
out-stretched to display the hole, larger in its setting
of pearl white scar, partially obscured by delicate
metacarpals. The gathered crowd stares in fascinated
horror, & when she bows the applause is exuberant.

She does not do an encore. There is no second act.

things I wanted to do to you

I like tickling people older than me. My heart feels a predatory thrill, as if when they buck, flush, and curl up in laughter, they transform into a glowing universe wracked by seizures, but only six years old. It somehow evens the balance to have a glimpse into Them As Children, from before they ever knew about sex or even thought of themselves as people, let alone adults, people living ten or twenty years ahead of me.

Tomorrow, like today, I will be on set.

You know what, Stuart? I like you, you’re not like the other people here, in the trailer park.

Just a quick note, as I continue to smash my brain into my destroyed CV, (anyone masochistic enough to help me? I fail at resume writing like I fail at kicking puppies):

Wow. Have any of you had the dubious pleasure of catching the Fox “News” report on Kurt Vonnegut’s death?

It’s really quite something. Not having a television, I tend to underestimate what it’s like.