hope this is enough warning

365 day twenty-two: keep a light on
365: twenty-two

In is down, down is front. Out is up, up is back. Off is out, on is in. And of course, left is right and right is left. A drop shouldn’t and a ‘block and fall’ does neither. A prop doesn’t and a cove has no water. Tripping is OK. A running crew rarely gets anywhere . A purchase line buys you nothing. A trap will not catch anything. A gridiron has nothing to do with football. Strike is work, (a lot of work). And a green room, thank mercy, usually isn’t. Now that you’re fully versed in theatrical terms, break a leg. But not really.

Tonight there’s a group of us going down to the Art’s Club to see The Black Rider, a play written by Tom Waits, Robert Wilson, and William S. Burroughs.

Plan: Meet there at 7:00. Show’s at 7:30.

excuse me?

My f-list just did a fun little thing. All in row, skonen_blades sends me an e-mail with the news, Keith sends a messenger note, warren_ellis sends out a related Bad Signal, then wyldkyss, quipper, smogo, robotangel, flemco, useless_facts, cmpriest, benpeek, city_of_dis, rollick, budgie_uk, and ladyjaida all post to varying degrees that an actor named Heath Ledger has just been found dead. Then calamityjon, a voice of reason, comes to the fore, “Wow, CNN is reporting that Allan Melvin died. Crazy.”

(I love calamityjon).

So, fess up people, who the heck was Heath Ledger that he merits this blogging explosion? Isn’t this sort of thing fairly low down the list of important information? I’ve never even heard of him.

Me, I would think Man Found Overdosed In Mary Kate Olson’s Apartment would be the big head-line.

the things I want to see for myself

The silence is suffocating, I can hear not only my heartbeat but the quiet susurration of my blood. The cats are both asleep, two soft weights draped over my hips. I can’t hold them close, they’ll wake and wander away in search of a late night snack or some invisible ghost to chase. I wonder, briefly, if it’s possible to dream while so awake, at least rest the brain, but discard the thought, preferring to try and imagine where the people I love are right now. Various time-zones away, some of them aren’t all that far.

South three hours by plane, he’ll be asleep, strewn like an elegant game of pick-up sticks in his bed, lying feral on his left side, pillow loosely clutched to his head, hair caught in his fingers, cute in a way that tugs at my lungs, steals my breath, inspires me to slowly cut away his invariable black t-shirt with a pair of silver scissors and wake him with my tongue whispering poetry to his closed eyes. Stories of drinking in Vegas, Passover, his panic at the word marriage, how we laughed into every single night. Somewhere there will be a red curtains, a disco ball, a potted palm tree, and a video game console.

Another mind-set, seven hours hard drive in the direction of the impossible dawn, someone older, obsessive, more emotional than I could ever learn to be. Skin a different texture than mine, our hands exactly the same size. A half-fictional time-line, we’ve only spent time in hotels, I don’t even know what colour his sheets might be. The only picture I have is comfort, taking second place, offering a place of safety to someone falling apart. When we were together, there were no camp ground rules, if he fell down, he would try to take me with him, though accidentally. Eventually I cut the tether. Life got better. Now we could stand on a roof and scream at the stars together, if we were so inclined. Which we’re not. So don’t ask me to.

One day ahead and five hours behind, another sweet Jewish boy, like a new melodic theme, currently so far away the seasons have flipped, but not so far that we don’t have darkness at similar times. It’s not late enough for him to tucked into bed with the rest of us, however, so I lose my thread, can’t kiss him awake, begin mentally scanning pictures I’ve seen of the general antipode of the North Atlantic Ocean. Lush beaches, insanely colourful coral reefs, endless summer, dry dusty wastes, and ridiculous movies I love dearly. Lethal wild-life, big bouncing rat-things with gigantic feet. Some big rock right in the middle. Nowhere I can clearly place him. I’m bad at this game. Instead, I can picture him playing, his incredible, wry smile drenched in sweat, the effort of his music literally dripping off in waves. I can picture a stage, something festival, hemp clothing, om beaded necklaces, something wide and tent-like, people dancing, and the perpetual threat of rain. Completely and utterly wrong. He’s probably at dinner, I should go to bed. This is presumably the sort of thing that drives little girls mad in Victorian novels. Oh Herr Frankstein, only speak when you’re spoken to. Don’t use the wrong cutlery. Remember to sleep.

Seattle: March 18th.

oh hell, I think I just missed Michael Green’s birthday.

365 day twenty-one: did I?
365: day twenty-one

The sky was strangled by pale blue today, cerulean seen through milk, so novel that people could be seen stopped in the street, staring. Clear as pastel glass, but no more kind than that. The sunset brought cold as immediately as it does in the desert, as if all the warmth in the world could not soak into this city’s tightly woven bones, too attached to woolen gray skies and shadowed clouds to dream of summer.

“Can’t We Talk?” a simplified explanation how the conversational styles of men and women differ.