If any of you are in Montreal, now you know where you need to be tonight.
I’ve been planning this past weekend for weeks. It was going to be my super funtastic weekend, full of dancing, (finally), music, and awesome sauce, but I didn’t make it to anything. The Jazz Fest, FUSE, Stephanie’s birthday, the Workless Party party.. nada. Instead I was at home, feeling stuck, financially doomed, and not just a little agoraphobic. I’m terrifically lucky David was around. I hate to imagine what my weekend would have hypothetically been like without him.
As part of Silva’s move, I’ve been inheriting a lot of her things. Things that don’t necessarily have an easy place in my home, so I’ve been moving furniture and tearing apart the kitchen, moving more furniture, tearing apart my room, unpacking boxes all over the place, and generally being overwhelmed. My house, on Friday, looked as if it had been looted, raped, burned, then looted again. It was driving me utterly crazy, (very likely the sole reason I’ve felt so awful lately), so instead of going the the KRAZY FUSE which I’d been looking forward to for months, I spent the entirety of Friday night cleaning and organizing and tidying until the sun seared the sky into Saturday morning. When I woke up, it was passable, but I was exhausted, utterly burned out, too drained for my plans. (Especially as it’s still not done!)
Today I’m hoping to spend a bit of time with Silva, who leaves on Tuesday, and maybe drag myself down to Yaletown for the tail end of some of the free Jazz Fest shows. I’ve had Pink Martini playing all day. It’s helping.
“…even if tomorrow we opened up every square mile of the outer Continental Shelf to offshore rigs, even if we drilled the entire state of Alaska and pulled new refineries out of thin air, the impact on gas prices would be minimal and delayed at best. A 2004 study by the government’s Energy Information Administration (EIA) found that drilling in ANWR would trim the price of gas by 3.5 cents a gallon by 2027.”
via Brian Wood
Frog Can Fly, by Mila Kalnitskaya & Micha Maslennikov.
Using plastic, metal, and live frogs “because they are small and light.”
Two of the frogs involved, Siberian Postman and Fly of Destiny are now pets of the artists.
Can you help? Silva‘s departure date is right around the corner. An essential part of moving, however, involves loading a truck and her and her wife, though they are fierce, brightly shining people, are still two little older ladies, and they can’t do it alone.
“We’re loading a truck with heavy boxes and a very few pieces of furniture on Thursday morning at 10 am. If this kind of activity appeals to you, and if you want to help, and if you *can* help FOR SURE,and can be here from 9:30ish until noon please let me know. I have to run off to a dentist appointment at 12:30 so it HAS TO be finished by then. There will be non-alcoholic cold beverages and cookies and much gratitude.”
I’m going to try and take the morning off to help, but I might not be able to and it’s very important that people show up.
That 1 Guy will be playing at the Montreal Festival Intl. De Jazz from June 25 – 30
Guy: See you!
Girl: See you!
Guy: I love you!
Girl: You are killing me.
Guy: I ought to kill you.
The best thing I overheard recently was a girl saying, “Hell, I’d fuck your dad for money.”
A blind man on the bus, laughing every time we stop, glad of the sensation like a kid on a circus ride. “Hey guys, what stop are we at?” I glance outside, looking for street signs, “We’re at second.” “Thanks!” Back to my book, I wonder briefly if anyone else would have bothered to reply. I speak up again when it’s my stop, “This is Broadway.” “The near side or the far side.” “The near side.” Then I’m gone, footsteps snapping away on the pavement, out of ear-shot, now invisible.
I can’t help but wonder, with a sunken feeling in my chest, if I should practice with a white cane now rather than later, when it will be more difficult. I’ve cut down on my reading and learned a couple of tricks that slow my eyes from degeneration, but I can tell they’re still getting worse. I close them sometimes when I walk with people to discover how far I can get only listening for the ends of sidewalks, for traffic, for other pedestrians and bumps in the road. I keep my hand tightly around their bicep, or tautly in their hand, and I listen, and walk, and I worry.
One of the more exclusive shows at HIVE2 placed the participant in the role of a convict at a prison. (One woman came back crying). To apply to take part, you wore an arm-band. When they came for you, (the audience was picked two by two), no matter when it was, you had to go or you forfeit. It looked as if it would be harsh, a nasty, hard-core experience, but really, the main body of the experience was ritualistic sensory deprivation. You were dressed in anonymous orange coveralls and a matching orange tuque, then sound dampeners and a blindfold were placed on your head. A rope was put in your hand, and you had to follow, passive, pulled, blind, unable to hear. Hands would reach out, solidly, and guide you through doorways, pull you up stairs. I had been expecting fear or an uncomfortable feeling of powerlessness, but unexpectedly, I smiled, warm and confident in the artificial darkness. “I do this already, minus the barked orders to sit, to stand, to go up a step. This is fine,” I thought, “though there’s no way the other person feels the same way. I hope she’s okay.”
There’s levels and layers to all of it, though. I was alright at HIVE2, solid and strong, but that was mild, a safe visit to a possible future.
My friend Mishi was paired with a seeing-eye dog recently, a sweet and exuberant black Labrador retriever. She says it takes 6 months to a year to become a smooth, seasoned team, which makes me smile, glad that she’s finally got her guide, but shyly, as I try not to imagine too closely what it must all be like.
End of the line, the train stops, the bus stops, whichever motion, it’s over. Outside the sky is just as dark as it was yesterday, the day burned down, the night entranced. Rough in the back of the eyes.
I’ve invited Lung and David to come with me to Katie’s wedding. It’s in Toronto, I have places to stay, options, resources, the temptation to stay. Lung’s not sure if he could make it, but he’d like to go. There a chance we could meet Kyle, finally, his lovely lady, and his lots of cats. (Are there more of you in T.O?) I’ve started looking at bus-tickets, knowing the farther ahead they’re booked, the cheaper they’ll end up being. There’s a companion fare on greyhound. A second ticket with the same itinerary for fourty dollars more. Two people splitting the cost doesn’t look like it would be that bad.
The soft drop of gravity when the plane takes off, the wheels as they grind into cloud. Looking down, squares, grid-lock, and a river of motion flowing to another sea, wavy lines representing false cul-de-sac suburb security.
“Six Feet Under”
“British Columbia Case gets stranger by the foot”
“Bizarre Canadian tale now six feet long”
“The Story’s a Foot”
They need to catch this person, the sooner the better. I don’t think I can stand it any longer.
Oh heck, see what I did there? THEY’RE GETTING ME TOO.