excuse me what?

I came home from work today to this AIM message from Steen:

(4:13:24 PM): so I meet this guy randomly at the laughing squid drinkup, and invite him to our hackspace. So we’re standing outside talking, and he mentions that he lived in Vancouver for a while
(4:13:58 PM): so I say, completely joking, because you know, it’s a fairly large city, “So, do you know Jhayne?”
(4:14:27 PM): and he says “Oh, yeah. Everyone knows Jhayne.”
(4:14:33 PM): totally deadpan, totally meant it.
(4:14:41 PM): it was awesome
went away at 4:19:44 PM.


X-Ray Crowd, by American painter, graphic novelist, and illustrator Eric Drooker

The Westboro Baptist “Church” are coming to my neighborhood in Vancouver to protest a small play running at the Havana about Matthew Sheperd, a gay American University of Wyoming student who was hate-crime murdered near Laramie on the night of October 6–October 7, 1998. (These classy, classy people are also planning on picketing Obama’s grandmother’s funeral.)

From their awful site, godhatesfags.com:

C1/28/08 Vancouver, Canada – Havana Theatre – Matt’s in hell & God Hates Canada! 1212 Commercial Drive With signs in hand and smiles on our faces, we shall travel the great distance from Kansas to Canada – AGAIN! When Canada determined to fight against God, they took up a satanic mission which must be addressed. We cannot make you behave, but we can tell you some words, to wit: Ps 9:17 The wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the nations that forget God. Just because you are really, really evil and hateful does not mean WE will not lovingly tell you the truth because that’s our job, man! Matthew Sheperd is in hell, 10+ years now, and will remain there for the remainder of time. Deal with it! AMEN!

If they manage to cross the border, a group of us are planning on attending as well with counter signs that state GOD HATES SIGNS, (based off Isaiah 44:24-25), GOD SENT ME TO SELL YOU ATHEISM and any other appropriate anti-slogan we can think of. As Mike Levens points out, “http://www.godhateseveryoneexceptforus.com should provide some inspiration”. What we’re going to do once we’re there is still up for discussion. Some people are planning on arriving in angel wings, which I think sort of buys a little too deeply into their belief structure, plus is something for them to rail against, which they thrive on, and some people are planning on attempting to stand with the Westboro people with anti-signs in hand. “… just kinda sidle up to them. Act like you’re in on their cause and want to support it. Act surprised and offended if they try and distance themselves. Join in their stupid slogan-chants but get the words wrong.” Me, I’m more for the second plan.

To go with this, a collection might be taken up to donate money to the matthew shepherd foundation, accepting pledges that will increase with every hour the Westboro people protest.

hold it down

Moonhead, by Andrew Broder:

did you hear the one about the day the moon fell to earth?
it had a crater exactly the size of a human head on it
and it landed on my head and now my head is the moon.
or the one about the day a thousand lives from now

when we return as a team of archeologists
and discover fossils of ourselves in a former life
on the day we spurned our nervous twitch
and found our yearn to hint at winter bliss.
on the day the stars sang the national anthem of sweaty disbelief,
of coelacanth teeth, to scream loud enough
to shatter the roof of a coral reef
and the shrapnel ground up into paint
for robin’s egg colored dream and root beer float,
second hand flavored drool absorbers
and the words “hope” and “home” that sound the same,
smell the same as the day the doe caught a sad snowflake on her
tongue and melted it in an instant
and it tasted like the blackhole’s wild-eyed longing for light,
whether from the starts that radiate
or the planets that reflect it or the eyes that reflect the reflection,
or the eyes looking into those eyes and seeing the reflection of the eyes,
which if all goes according to plan,
will outlast the universe itself.


Lung is talking about bussing me down to Las Vegas to meet with him and Natasha somewhere near the end of November, and then traveling with them to the Salton Sea, finally to pick up the letter Kyle left there for me sometime last year. As November closes around me and the sun drowns in fallen leaves and crowns itself in flash flood puddles that mirror the endless gray sky, it feels less like a blessing and more like a fairytale already told, like somehow I missed it between one blink and the next, as if these places never really exist, but only hover over pages of books and mimic the careless sheen of photographs, haunting our collective conscious in a waking haze of forgotten days as long as winter dusk.

Out there is the storm, strangely calmed, another twist in the river, another chapter of life. Here is a pool of known days, painting, adjusting, David job hunting, tinkering with very little, watching a movie at home every two days. I’ve said yes. Of course I’ve said yes. I’ve missed Lung, his crackling humour, sharing our puzzle-piece twin set of anger and frustrations. There is no other answer. Now it rests on my workplace, if they will let me leave for a week, to work away for five days. If it all works out, I’ll bus down to Seattle after work on the 21st for Robin’s party on the 22nd, then catch a bus to Vegas from there on the 23rd. My fingers are crossed, my fingers and my heart and my bones and breath. My hope is an elephant living deep inside the cage of my chest, pressing against my skin, forged out of a cello’s long humming strokes of sound, invisible until an answer arrives.

Until then, I won’t know myself. I’ll be a string of notes without direction, as crazy eyed inside as unexpected blood on the hands, a tight rope walker with her lover on the other side and a den full of sharp toothed, hungry lions below.

Meanwhile, Antony and I are e-mailing back and forth, a piano falling from the sky. There’s nothing quite like home. Apparently he arrived in Montreal just over a week after I left, and he’ll be there until half-way through December, far after I would return from the south. Tag, you’re it. Unexpected, how life plays these games of just missed, all the way through, both directions. If he sends me his address, I’m going to try and make sure he gets another palm tree, to keep in touch.

Some times I am lucky and an entire week can go by without missing his laugh. I wonder, occasionally, that I am so changed within since we met. Given all that is fixed, will I ever want to be able to walk away again?

who wants a rabbit?

My two cats have been dealing surprisingly well with the introduction of the rabbits. They stop, stock still, when they notice Emerson is out, and look vaguely offended, as if this new, small cat is an affront against nature. “Look at those ears. There’s something wrong with those ears. What is this defect doing in our house?” Then they quietly, in almost ninja cat movements stalk up to him and arrange themselves just out of reach, preferably over him somehow, on a table of a couch, and watch, twitching, horrified at the living mystery that is A Bunny.

Tanith, the fluffy, more laid back one of my two, has been adjusting much faster than Tanaquil, my sleek hunter of boundless energy, who is far more likely to be the culprit when anything gets knocked off a shelf. She even played with Emmie a bit last night, batting about a toilet paper roll with him in the living-room before she decided he was just too weird.

Emmie, meanwhile, is thrilled with his new home. He has two cats to run at, a coffee table to hang out under, and attention whenever he wants it. It’s almost embarrassingly entertaining.

Our other rabbit, Fido, needs to find a new home. As a solo rabbit, he’s incredible, the most adorable little velvet soft gray creature your addled minds can imagine. He’s active, cuddly, sweet, and brain meltingly cute, (long walks on the beach not included), but when David took him, he took him as a rescue from certain death by mistreatment, from a home that didn’t have him fixed and now his hormones are causing him to be continually cruel to Emerson as he tries to assert his dominance, who, not having those chemicals, can’t react properly enough to make it stop.

The biggest issue, though, is that while we don’t want Emmie hurt, what we really don’t want is to give Fido to a shelter that might put him down. As with any animal, it’s a lot less effort to find a home for one that’s already fixed. So, if you would like a sweet little bunbun, or know anyone who might, please spread the word.

If adorable bunny pictures are required, I will take some, and paste his widdle picture absolutely everywhere until you all are brainwashed and cannot resist our damned cute bunny anymore.