the dusty flowerpot cabaret is what the kids call the bomb

The Dusty Flowerpot Cabaret, makers of a magical and fantastical world,

in collaboration with

The Pivot Legal Society, purveyors of justice and equality,

present to you…

The Listening Jar.
(facebook event page)

Thursday February 26th
until Sunday, March 1st
Doors 7:00pm Show at 8:00pm
Followed by a dance party and social

Russian Hall 600 Campbell Ave. in Strathcona
Advance Tickets $16

Also available at
Pivot Legal (678 E Hastings)
$20 – $30 sliding scale at door

One performance by donation
Saturday, February 28
Doors 2:00pm, Show at 3:00pm

I’m lining up between noon and one o’clock on Saturday with treats from the Elizabeth Bakery.
Come join me for a line-up picnic! Bring sandwiches!

If Vancouver has a language, it is of clear glass flowers that only bloom in the rain, opaque & gray

He looked like any other low slung hip-hop hood, wide slouching jeans and a loudly patterned hoodie with something like the Yellow pages logo drunkenly stamped all over it in grinding red, chartreuse, and green, except that the music blaring from his shiny black headphones wasn’t rap. It was candied children’s music, something simple and Mexican, the South American aural equivalent of tooth rotting, brightly shiny sugar dots.

“Maybe I should marry a bus driver,” she thought, sitting next to him, “Settle down with someone with a steady job, who smiles at strangers. Someone with the celtic knot tattoo around their upper arm that was trendy when I was seventeen and they were twenty six. He could own a gun I would frown upon, play a little bit of guitar, and light candles instead of turning on lamps at night in the summertime.”

it’s a good revival

My dear friend Joseph, who I unconditionally adore, rode his motorcycle up from Seattle on Friday to stay with us for a really nice weekend get-away full of long walks, Nicole visits, and good food, with a Sunday bonus of home made nut pancakes and an introduction to the Mad Max trilogy.

When he first arrived, I asked him what he thought of where I live:

“This place looks far too normal to have you living in it.”
“What on earth were you expecting?”
“At least a secret pet tiger.”

I’m still uncertain whether or not I should feel insulted or validated, as I did later chase him with a raccoon skull mouthing OM NOM NOM, which he thought was incredibly creepy, (or maybe it was the mouse fetus inna tube, I may never know), so either way, I’m sure I deserve it.

Past that, (and my sudden burning curiosity in regards to how my far-away-friends live and what they might think of my house in return*), it turns out he might be unexpectedly, oddly, at least metaphorically right, because…

Cue the drum roll please…

The Year of The House Guest continues as a word-smithing tiger of pure awesome is going to be joining my mad and crazy “entirely too normal” household of wacky, quiet, movie addicted doom! As of March 1st, my friend Shane, Internationally Acclaimed Slam Poet Extraordinaire, is going to be moving in with me and David for two months while he works on a poetry performance the Cultch commissioned for April. No word yet whether his band, The Short Story Long, will also be spending time on my couch, but if they do, that’s okay too. I always like waking up to random mandolin. Who doesn’t?

*Anyone want to play a game of I’ll show you mine if you show me yours and we all post photos of our chaotic living-spaces that we’ve oh so nonchalantly attempted to tidy before showing to the internet with a false modesty “please excuse the mess”?

a moment

One Last Time:

“According to the submitter: “The night before the burial of her husband’s body, Katherine Cathey refused to leave the casket, asking to sleep next to his body for the last time. The Marines made a bed for her, tucking in the sheets below the flag. Before she fell asleep, she opened her laptop computer and played songs that reminded her of ‘Cat,’ and one of the Marines asked if she wanted them to continue standing watch as she slept. ‘I think it would be kind of nice if you kept doing it,’ she said. ‘I think that’s what he would have wanted.'””

Gam Zu Letovah (this too is for the best).

via mshades: From Portuguese – Saudade According to Wikipedia:

“…a feeling of nostalgic longing for something or someone that one was fond of and which is lost. It often carries a fatalist tone and a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might really never return.”

Bones and silk, flesh, diamonds, and suede – the sound of our relationship sifted through breathing, through waiting, through stumbling to a slow, crumbling end. Finally our slow unraveling, thread by thread, has dissolved us. It is no longer us together, us against the world. Our ship has capsized, not by a sudden disaster, but by the slow leaking of quiet depression, silent and heavy and too much to bear.

(I realized during my time away that I am done, that I can no longer hold myself static, that I need change. Even something as small as a declaration of stepping away, to feel that I am no longer against the wall, no longer holding my breath forever.)

He, of course, has been hit harder than I have, as I’ve been adjusting towards this since December, slipping away, unable to survive as an equal in a relationship without communication, as my increasing demands that he simply talk to me were set aside, excused, and our stone connections patiently eroded into sand. He began confessing only recently, began speaking in spurts and dribbles late at night, trying to explain, but it was, as many things, too little too late. Poor little words, stalling, halting, too worn out to dance. Yet, already, between the worst moments, we seem to be relaxing, finding space. He’s begun writing, I no longer feel pressured. I have hope for us now, when before I was beginning to have none.