more than a legend (play on mute) evolution illustrated by time-lapse using
almost flip book animation of photos of fossil evidence.
“I was just thinking of the sound my dress made on the pavement last night. That swish.” I replied, thinking it was the sort of sound that gets into my teeth.
“Which reminds me of Michael and how I need to track down why I am so monumentally, incredibly angry with him.”
We step into the park, under the verge of trees. In front of us is a small soccer field, the park next to my apartment, which we are walking to. The grass, in the fresh new darkness, looks black.
“I didn’t know you were.” His tone is careful, an attempt at neutrality.
“I must be profoundly hurt to be so angry. I need to track down why.”
Out from under the trees, it’s possible to see stars. The blurry colour of their light through my scratched glasses reminds me of the improbable pale blue of his eyes.
“Actually, that’s a lie. I know exactly why, but I need the very precise words for it. I need to be able to vivisect my hurt if I expect to present it properly. I don’t think I could bear being misunderstood again. There’s only so many times I can break my own heart.”
“Has something unexpected happened?”
I look down at my feet, walk slower. It is hard, for a moment, not to pull away my hand.
“Yes and no. Worse than that. I needed him to surprise me, to prove me wrong, more than you can imagine, more than I knew, and we’re shattering under the weight of it, how he’s just like everybody else.”
For those of you who are still unaware, the three children that died in the cabin fire at Shuswap Lake belong to Kim and Johnathon, the co-founders of Vancouver’s Electric Company Theater.
I am shocked and so, so sorry. They have all the love in my heart.
I can’t stop crying. I might have to go home.
A small thin child with a mullet just trespassed into our office to sell us sketchy boxes of chocolate. “Hello, I am part of a program to keep kids like me off the street. I am selling delicious boxes of scrumptious chocolates in an effort to raise money. Even buying one box of these delightful treats will help.” His spiel was so practiced he sounded like a well oiled automaton. How many times a day must he say that? Why is he in our office? Who on earth told him to use the word scrumptious??
I did not buy a box, but the sales guy did, and now I have eaten one of the dubious choco-almonds. If I die frothing at the mouth, know that I loved you all.
China’s finale, 2007
It’s that time of year again! Come on down for The Celebration Of Light, Vancouver’s annual pyro-festival.
Tonight’s competitor is Canada, with the theme of the Wizard of Oz.
Show at 10, camping starting at 6. I’m bringing cherries, feel free to bring whatever or whomever you like.
Tony illustrating a point with my picture and
a frame from one of my favourite music videos,
Elbow – the Bones of You
Instead of going to Michael’s office after work yesterday, I went to the shop and got stick-on blackboard for the fridges, (both the one here and the one in Seattle), and scoured my way through Chapter’s cheap section looking for books about painting and colour, to try and better pin down what would be nice in the bedroom, (both here and in Seattle). I felt alone in the city, dislocated, as if my movements were an echo of someone else’s long past afternoon, a pattern of motion left like a mark on time, waiting for the right kind of lonely to step into it to manifest.
Eventually I shook it off, bought bus-tickets and a slurpee and went home, uncertain what my plans were, not thinking about it, reading a discount Hannibal Lector book and wondering what I needed to feel present in the day.
Thankfully David was home when I got in, and about as aimless as I was, so it was we found a mutual solace in finally tackling neglected projects around the house, our new sticky tape blackboard our starting off point. We folded away winter blankets and hung art and mirrors to Temple of the Dog and Live until eleven at night, when it was decided that continuing to bang nails into the wall might be crossing the line from antisocial to fully justified murder. Much of my art still needs to be framed, so most of what’s left isn’t going anywhere until some future pay-cheque, but it was mighty refreshing to get a start on what’s been on our To Do list since possibly last summer. The only thing that would have make the evening better was if I had a head full of hair dye, but again, of all things, that one will not hurt to wait.
Perpetual motion, like a spring wound in a heavenly kingdom. I can feel potential building, the tension of seasons, of thrilling decisions, of a grand tipping point somewhere near, almost as touchable as the closest horizon. Somewhere soon I will find a solution, the magical arrangement of pieces that will let it all out, create an escape for the pressure, allow me to blossom into the next incarnation of exquisite useful flower.
My internal barometer is, in part, my hair. The farther I neglect the colour, the more I know something needs to change. Now, for the first time in many years, I am only negligently dyed off my natural red blonde. Another is my music. When was the last time I practiced the saw, running rills, songs, and scales meant only for me?
David comes home, our lovely neighbor Randa in tow, “Why do you have a colander on your head?” “Oh!” I say, disingenuous, whisking it off my head, “I had company.” I spend eight hours on the bus every weekend, waiting in travel to see Tony or to get back to Vancouver in time for work, and close to five hours every week waiting for Michael, who gets out of the office around an hour after I do, so we can travel home together, but to myself I only seem to find a handful of ten minute increments where I can feel creatively infected, ripe with the mental control of whispering ghosts, where I have space enough to make.
This selection of habits grew so slowly, so organically, that it was confusing me, how little time was suddenly available. It wasn’t until I counted the hours on my fingers, waiting at a street corner for a light to change, that I realized what started as moments few enough to blink away has expanded, accumulated into enough minutes to fill an entire day a week of my eaten time spent stilled, ineffectual, accomplishing nothing, creating nothing, being merely a body, adding nothing to the world but a physical space.
This, among other things, perturbs me at the level of bone.
To that end, however, as I cannot afford a tool with which to fix this problem, and the other things are other stories, what colour should I dye my hair?
Today on Aardvark, for which I have invites:
You there? I have a question about **secret agent**.
Andrew Ferguson said you might be able to answer it.
(Type ‘sure’, ‘pass’, or ‘busy’.)
devastation jhayne, she said:
(From Nikhil B./22/M/Stanford,US)
How does one get to be a member of KGB?
(Type ‘pass’ to skip, or ‘more’ for extra options.)
devastation jhayne, she said:
write a book about an old man and the sea
Great — I’ve sent that to Nikhil. Thanks for the fast answer!
(Type ‘Nikhil:’ followed by a message to add something, or ‘more’ for options.)
(Tip: type ‘add’ to add **secret agent** to the list of topics you like answering questions about.)
“FYI: Jhayne Holmes just answered Nikhil’s question about **government**. Thanks for the referral!"
COILHOUSE, the smoothly wicked paper-child of Nadya, Zoetica, and darling Mer, is now selling Issue 3!
Today, to celebrate, they’ve posted a tour of the magazine, which includes such treats as Xeni Jardin riding a unicorn, a searing collection of photographs from the Kowloon Walled City, and a Brief Tour of Pre-War Russian Pulp by author Jess Nevins.
I can’t even pretend I’ve the extra money, but I’ve already bought my copy. It’s the only magazine I buy. I love COILHOUSE like I loved Mondo 2000, not only as a beautiful magazine stuffed with the sort of fascinating ideas that help shape our culture into more what I want it to be, but also as a lovingly crafted, stylish, sleek, and super sexy art object d’fetish. They’re so pretty I leave them conspicuously out when I am done reading them, solid space advertising, so guests to my home will see them and take note.
Also, for the hardcore fan, which I can not afford to be, they also have t-shirts and stickers.