Author: foxtongue
I can’t help but wonder who set the stones
where to be on Sunday
a musical bazaar of sorts with
HUMANWINE, THE BLACKBIRD ORCHESTRA, NATHANIEL JOHNSTONE, TOY BOX TRIO, MEISCE, FINN VON CLARET, and DJ Q.
“These are the times, my friends. And these are the days. Where the world becomes malleable, palpable. When novelty and genius are within our reach. We are cautioned against being passionate about these things by tales of progress turned to greed and of technology turning on us. And yet, the golden light is just right, the clocks are synchronizing, the stars are in alignment.
This is what we celebrate tonight. We celebrate these transient times, with these transient artists.” – c. lantz
Sunday, May 10, 2009 3 pm to 10 pm
The Little Red Studio
750 Harrison Street, Seattle, WA
ALL-AGES, $15 donation
Wearables, craftables, and edibles provided by a plethora of local and regional artisans. (ex. Sock Dreams will be arriving from Portland to vend excellent foot/legwear.) We will take a dinner break (with DJ) at 6:30 pm – please bring your own sack meal, a picnic to share, or food can be acquired from two of our vendors. Vegan options available. Adult beverages can be purchased by 21+ individuals.
Spread the word. All are welcome.
[Another fine event brought to you by the incomparable Libby Bulloff and Willow Brugh.]
bringing it to the people
putting the growl back in purr
Electricty conductive body paint.
Falling from the bus, pushed to my knees by a wave of car sick nausea, falling down to find him waiting, two roses in hand, one scarlet, one jade, waiting and in love, curiosity transformed over half a decade into smitten into smote, a slow walk, arms linked, step in step, finally a pair five years later than when we met, when I had taken him home.
We had been dancing at the same place, a night club gone goth for a friend’s industrial night, everyone in black, fishnets, and spikes. Somehow I convinced him to come with me for tea, (yes, actual non-euphimistic tea), curled on my couch, my cripple’s cane leaning against my leg, his sardonic conversation leaning against my heart, as pleasantly dark as his pleated kilt and kinky, curly hair. In the morning, he had gone home, leaving behind only his name, an assemblage memory of a warm, witty smile and an e-mail address to which he only barely replied. After awhile of silence, I chalked it up to one of life’s silly things, counting myself lucky having a hot boy over for tea, and that was that.
Until it wasn’t.
We found each other again through Eliza, her paintings up at Anachrotechnofetishism luring him out and into my orbit again. Soon he was visiting, tangling back into my life, staying on my couch as we went to arts festivals, as I would stay on his on my way through Seattle, the both of us blazing. Eventually, more recently, it was silently decided we would try again where we left off, an arbitrary agreement with no forethought and no warning that coalesced out of air, a relationship wrought without words, twisted together from a few meaningful glances and a deep understanding of what needed to happen next.
“You know I dreamed about you.”
Fast forward, I am pulled from a bus by the fury of my sickness, out and down, and out, having been on a bus for three hours, reading, waiting, wishing I could sleep, the sky on fire with yet another one of those perfect west coast afternoons, beautiful, boring, cliche as a painting, traveling unknown toward a moment for five years, feeling conscripted to the inevitable, as if slotting back into a path I never should have left, the parsed coastal combination of manipulated reasons I can lay out like cards. Curled around my belly, I am struck dumb on the sidewalk, a crumpled ball, but then I look up to see him, poised in sudden terror that I didn’t get off the bus at all, and suddenly everything is okay.
“Tony,” I wave, and he turns, and his face is all I need to know.
the weather today is just as nice
looking stricken
You’ve captured me completely.
I washed my face with tea this morning, poured into my hands over my bed by the boy next door.
He holds me close and tells me not to go, while I can tell the clock is ticking, siphoning seconds away, sucking then into now, a little more than near. Later I find a note in my bag, thin black ink, I Treasure You with a heart and a name scratched quickly in perfect hand writing both aching familiar and painfully arcane. I arrange it on my desk, still with the taste of his cigarette in my hair, an attempt to resist an automatic urge to tuck it into my shirt, one quick gesture over my left breast, folded safe and warm against my skin. Hours pass, half a day, then, as I write this, tick, I give in.
I wish there were a stronger way to say it.
My boss just walked by, talking into his cellphone, “They got the flu, hey? How many deaths?”
“Sex. All those complications, all that messiness. It’s like watching a group of enthusiasts really get into a hobby that you don’t share.”
from Sex with Ghosts, by Sarah Kanning
Last weekend I was in Seattle, Tony and I came to a silent understanding that the next time I was to go down there, it would be for A Visit, the capital letter sort, where we spend time holding hands, memorizing the sassy curve of dancing cheek to cheek, tangling our feet under tables, and generally acting like a pair of besotted fools. When I mention this to absolutely anyone who knows him, it’s like I’ve announced that we are getting married, running away to the garden of Eden, and intend to spend the rest of our days enmeshed in each other in paradise. Though I appreciate the encouragement, intimidating though it is, honestly, really very, I can’t help but notice it’s bloody well off the scale. The uncanny levels of jubilation present, a sort of incredible, “WHY DIDN’T WE THINK OF THAT BEFORE??!” eureka-congratulations, is bizarre, as if we’ve gone off and invented a new kind of light bulb that runs on wishes. I have no idea what to do with it.
That said, I am thrilled with the shape and depth of our upcoming weekend. Sleeping in and circuses, bruised lips and breakfast. It’s been confirmed, Tony and I are going to Teatro ZinZanni on Saturday, a fabulous blend of European cabaret, circus arts, restaurant, and vaudeville performed in an actual honest-to-mercy Belgian spiegeltent, (a word meaning mirror tent that amuses Tony endlessly to hear me say), and the Portage Bay Cafe for breakfast on Sunday. I’m beyond thrilled, given my relationship with such creations, and delighted and overwhelmed and all flavours of nice things. I have started counting out until I get on a bus, thinking, “less than a day away, remember your birth certificate, his smile, your house-coat, a towel, remember your book, your extra underwear, your toothbrush, hair-brush, pens, paper, and name, exchange your currency, check your camera battery, replace the missing lens cap, pick up a memory card, Robin’s music box, a back-pack, the books that need to return, a ring.” A litany of prepare, of hoping I am ready, of trying too hard not to be nervous as I sit back in the hours and wait.
thanks for the reminders, chandra. you’ve saved me.
The Erotic Anguish of Don Juan, Performance Works, (1218 Cartwright Street, Granville Island), April 21 – May 9.
“Following the 2006 sold-out hit Famous Puppet Death Scenes, The Cultch will present The Trouts’ new show, a radical re-imagining of the Don Juan legend, a refraction of the many manifestations of that old ghost, who haunts us in our dreams, anxieties and fantasies.”
The Ghost of Don Juan is summoned from Hell to repent for his sins, and to tell us the tale of his nefarious life so that we may avoid his fate. But does he truly repent? Is he a monster or a saint? He will attempt to save us from our amorous errors, and deliver a sermon of universal love. In the end, we are liberated from our fears, and what we thought would be a simple evening at the theatre becomes a transcendental orgy that will change us forever.
Most nights, anyway. Depends on the audience.
Tuesday to Saturday: 8:00pm, Sunday matinees: 2:00pm
Tickets from Ticketmaster, (604-280-3311):
Adults (+s/c): Advance: $26; at door: $30
Students/Seniors (+s/c): Advance: $22; at door $26
I’m likely going to be buying my ticket this afternoon. Tuesday, May 5th sound good for anyone?
here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life
Social patterns like chemical reactions, like an activity series of kinetic glances timed to meet, pouring the basics of attraction and attachment, (three factors constituting love: desire, attraction, and attachment), into days fluidly bonded into a continuous spectrum of weeks, amphiprotic and effusive and damned, a full month of experiential enthalpy and entropy. At first glance, insoluble, immiscible, an unshared pair, two electrons uninvolved in chemical bonding, as out of synch as oil and water, but proven in part false, the expected endothermic endpoint nowhere to be seen.
I dreamed of my hands caught in dark curls, as if they fell from my mouth like roses every time I said his name.
Studies have shown that brain scans of those infatuated by love display a resemblance to those with a mental illness.
I dreamed of his voice tangled in mine, as if his golden lion’s breath and tongue was something I could tame.
Somewhere in this, equilibrium. Relief in small hidden places between moments, between voices. Words flowering away from the flint edges of the options given, (the punishing, complex crunch of serotonin spikes, multipath hypervigilance, stress triggered dissociation), into an interstitial place to breathe, where I can stretch my fingers to the answer in positive, (safety first norepinephrine, amphetamine dopamine reactions, oxytocin whirled with vasopressin), certain and solid, ionic attachment “more thicker than forget”, and feel the new, incredibly delicate covalent bond, though insane, might finally be okay.