if you blink, you miss it (travelling through Canada in the fall)
Author: foxtongue
February. Get ink, shed tears. Write of it, sob your heart out, sing, (Boris Pasternak)
365: 62 – 03.03.09
His voice is almost convincing, “We could always try tantric sex.” Her mind races for a few seconds, failing to place the non sequitor with any current topics of conversation, before discarding the notion altogether. This is very obviously an entirely new discussion. She thinks about the last time she felt beautiful. Once, before, even in this bed. “Where was that question six months ago?” she asks, instantly wary, “I mean it. Where?” He stumbles, reeling, “I… I don’t know.”
In one white wooden drawer are her stockings. Fishnets full of torn holes, seamless black nylons with a back seam of flashing white rhinestones, purple velvet thigh highs that stay up without a garter belt, a pair of red and black vertical stripes with the toes danced out. Electric memories of sweat, ghosts as distant as England, as far as away as reaching out three feet and yanking on a bronze pull shaped like a vacant new moon.
She feels as acutely cold as surgery, like she’s splitting her arms open and only the bright dust of stars is spilling out. “I don’t mean to be insulting, repeating this,” she says, with a feeling akin to tearing off limbs, “but that was precisely the problem in the first place. I would tell you I need mental input more than physical attention.” She taps his forehead, trying not to walk away behind her eyes, wincing that he never once breathed poetry, “And you’d only try to answer with sex.”
incredible
written and presented by Winston Rowntree of Virus Comix
Like the desire for a silver necklace, the need to find somewhere to put her hands.
David has been cursing from the kitchen this evening. Little bursts of oddly personal swearing accompanied by the tiny rain-like clatter of LED lights falling to the floor. He bought them on our walk home and has been pinning them up into the crease where the walls meet the ceiling in the kitchen, something I’ve been meaning to do for months, since I put the mirrors up, but never managed to financially justify. I think it will be pretty when it’s done, in the usual way muted lights sort of always are, like unobtrusively holding hands with someone you bravely love.
Me, I’m tinkering with my computer while catching up on Penn Says, Penn Jillette’s Sony-funded personal video blag, sincerely one of my favourite things on the internet. It’s not something I check on daily, like Sorry-Mom (I bang the worst dudes), but it makes me continually happy, so much so that I’ve made sure to pop in at least once a month since he started it over a year ago to listen to everything he posts. He’s intelligent, funny, and classically cynical, (and self-mocking), while remaining just unique enough I don’t agree with everything he says, a devastating mixture of traits I can only find attractive.
SCIENCE!!
In a breakthrough that could have huge implications, British and Canadian scientists have found a way of reprogramming skin cells taken from adults, effectively winding the clock back on the cells until they were in an embryonic form.
…
Because the cells can be made from a patient’s own skin, they carry the same DNA and so could be used without a risk of being rejected by the immune system.
Scientists showed they could make stem cells from adult cells more than a year ago, but the cells could never be used in patients because the procedure involved injecting viruses that could cause cancer. Overcoming the problem has been a major stumbling block in efforts to make stem cells fulfil their promise of transforming the future of medicine.
Now, scientists at the universities of Edinburgh and Toronto have found a way to achieve the same feat without using viruses, making so-called induced pluripotent stem (iPS) cell therapies a realistic prospect for the first time.
we’re watching it tonight
I’ve been following and supporting Nina Paley‘s struggle to create, finish, and finally distribute, (in spite of November’s scary brush with music related copyright threats), her beautiful, shoe-string budget independent film, Sita Sings The Blues, ever since her incredible DIY project started to hit the web chapter by chapter back in 2006, so it gives me extreme pleasure to announce that..
“Sita is a goddess separated from her beloved Lord and husband Rama. Nina is an animator whose husband moves to India, then dumps her by e-mail. Three hilarious shadow puppets narrate both ancient tragedy and modern comedy in this beautifully animated interpretation of the Indian epic Ramayana. Set to the 1920’s jazz vocals of Annette Hanshaw, Sita Sings the Blues earns its tagline as “The Greatest Break-Up Story Ever Told.””
Sita Sings the Blues trailer on YouTube.
COILHOUSE interview with Nina Paley.
the dusty flowerpot cabaret is what the kids call the bomb
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!
artpost: immediately I begin scheming to make my own
Human Candles, 1996, self-portraits in wax, wicks, metal, 74 x 36 x 36 inches each, by Walter Martin and Paloma Muñoz.
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.”
typical
“We expected that she would be too much, but we weren’t expecting this : Amanda Palmer singing despite her broken foot, with a dressed up and made up troupe miming, twirling and wincing. We were at the circus, the theatre, right in Pigalle, and all we could do was follow a team in a baroque frenzy.”