Author: foxtongue

pictures from the south, surfacing

Liontamer at the abandoned bathhouse…

This is the very first photo Lung and I worked together in creating. We’ve never done anything like it before, but I’m pleased to say, looking at the finished product, that our first shot seems to be a winner.

Before, he would always tell me to go over there, stand here, tilt your head that way. Almost invariably we would end up with a result I didn’t like. My accusation, founded very fairly though a bit tongue in cheek, is that he can’t take an attractive portrait of someone he didn’t want to sleep with. He agrees, and so when we found ourselves at the abandoned ruins of the Salton Sea bath-houses, we finally took the next step, and collaborated.

It was a strange experience, as he chose the spot, and I chose the position, peering through his camera and deciding where I should be based on the light, then assembling myself while unidentified animals made chewing noises in the ceiling, trusting as Lung had me look over my shoulder just that little bit more.

I’m glad it worked. More than glad, I’m delighted, as I really wanted it to come out well. Our recent trip South brought us closer together than we’d ever been before, and to have tangible evidence of how our friendship is evolving is comforting. It’s nice that I can look at this photo and point to one of the exact moments we shifted, no matter that it was only one tiny step among many over a process of several months. It’s still a singular moment captured splendidly, and one with enough meaning for me.

An added bonus, too, is feeling completely justified that I dragged my Hallowe’en costume all the way down and back just to cheerfully wear it once or twice in highly inappropriate circumstances. Next had better come the boot pictures, where I dangerously tottered in stiletto heels along a shoreline beach made entirely of bone.

wherupon my brain shows its true colours

Snow snow SNOW snow!! SNOW SNOW snow snow snoooow! SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOOOOOOOOW!! SNOW snow snow SNOW SNOW SNOW snow snow!! SNOW snoooooooow snow snow snow!! SNOW snow!! SNOW!! SNOW snow snow SNOOOW! SNOW SNOW snow snow! SNOW snow snow!! SNOW! SNOoOOW snow snow snow snow snow snow snow! SNOW snow SNOOOOOOOOOOOW!!

We can’t see farther than four buildings away through our eigth story office window.

My bus slid on ice and I had to walk to work from Crackton.

Other buses have also been jack-knifing.

Meanwhile, I can’t stop singing the snow song or doing the happy snow dance.

It’s real snow, too. Dry, crunchy, catch it on your tongue beautiful, glittering gorgeous snow.
None of the gross, clingy, west coast wet stuff.

When I say I walked to work, really I mean I frolicked to work, wide eyed and happy.

Dear merciful life, I freaking LOVE snow.

snowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnow

SNOW!

even this feels like it’s not enough

A Young Mad Scientist’s First Alphabet Blocks.

I had just had a terrible break-up, been thrown out of a last chance desperation relationship, a lower-the-bar can’t-take-it-anymore sort of thing after an assault, when I was spending time with A Boy. Someone I’d known for years, though with a gap in the middle, who popped up at a party with my name in his mouth, as if all the space between I was always a reminder, just like he was for me. Curly hair, kind eyes, all the usual suspects.

When we started seeing each other, it was without capital letters, friends spending time with friends, being delighted, being glad. I made him tea, he made me laugh. When I spent the night over, it was platonic, though appreciative, and only sleep, with a walk alone to the bus-stop in the morning. When suddenly I was single, distraught, he was discreet, but gingerly there in a way that he wasn’t before, and when I stayed over, he kissed me. He kissed me and kissed me and kissed me, moving my body cautiously to press against his, surprising me, attentive, his white linen shirt on the floor, mine unbuttoned and left behind. And I was okay with that.

The next night I was over, his mouth moved from mine to my throat, to the clavicle triangle of my collarbone, to the space between my breasts, and down, purposefully, towards a wonderful idea. I was impressed, ye gods, I was, I’ll never forget it, show me ten men who claim it’s their favorite thing and I’ll show you nine liars, but it was too soon. No, said my hands, no, my knees, my angle and body. I pulled him back up the bed and we stayed there until we fell asleep, nestled together like a carving.

Bolivia’s Witches’ Market: Llama Foetuses and Dried Armadillos

I was terrified of the timing, of the brutal year I’d had bleeding in like poison, of the nightmares I’d still been having of the attack, of why I continued to say no. Eventually, after two weeks more of identical nights, I finally did not call. Sometimes I did not even pick up the phone. The relationship, such as it was, quietly expired. Trapped in myself, we stopped talking, and barely said hello in the street. I felt like I should have had a brand across my forehead, the word ruined in copperplate block letters as if typed there, my blood for black ink.

Years went by, accidentally as they do, the friendship slowly healed in our absence, though never completely, while still I never explained, never sat him down and told him, “Look, I was cagey, but it was a bad year. It was never your fault.” Words well known that don’t generally come out in casual conversation, “I should have told you. I love you. I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. Please forgive me.”

I can look back with all the grand power of retrospect and think I didn’t too bad considering my age, considering the date and the time and how much the trauma of my reasons was wrecking me. Considering that trip to the doctor, considering that night I spent up too unhappy with my memories to get back to sleep. I can look back and think a fade out is not so bad a way to go, considering, always considering, but I don’t really buy it. My skull can’t shake that I wronged him. Social penicillin in action. I feel like I missed a best friend.

1800s Vampire Killing Kit Nabs $14,850 At Stevens Auction

uplifting through adversity

I spent last night at Lung’s place being wined and dined with David and Claire and writing a glossy, shiny happy proposal article for Reader’s Digest about Slab City, where we were staying by the Salton Sea. Considering that Slab City is essentially a small town comprised of poor and crazy people pushed out to the ultimate margins of society, it was pretty tricky. Not only did I have to write in the sappy, almost vapid style of Reader’s Digest, I had to gloss over anything untoward. Nigh impossible, but I think I succeeded. By the time I was done, I had a rough article draft which failed to note any of the incest, open meth use, unbalanced people suffering from mental illness, or the terrifying number of sex offenders. Instead it talked about how great our friends are. It was pretty awesome, like looking at the moon with a microscope.

Via Lung today:

Very hard at work putting together an article for a magazine. Typical photographer’s home office scene just prior to the lingerie pillow fight:

what are you going to do?

What are people doing to celebrate New Year’s Eve this year? My soul has this dream where I find something spectacular and beautiful yet affordable, even though I know it will never happen. My version of affordable is a small, slight creature that easily falls over in wind. I just spent my last five dollars on fifty cent cup-a-noodle soup so I wouldn’t starve too severely at work.

At best, I think I might get to escape away to Seattle, to watch their tower explode in fireworks, though I have no idea what else I might do. At worst I stay home and friends from all over the world try to call me at midnight to tell me what a fantastic time they are having, only to find that the lines are too busy and they can’t get through.

yes, I was late to work

“Student Says Vomiting on Painting Was an Artistic Act”

A big fat scrumptious thank you to everyone who made it out to our all weekend house-party. Though it wasn’t crowded, at least fifty of you made it over, even through the cold snap and snow, and kept the party going from Saturday morning to late last night/early this morning. Thank you for coming by, for playing music, for bringing wine and berries and sausages, for coming over early and for staying up late, for appreciating my eggnog crepes and keeping me cooking from 11 am to 11 pm, for bringing unexpected new people, for cuddles on the couch, for throwing snowballs at my window and cheerfully bothering the one armed guy downstairs, who had another snippy middle-of-the-night fight with a drug dealer right outside my window last week. (Thank you William, you will always have a special place in my heart for that). Thank you for everything, and I hope to see you all again soon!

a satisfying week

Bill Murray has been crashing parties and hanging out with strangers.
(It could happen to you.)

Across the buildings, a slight gap in the clouds. Keith looks out and says, “oh look, a nice day.” A shift in the sky and the blue goes away. Weather whispering gray. Today it snowed briefly in a winter half effort. White flakes, fat with promise, that melted as soon as they touched ground. Now, as before, it is raining.

I’m glad my week has been wonderful enough to make up for the weather. I cried upon waking my first day back from California, mutely, pained, unhappy. “What’s wrong, what is it?” A thousand things, a hundred disappointments, ten I could say aloud, but only one to share, “There’s no sky.”

Tuesday: Finally seeing Cory McAbee‘s The American Astronaut on the big screen was absolutely fabulous. Officially Duncan was hosting it, but my involvement (with That Mike) brought me to the front of the room, answering questions as I sat beside him, swinging my legs under the table that only came up to his knees.

Wednesday: Amanda Palmer‘s show with Zoë Keating and the Australian theater company The Danger Ensemble was outrageously Off The Hook. It’s an expression I sometimes hate, but I can’t think of anything more apt. Zoë Keating was exactly as mind-bendingly glorious as expected, but Amanda Palmer raucously surprised me. Her humour and spark and pure scintillating shine blew juicy, delicious bubbles of overwhelming near-religious delight into every nook and cranny of my brain. Just like everyone else at that show, I think I now love her. It was also a great time to play catch up, as people I love were in attendance I haven’t seen in absolutely forever, like Dragos and Tall-Travis. (Also, Kyle, I said Hello for you. She was thrilled.)

Thursday: As a fluke, while waiting to get in to see Zoë & Amanda Palmer, Andrew Brechin gave David and I a free voucher to Waltz With Bashir, a strong, very personal animated documentary into the horrors of the 1982 Lebanon war. Telling the story of the 1982 Sabra-Shatila massacre of Palestinian refugees through the director’s own reclaimed memories, it was educational without preaching, and painful without guilt. At first I was skeptical of the animation style, which reminded me too strongly of old cut scenes and on-line java cartoons, but the story pulled us in, and the animation smoothed as the film continued, leaving us rapt as it drew to a close.

Tonight: There’s a Tom Waits Tribute Night at Cafe Deux Soleils from 8:30 – midnight. “a line up of the who’s who in east vancouver gather together to sing the songs of one of the most influential artists around. his world of strange wit and hard luck characters has made a home in each of our hearts. come out dressed in black, red and your fancy feel ready to sing along and stomp the floor silly.” Featuring: Blackberry Wood, Tarran the Tailor, my sweet and charming friend Jess Hill, our very own RC Weslowski, CJ Leon, Christie Rose, Chelsea Johnson of the Foxy House which hosted my birthday, Corbin Murdoch, Jeff Andrew, Buffaloswans, Maria in the Shower, Fraser Mclean, Christa Couture, Nick Lakowski, Sarah Macdougal, Pawnshop Diamond, Katie Go Go, and Mike the Swan.

Tomorrow: Our all day, all night non-denominational, costumes optional, holiday social and house party to celebrate David moving in, with crepes in the morning, tea in the afternoon, and candle-lit silent black and white horror films until dawn. (In regards to BYO: Bring your own syrup, eggs, fruit, or toppings, bring tea, cookies, or pie, bring flowers, feathers, or figs, whatever you feel appropriate, but most importantly, bring yourself.) Extra guests welcome within moderation

Bonus: Amanda playing Radiohead’s Creep on the ukulele for Kyle and Neil at the Cloud Club.