Author: foxtongue

Glenda the parking ghoddess
– appears as on old woman in hot pink rollar skates.
– her icon may sometimes be found wrinkling on the back of bathroom doors.
She is the wise Lady of the Tarmac. Invoking her name brings empty parking stalls in convenient places and wards off the Anti-Destination League.

Enid, ghoddess of condiments
– appears as a white pillar of salt
– her icon may be found in any truckstop diner
She is the Lady of Spice, of zest and french fries. Her blood runs as vinegar. Invoking her name improves the odds of finding edible food at two a.m.

The usual wake-up dance of hand up and over, glasses flick and computer keys. I keep waking before the morning chill has faded. It’s odd to touch it from the other side. The world getting warmer seems so far away and yet immediate. It should only get cold if you’ve been awake X hours into the night, not when one is only snapping into self. From dreams. It’s a different kind of cold than that in the evening. The air tastes different, and movement seems more brittle.

Mishka comes over today. She’s here from the Island finally. She’ll be staying the nights with me and I suppose most of her days. Hopefully this means I’ll have a chance to meet her Allan properly. A two-second hallo in a fetish club to a boy in rubber pants doesn’t tell me as much as it sounds.

Deadpan to Kyle on the bus last night:
“That’s right, because you know an empty receptacle screams your name louder.”

I’ve just come back from Fahrenheit 9/11 and I am very quiet. I don’t think I’m okay. There was family up on that screen. The opening sequence hurt me in spite of the strings, and I mean spite as when it meant something, I mean spit in your face. Planes crashed into those towers, and yet there were people there with cameras, pointing to the people instead of the sky. There were people with a “this should be seen” stride and sense of angle. Black, and the sound. Knowing immediately. Simply the sound.

They didn’t show the towers fall.

.cruel.

*msn burble*
*a girl looks up, she’s tired and almost looks asleep. She’s been obviously bored for hours*

Three minutes of conversation and I’m transfigured. A shot of happy tasting adrenaline in welcome simple words. It’s not that I can’t remember the last time I reacted like this, it’s just trying to place the last time without fear attached.

*click*

*twirls*

Alright! Last I heard, the plan was Fahrenheit 9/11 tonight!! Meet for 9:30, Granville street.

Who’s on?

EDIT: 9:10, sorry. And so far we have mallison, zok, azilut, halkeye, and spaz_own_joo

Mystery finally solved, link thanks to Andrew! The translation of the dialogue between Bill Murray, the Translator and the Director in the advertisement scene from Lost In Translation. “With intensity!”

*laughter* Damnit! She’s in my hair!! I can feel the presence of her soap and scent in my clothing. I’m glad I didn’t wait until the end.

I wrote a letter tonight about my evening out, and sent it away. I would dearly pay to see the reaction of the recipient tomorrow when they read it. I am MORE than willing to bet precious things that they blink.

There is something about tacky music playing in a lesbian bar that just catches at my feet and hips. As soon as was decent after the show, I started dancing. Long skirt and tight shirt. I know Beth raised eyebrows at my dirty dancing. It was a ball. I hiked my skirt up and tucked it in too short to walk on the street. Her name was Robin and she likes me. Swaying, twining. Pelvis and thighs and french fox face. We had a song together and she kissed me. Long hair, caught thick in midnight curls down her back. I gave her my e-mail on our way out. I’m suspecting she’ll be disappointed when she finds out I’m only interested in dance partners. *laughing*

Before that particular flirt goodbye, I was caught in the doorway, a woman who’s known me for a good four, five years. She stopped me, and asked, “alright girl, I finally have to ask. Is it girls or boys?” “I’m AIDS generation darling, of course it doesn’t matter!!” *laughter* “Well – on stage tonight, was it the men or the belly dancers?”

Small, sweet victories. Walking in femme and walking out a man.

The heat and my blood and the children are conspiring to shut me down. I can feel the intelligence being sucked out. I’m being stripped down by inanities. I think I remember this feeling last time I tried to watch television. I’m a different person like this. I’ll cut myself on my wit, because suddenly, it’s dulled.

This week I work Monday too. I’m going to require some serious cleansing. Tonight is Spike’s fundraiser at Lick. I’m counting on it to shift me back into reality a bit. Settle me back into my brain, because right now I’m alone. There’s a beautiful song in my heart, but the singers echos won’t shine enough without another listen. Tomorrow is pointing to Farenheit 9/11, though, so perhaps I’ll be set free.

Alrighty – it looks like I’ve got a photoshoot set up for Tuesday evening. Is there anyone available to go with me??

I’m on-line planning the trip to fetch the lover I found though the internet while working on my net job from my home which I found on-line though LiveJournal.

It’s a bit of a scary moment.