Tag: anniversary

itinerary-ary-ary

Scientists have discovered the monogamy gene.

“Nature is trying very hard to make us succeed, but nature does not depend on us. We are not the only experiment.” Buckminster Fuller

Yesterday was my sixth month anniversary with David. To celebrate, we went for La Cafeteria for breakfast with Michel, picked up the now-fixed polished aluminum deer head we brought for Christine, (a bit of antler broke off in transit), did our laundry, had pumpkin spiced hot chocolate, went for a delicious pick-your-own-pasta dinner, met with Mélanie and Mike Kitt, then for pie with them and Michel, and decided to move in together.

Nice how I slipped that in, hey? So yes, when David and I return to Vancouver this week, no matter that he just moved, we’re moving him again, this time into my place as Karen leaves for Main St. We’ll be a house of two people, two cats, a rabbit, and a library. I’m strangely looking forward to it, even with the pre-knowledge of Just. How. Heavy. His. Book. Boxes. Are. No one’s ever moved in with me before, not really, not for more than a couple of weeks. I’ve always moved in with them, the proverbial them, the lovers, partners, the boys/men. I think it’s going to be interesting, and less of an adjustment than I might suspect.

Today we’re getting on a train to Toronto with the glorious Christine, who last night came home from work dressed as a sexy ninja, because that is how awesome she is. Once there, we’ll be meeting up with my fellow-monarch-in-bad-timing Shane Koyczan, who just happens to be in Toronto this weekend, and painting the town some sort of appropriate colour, as I glory in being home for a weekend.

For the double-plus, Nuit Blance is running this weekend, so the current plan is to hang out glorying tonight and most of Saturday, then spend as much of Saturday night as humanly possible wandering the all night arts festival with Shane and the funtastic duo that is Zaiden, Will and Mellissa, before breakfasting somewhere delicious and catching an early Sunday morning bus west, back towards Vancouver.

(forgive us,o life!the sin of Death

My evening plans dissolved under the frayed-temper weight of a mid-run rehearsal that went late, went later, then turned into an improbable, cramped-in-the-back-of-the-car expedition to Burnaby to The Arts Institute, until finally, tired, worn, at four in the morning, I was dropped off home.

Part of me knows why I let these things happen, but the rest of me is speculating on a possible homicidal spree. Something you can all hear about on the radio. Trading in famous for infamous with the merest arterial spray.

Today was the anniversary of the World Trade disaster, the strength of misplaced faith moving towers instead of mountains, but until I signed on-line, I heard not a word on it. Even then, coverage was sparse. In six years, it’s had time to fade, but also to become one of Those Questions, “What do you do?” “Where are you from?” “Where were you on September 11th?” The immediacy has merely shifted focus, become diluted through our culture like waxy ink through blood. A slow acting poison, changing our perspectives.

I was in bed, until I wasn’t anymore. Cory and Jon in the den, glued to the TV. We all have our stories, sitting in cars, unlucky at airports, the entire world spinning still, like a record slowing down, just in time for the second plane to crash in. Fire, collapse. Do you remember the jumpers? Echoes. Of anywhere, I wanted to be there.

Before, we had the Berlin Wall. A glorious thing, people dancing on the ruins, encapsulating history in joy. Now we sit around the dinner table, frown, and recite our whereabouts, how we felt, what we think should be done. A very different “Before”. Politics, everywhere. Always America. The circus in flames.

Duncan and Scott, a Scots-Canadian and an American, have posts I think you should read. I am too lonely, too tired, too emptied by my day to properly have my own words.

I am sorry, world, that we have failed you so. It would have been better to remember the wall.

exploded in flames and left ashes by the water for the ocean to take away


you made the world
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

“I can’t come back here,” instead of “I can’t back here like this,” is important. A subtle difference, but a vital one. It’s important not to have distraction. Communication claiming different veins. I like neutral ground. Statements of starry nights, I was raised by multiple rapes and madness. Don’t ask this. Fairness, you stand at the edge of the precipice with me.

I hear and I forget. I see and I remember. I do and I understand.

Walpurgis Night. Happy fucking anniversary. That’s what the subject line said.

We were fire fit to break my heart. I didn’t realize I was counting until I looked at the clock today and my heart twisted. It’s Beltane, a mark of where the sun is in relation to our skies, the day I looked up, trying to memorize the texture of your voice, and we kissed goodbye. It’s May Day, the day I stood by the shore and shone. This used to be my playground. Another world. There’s a photograph, but not of you. It’s the 229th birthday of the United Kingdom, the day I walked out as if I owned the world. Science fucking fiction. It’s the day the Czech population kisses under the statue of a poet to celebrate National Love Day. It’s the day. A gallery of moments. I hate that post-modern relationships are still the new black.

Once upon a time, before music knew how to be written down and words didn’t know how to sing, there was a boy so beautiful that the goddess of the sky wanted to lick his tangled eyes.

It seems my anonymous fairytale letters have stopped. Every day I check my mailbox and find nothing. Their continual absence is chipping at me, like perhaps I was to have guessed the author by now. I’ve read the letters over and over, inflamed by how devious they are, prying at them for clues, but I still don’t know who to pin them to and now it’s too late. They seem to have guttered out. I feel like I’m letting someone delightful down, someone with a more magical imagination than I have, like this was some sort of enchanting test and my curious intelligence went into retrograde.

“The Animaris Rhinoceros Transport is a type of animal with a steel skeleton and a polyester skin. It looks as if there is a thick layer of sand coating the animal. It weighs 2 tons, but can be set into motion by one person. It stands 4.70 meters tall. Because of its height it catches enough wind to start moving.”

Watch the video!

There’s more at strandbeest.com.

Itconversations.com has a session with Theo Jansen, the creator of these wondrous wind-powered walking machines, at Pop!Tech 2005 here.

The Machine, a short story by Joey Comeau of a softer world.

I leaned over the pool-table at Joe’s Cafe and while I carefully lined up my cue with the ball, I unexpectedly felt like I was a copyright infringement. That someone more deserving had done this exact thing, but had made it art. Shaken, I missed my shot and tried to shoo away my strange thoughts. I was in the wrong company to be attempting to discuss such ideas away. Robin isn’t educated on the right topics and Shadow, Ducky’s brother, doesn’t even have a computer yet. Instead I stood and looked over the poor constellation I had offered the next player. I counted the balls left and questioned colour as a concept. “It’s lucky all three of us suck at this, hey?”

Katie‘s started to take pictures wearing her holiday present.

This is the day I was hit by the truck three years ago. I had killed the hot seed of a child in my womb a month before and where I stained my skirt when I skid along the road, the blood from my bone bare knees mixed with blood from that left-over wound. The snow, that sensation, was so light and soft that it felt like it wasn’t real. My arm was fire and my eyes had met those of the driver a disturbing fraction of a minute before I turned and jumped into the air. My intention was to slide along the hood of the truck, but the snow, that delicate snow, it caught on my shoes. I slipped.

same week as the anniversary of the nuclear age


Cello… er not Viola
Originally uploaded by DantesFedora.

James Doohan, the man who played Scotty on Star Trek, died Wednesday.

It’s thirty-six years ago today that our species managed to touch booted foot to the moon. I remember framed newspaper articles on the walls of motels of that moment, the same picture of Armstrong next to the lander repeated in aged yellow in hundreds of small towns. I was never old enough to remember it, never could be, but that didn’t stop me from reading the words. “THIS DAY IS A MARKED DAY IN HUMAN HISTORY” Headlines all echoing each other, reverberating from dingy bar to dingy bar. One stool always patched with worn silver tape.

Let’s theme tonight’s party, shall we? People who arrive with tinfoil on their heads get extra style points.

Happy birthday Sarah. We love you.

the picture links to the SimNuke photopool.