up too late at night, putting up the last drivefest photos

you have to be kidding
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

I’ve created a Flickr Pool, Drivefest, to collect all the photos of the Commercial Drive Car Free Day. Add yours and tell yours and pass it on!

I wanted a water sprinkler to run through today. I wanted to run water through the ink of my hair and to desperately feel like laughing. It’s hard to explain. I wanted to turn to someone and share a conspiratorial glance, rife with a desire to smile a thousand times. I miss the anonymous letters. They were the closest thing I had to anyone calling to see if I was okay, now that no-one cares if I dream about them anymore. (I haven’t received any since May). Precious and rarest of things, they remain mine and only mine.

This lovely Levi ad has been posted before, but now there’s a sweet parody by a UK tropical drink company called Lilt.

I suspect the game became tired. Instead of posting my thoughts here, my lovely impressions, I kept them close to me, wrapped in my writing book and tied with ribbon like I was an old-fashioned child. How so, then, a reward? Reine read them today in the park before we got up to play frisbee with Will. I read one aloud this evening to dear friends who were driving me home from morris dancing. They’re beginning to slide into the consciousness of the people around me. I read them like rosary beads, asking who’s trying to make me smile, like perhaps I’ll be allowed to slip stories into conversation again some day. Ravenous angels dancing on pins, that’s me. A tiny figure, sitting at the feet of who I used to be, looking up and disbelieving. If I am a city, these letters have been tagging my walls.

UBC engineering students have built a vehicle so efficient that it achieves 3,145 miles per US gallon (0.074 litres/100 km)

heaven feels like teeth

I think part of me is disintegrating. Today came another anonymous letter. Reading it, a surge of sharp sorrow welled in my chest and threatened my eyes. With the last line, I felt on the verge of a revelation, as if this time, instead of the word Love, the letter would be signed.

Treasured Jhayne,

Once upon a yesterday, when waves
whispered secrets that seashells never
tell, the man in the moon appeared behind
you in the mirror. “I can tell you a
story, of the girl who gave away a stone
heart and died without it,” he said.
“Sounds like a sad story,” you replied.
“All stories are sad,” he said. “They all
end, don’t they?” “What about happily-
ever-after?” you asked. The man in the moon
smiled and touched the reflection of your
hair. “There’s happily, and there’s after,”
he said, “but I am too much like the
moon herself to promise
anything forever.”
Your reflection
whispered, “Promise
me a story then.”



Previous letters: one & two, three, four & five & six, seven, eight.

reminder: today, wednesday, may 25th, birthday all-you-can-eat fondue, $10, the capstone tea & fondue, (1118 Denman), 7:30 onward.

Who are you, writer? I am divided. Your name would menace my loneliness, but shatter the mystery. Where are your stories going? Every ur-fable steps closer to me, who I am, the way I speak. My words are quoted through these like scattered rain on a lake. That last line, that last line is vividly mine. The shape of those words slots onto my tongue every time I love someone. You mention my hair in such a way that I think you have touched it, that you have spoken with me, that I have held your hand and grasped it tightly. I was beginning to be afraid there would be no more letters, that the terrifying intimacy had ended, but you sent again a letter, one so awful and personal that it scares me and I’m glad. These are magic and magic is not meant to be safe.

“these could be from your future husband. you could have three kids together”

Hit the ground, keep on running. Take this braille ink and trace it. Don’t stop doing what you’re doing.

I still haven’t. Instead I’ve arranged for dinner with Silva. Red, gold, her house is such a treasure. I leaned over and pulled a antique hunting horn out of the rubble of my room. Something to keep, something to throw away. He sat on the bed and looked around in wonder. The word trove. I leaned over and pulled on his curiosity, showed him the horn. Silva’s house is all silver and glittering crystal. Mirrors and shiny things. Cat haven, dinner at the table, fur at the feet. He took the ring from my keychain in the restaurant. It fit, but the price was impossible. Montreal. Could I fit in the luggage? Possibly. Cramped over in darkness, x-rayed and vulnerable to deprivation. The hallways at the hospital, plastic, granulated, we walk them, one pathway. Go left, go right now. Either way the answer is the same. The bed with buttons waits at the end, uninviting, unwelcome, too cold.

Katie‘s finally selling prints. I’m listed on her site as a “writer, among other things,” though I can’t say I’ve been feeling like it. I was published, but outside of that, I haven’t been doing very much lately. Nothing I come back to. I think it’s because I’m so rarely home. It’s difficult to concentrate at work. I’m interrupted too often to construct a coherent thread of thought.

I received another anonymous myth-letter arrived in the mail last night. I read it to Francois, and he wasn’t sure how to handle it. “No way,” he said. “There’s a stack of them.” “And you don’t know who wrote them?” “Not a clue. I thought I’d guessed, but I was told I was wrong.”

we have blue eyes too

Dearest Jhayne,

Once upon a tomorrow, before the
applause fades away, a little boy sits
in a park, holding a fistful of feathers.
“I know where your wings are,” says
a voice from behind him, and he turns
around to see a little girl standing
there. “Don’t be stupid,” the little boy
says. “I don’t have any wings.”
“I’m sorry I told you that,” says
the little girl. “But it’s your fault for not
believing stronger.” The little boy just
looks at his feathers. “Nobody has wings,”
he says at last. “People can’t fly!”
“Don’t listen to the pigeons, they don’t
know anything,” she responds. For
his sake, she turns into
a swan before
she flies away.



Previous letters: one & two, three, four & five & six, seven.

It’s comforting. It solidifies my impression of message-based narrative and adds credence to the assumption that I am The Girl.

Hello letter-author. Thank you. You’re appreciated.

‘she offered her honour, he honoured her offer, and all night long he was on her and off her.’

Pike Place Market
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.


Another letter arrived after the long weekend. This one with a different stamp.

Cherished Jhayne,

Once upon a yesterday, when hearts still
hardened and stones still bled, a boy
grew up listening to the wind. “It sounds
almost like singing,” he would say, and
friends and family would laugh at his
fancy. As a youg man he bought a pair
of boots and took to travelling, and did
not say that he was following the voice of
the wind. To himself he would say, “She is
almost singing, but cannot find the melody.”
A traveler one day came across the man as
he stood among the rocks, arms upraised.
“I am teaching the wind to sing,” said the
boy-who-was-now-a-man. The traveler moved
on but many years later passed by the
same spot, and paused upon hearing a
beautiful song. No singer
stood there, merely
the wind, who spun
around a rock
shaped like a
man, with his
arms upraised.




  • Monkey Fluids
  • Married to the Sea.
  • Cow abduction.
  • Your Paragraph Negates Woofer.

    Duncan as a sweet young thing: part one, part two.

    Saw Brick on Thursday with Sam at the Tinseltown special premier. I watched it with a feeling of deep appreciation, but I don’t think it made the same astounding impression on me as it seems to have on most of my friends. The idea was clever, the follow-through skilled and intelligent, but that’s what I expected. I wasn’t surprised.

    Three more mystery letters have arrived. The last two had no postmark, though they had stamps.

    Beloved Jhayne,

    Once upon a yesterday, when strangers
    woke in familiar places and other woke
    in familiar faces, a young woman walked
    through the forest searching for a flower
    for her hair. Now, any child knows that
    more flowers are found in fields than
    forests, but this young woman was vain
    and wanted a flower one had seen before.
    After much wandering she found a tree with
    golden leaves and blossoms that glittered
    like gems. When she plucked a flower, the
    golden leaves cut her hands and stained
    it red with blood. The young woman ran
    from the forest, and though her hands still bled
    when she arrived home, her mother only said,
    “What a pretty red flower in your hair.” The
    flower never fell or faded,
    and few noticed that
    her fingernails were
    golden and her
    tears glittered
    like gems.



    Sweet Jhayne,

    Once upon a yesterday, when the stars
    still sang and the sea still listened, the
    man in the moon came down to visit to you in
    a dream. He said, “Over the rainbow is
    over-rated, you know. I don’t belong in
    a place where blue birds sing, nor
    little girls from Kansas neither.” “I like to
    sing,” you replied. “You’re not from Kansas,
    now, are you?” said he. “And you know
    better than to stop believing in fairy tales.”
    “Sometimes I wonder,” you said, but for now
    you’d believe in dreams, and the man in the
    moon. It’s rude not to believe in someone as
    he sits at the foot of your bed. “I have to
    wake up,” you said, so you may not have
    heard him say, “When the end comes, I’ll be back. We’ll go
    under the rainbow,
    you and I – see
    how far it
    takes us.”

    X Love

    Precious Jhayne,

    Once upon a yesterday, when certain girls
    cried diamonds and certain trees grew
    gold, a woman lived in a hour on a hill
    from which she could almost see the
    ocean, but not quite. Every night the
    stars would singer her to sleep and she
    would dream of a prince who would show
    her the sea. Every morning she awoke to
    the smell of salt. Once day a handsome
    man passed by her house on the hill,
    and she asked him “Are you my prince?”
    The prince looked at her and said, “I
    would not want an ugly woman.” The ugly
    woman watched as he walked away. That
    night, when the stars began to sing, she said,
    “I do not want to dream anymore.” The stars,
    silenced. Now the ugly
    woman does not sleep
    but looks to where
    she can almost
    see the ocean,
    but not quite.



  • the mystery continues in love

    Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

    Lovely Jhayne:

    Once upon a yesterday, after the
    beginning and shortly before the end,
    an old man stood fishing by the
    sea. To each fish he caught, he would
    say, “Grant me a boon, for I have
    trapped you fairly.” Each fish he would
    throw back when it did not reply.
    A little girl came along the shore
    and asked why he sought boons of
    fishes. “One yesterday a snared fish
    offered me a wish if I would release
    him,” the old man said. “I wished my wife
    away, and now I want her back.”
    “You must love her then, to do this so long,”
    said the little girl.
    “Love and devotion
    are not the same
    thing,” said the
    fish as he
    swam away.



    Another letter, as unsigned as the first two, as anonymous and comforting. This one, however, is quoting me more evidently than the last two. Perhaps it is a clue?

    for though my eyes read, they do not need to plead anymore

    Darling Jhayne,

    Once upon a yesterday, when wishes
    were fishes and fishes came true,
    a young man saw the moon drowning
    in a pond and fished her out with
    a bucket. “Thank you,” said the moon,
    “How may I repay you?” The young man,
    taken by her beauty, begged her to
    stay with him always. She hesitated
    and hedged, for the moon is more
    someways then always, but finally she
    said said, “I promise, I will stay.” She was
    gone the next day. The young man
    waited by the pond and one day caught
    her again with his bucket. This time he
    said, “Let me teach you
    always.” Every month
    the moon drowns,
    and she says,
    “I will stay.”



    Dearest Jhayne;

    Once upon a yesterday, when
    promises were promises & lies
    were promises too, there was
    a little girl without wings. Which
    is not so unusual, as little girls go.
    Perhaps the unusual bit is that
    she felt she should have them
    at all. The little girl would pick
    up feathers in the park, and ask
    the pigeons, “Have you seen my
    wings?” One day a little boy heard
    her query and laughed. “Don’t be
    stupid,” he said. “Little girls
    don’t have wings!”
    “Neither do little
    boys,” she said,
    and he fell
    out of the



    I recieved an enchanting gift today. Two small envelopes with my name and address beautifully printed on them were in my mail-box. They carry canadian stamps and no return address, though the postal office tracking number tells me they were sent from a mailbox downtown by W. Georgia Street.

    Thank you, my unknown Polyhymnia, for reminding me to wonder. Your letters bring the poetry my life has been lacking, the mythology I have been strangling without. Thank you for catching me as I fall, for knowing me so desperately well or guessing so grandly. You have given me a gift I cannot measure without vivisection, without the sudden demonstration of spontaneous conflageration. Thank you.

    I’m looking forward now.