hold it down

Moonhead, by Andrew Broder:

did you hear the one about the day the moon fell to earth?
it had a crater exactly the size of a human head on it
and it landed on my head and now my head is the moon.
or the one about the day a thousand lives from now

when we return as a team of archeologists
and discover fossils of ourselves in a former life
on the day we spurned our nervous twitch
and found our yearn to hint at winter bliss.
on the day the stars sang the national anthem of sweaty disbelief,
of coelacanth teeth, to scream loud enough
to shatter the roof of a coral reef
and the shrapnel ground up into paint
for robin’s egg colored dream and root beer float,
second hand flavored drool absorbers
and the words “hope” and “home” that sound the same,
smell the same as the day the doe caught a sad snowflake on her
tongue and melted it in an instant
and it tasted like the blackhole’s wild-eyed longing for light,
whether from the starts that radiate
or the planets that reflect it or the eyes that reflect the reflection,
or the eyes looking into those eyes and seeing the reflection of the eyes,
which if all goes according to plan,
will outlast the universe itself.


Lung is talking about bussing me down to Las Vegas to meet with him and Natasha somewhere near the end of November, and then traveling with them to the Salton Sea, finally to pick up the letter Kyle left there for me sometime last year. As November closes around me and the sun drowns in fallen leaves and crowns itself in flash flood puddles that mirror the endless gray sky, it feels less like a blessing and more like a fairytale already told, like somehow I missed it between one blink and the next, as if these places never really exist, but only hover over pages of books and mimic the careless sheen of photographs, haunting our collective conscious in a waking haze of forgotten days as long as winter dusk.

Out there is the storm, strangely calmed, another twist in the river, another chapter of life. Here is a pool of known days, painting, adjusting, David job hunting, tinkering with very little, watching a movie at home every two days. I’ve said yes. Of course I’ve said yes. I’ve missed Lung, his crackling humour, sharing our puzzle-piece twin set of anger and frustrations. There is no other answer. Now it rests on my workplace, if they will let me leave for a week, to work away for five days. If it all works out, I’ll bus down to Seattle after work on the 21st for Robin’s party on the 22nd, then catch a bus to Vegas from there on the 23rd. My fingers are crossed, my fingers and my heart and my bones and breath. My hope is an elephant living deep inside the cage of my chest, pressing against my skin, forged out of a cello’s long humming strokes of sound, invisible until an answer arrives.

Until then, I won’t know myself. I’ll be a string of notes without direction, as crazy eyed inside as unexpected blood on the hands, a tight rope walker with her lover on the other side and a den full of sharp toothed, hungry lions below.

Meanwhile, Antony and I are e-mailing back and forth, a piano falling from the sky. There’s nothing quite like home. Apparently he arrived in Montreal just over a week after I left, and he’ll be there until half-way through December, far after I would return from the south. Tag, you’re it. Unexpected, how life plays these games of just missed, all the way through, both directions. If he sends me his address, I’m going to try and make sure he gets another palm tree, to keep in touch.

Some times I am lucky and an entire week can go by without missing his laugh. I wonder, occasionally, that I am so changed within since we met. Given all that is fixed, will I ever want to be able to walk away again?

a quick, useless note before bed: we’re all related because we say so

I have decided my family tree isn’t even a bush. It’s a tesseract. My day began crawling out of bed at Alastair’s, (who briefly dated Kelly, one of Antony’s co-workers), stealing a pair of his pants, coming home, slipping on the corset Antony gave me over one of his left-behind shirts, then taking part in my godmother Silva and her partner Amber‘s coyote-blessed Jewish/Hopi wedding. (Where I found out that her nephew used to be my friend Elliot’s wife’s roommate for many years). After the wedding was concluded and the reception wrapped up, I was dropped off by my not-actually-aunt Terry, (one of Silva’s best friends), at Eaon‘s birthday party, (who was best friends with Silva’s ex-partner’s daughter), who then introduced me (to simplify things) as his sister-in-law on the basis that he’s slept with my not-actually-sister, the ex-step-daughter, and I’ve slept with his not-actually-brother, Antony, so therefore

I am beginning to believe I have reached a social event horizon.

To tie it all together in a nice neat loop, last time Antony was in town, I brought him to Silva’s for nummy birthday cake. (And with that, the use of the word nummy, (is that even in the dictionary?), I am giving up and going to bed. Night all. Congratulate Silva here and Amber here)

A week of Love Reminded.

This is where I drop being an entertainer, an entrepreneur, or even remotely professional, and just simply be A Girl.

The Here Be Monster’s Festival of the Art’s was at the Dollhouse Studios this year, the burlesque bar Antony and I went to on our first date. Frank and I went and played photographer, and though I expected to be apprehensive visiting the space again, it was more difficult than I thought. Stepping past the foyer into the main room knocked the wind out of me. I had to stand still, remember to breathe, try to whistle up a smile. I couldn’t help but whip backward in time, to how it felt being there last time, the two of us laying on the bed, discussing life, feeling out the edges of how much we liked each other. My heart jumped, sick with longing. I remembered feeling shocked when he offered to cuddle with me for warmth. Shocked and glad, pleased like we were inventing something new and useful, an affectionate key to a very old code.

It had been empty then, the Dollhouse. An overly rich cover charge the same night as Sin had kept everyone away but for us and three or four other die-hards who were far more affiliated with the space than I’ll ever be. Wednesday, however, it was not. The Festival’s opening night was warm with people, conversation, and delightful performances. (It’s on until Sunday, doncha know. Atomic Vaudeville still has one more show). Eventually, chatting with the crowd, taking pictures, I conquered my overwhelming mind’s eye enough to be useful until well after midnight. Later that morning, however, I had work very early, (a six:thirty call-time in Squamish means being picked up at five a.m.), so spent the day dancing around a wicked lack of sleep, further embedding my underlying sense of helpless pining. Which felt bloody ridiculous. It’s been half a year! We’re still best friends! Boo helpless pining. Hiss. Derision.

So what do I do last night? Why, go see a ten:thirty showing of The Darjeeling Limited, of course, the latest Wes Anderson film, which happens to be the latest Adrian Brody film too. Not a stroke of genius. How does this relate?


Didn’t really ameliorate the problem, really, more amplified it a thousandfold until I caught myself struck, sighing with a scratch in my throat every time his character lit up a cigarette. Bah. Completely irrational. So, sound in the knowledge that Antony’s been working late, I called Beverly Hills as soon as I got home. Best thing I’ve done in a month. As soon as he said hello, I had a blithesome smile that almost cracked my face. We talked for hours, laughing back and forth, until work was done, he’d driven home, and we were both happily crawling into bed. It lifted a lot of weight off. Life lately’s been almost a terrifying amount of stress. As of Monday, I’ll have gone an entire year without a Real Job, and financial pressures are threatening to crush me almost daily. (ex. I ran out of catfood yesterday, but won’t have money to buy more until too late on Sunday to hit up any shops. It’s scary. In September I made 80% of my income from writing, but when I worked it out, I made less than minimum wage per hour. I would have made more money working at McDonalds. It’s like I’m living someone’s version of The Dream, but it’s not actually mine.) Having a life-line, especially one so gratifying as Antony, means the world. I fell asleep alright with the world for the first time in months.

And yet, it gets better. Today Mike called from wherever the hell he’s on tour right now. (Virginia or Indiana or something. Somewhere that ends in A, I’d check his website if doing so late at night didn’t make me feel vaguely like a stalker.) I was thrilled. I’ve only been hearing from him about once every three weeks. His itinerary doesn’t particularly allow time for anything as esoteric as A Life, so every time he calls, we have radiant conversations that go on for hours. Topics range everywhere, from the relative size of platypus to what we were like as teenagers. My favourite bon mot was that I should start a net campaign to help with the trip to Calgary I’m attempting to scratch out of nothing – GET JHAYNE LAID FOR THE HOLIDAYS: he’s clever enough to fool her into thinking he’s clever. Take some obliquely smutty pictures, maybe attempt to sell some prints, see if I get any donations.

Friends of mine from all over America have been going to his gigs, actually. I know of approximately twelve visits to venues so far, ranging over both our countries. Not just the bigger cities either, like L.A. and NYC, Chicago, Toronto or Montreal, but smaller places too. Madison, Vienna, Hamilton… Some towns I’ve never heard of, let alone visited. It’s been an incredible response. We think it’s fantastic. Tangible reactions from the network that isn’t just made of zeroes and ones are terrific. And thank you, from both of us. You warm my worried heart.

So today, as Silva graciously put it for me, I’m feeling loved and appreciated, which is sometimes better than feeling properly fed and clothed and housed.

Also: Instant stress relief in the form of a nws post-furry culture trainwreck.