Good morning to the new lunar year. On the Chinese calendar it’s my year, the year of the Dog.
The roof of my mouth feels lightly of electricity. Yesterday was falling backward, a door opening accidently, opening onto a room full of people I never see and don’t think about often enough. I have a new ring, a silver thing like the branch of a mother of pearl tree. I have eyes too open to see sleep properly. The parade through China Town was extremely beautiful. Ray and I bought explosive paper twists, you throw them to the ground and they spark and bang. I fell in love all over again every time I dropped one to the pavement. I took a slew of incredibly colourful pictures, but I will upload them later, when I am not rushing against the time I need to be at work.
She retrieved a clove cigarette from her purse and put it to her lips. I hurriedly offered her a light with my lighter.
“I want to sleep with you,” she said.
So we slept together.
“This General Motors Futurliner was one of only 12 such vehicles ever built. They were introduced in 1940 as part of GM’s “Parade of Progress,” spun out of the 1933-34 World’s Fair, themed “A Century Of Progress.” There are nine known Futurliners that have survived. Three are in operating condition, including this 1950 model which sold at an auction last week for US$4,320,000.”
Vintage UK electronics ads.
The day before yesterday, I felt like terrible company. Saturday night I simply crashed. Blearily I answered the phone a couple times, tried to wake up enough to get myself together enough to go to dinner with my friend, failed, and finally closed my eyes. There was a knock on the door a little past midnight, Andrew and Ian to pick up some electronics pieces, and a bit later, Matthew to tuck me in, but no one stayed and I fell back into uncomplicated darkness, tangling my ferret in my hair and forgetting to dream.
We missed Butoh today. However, after an aborted Dominique-Jhayne&Chris are-going-to-steal-Reine-for-breakfast, Chris and I are venturing out to find him a new digital camera. For this we employ our secret spy, our in on the man, Mr. Ferguson.
My throat is still torn from howling at the women on stage last night. Called Stilettos and Strap-ons, Sylvia‘s group is new and rule-breaking. I entirely approve. As a segue into Rocky Horror, it was fabulous. A family reunion of utterly strange proportion. (No one knew I could femme quite like that, not even me.) We dragged my friend Amber from one event to the next, and I think she had a really good time. An unexpected meshing of social groups, but one I think I’m going to enjoy.
Is there anything going on tonight?
My sleep is crumbling, indifference mixing with a dying anticipation. I expect a signal interrupt. I wake on the hour, mental suitcase in my hand. That phone is going to ring. It makes me nervous, every sound carving the quiet of my room. My body is weary unto bones, aches and heart rate jouncing at the slightest provocation. I stretch and it feels like I’m under water, I have to push against air to move. At my desk is not so bad. I sit, I type.
Chris slept over twice this week to help me sleep, to offer what comfort he can. Exhaustion’s been claiming me in waves, foam flecked gravity sinking my head to the mattress, but I recoil from company now while at the same time require it. A body gives me an anchor, reminds me that unconsciousness is a gift, not only a tiresome chore. There’s no one else I can ask to stay. Chris is getting better. A fragility still underlies everything, but his heart has weathered what it needed to. It is a weight lifted and, underneath my fatigue collapse, I am glad for it. Part of me considers his fever broken.
I’m hoping for a teacher soon, a new skill to capture my attention away from myself and my silences. I’ve been catching myself crying, strange moments when I put my hand to my face and discover my cheek is wet. I want someone to talk to who has the background to understand, who can coax from me what I need to say. I think I may have found one but she’s far away. I’ve been left alone so long I’m not certain of words in person anymore. Alastair helps. We’ve closed our eyes, taken each others hands, and walked through the crusting scabs of break-up to a place where he can talk to me now. I miss him.
It’s not like I don’t love him, but when I see his picture, I don’t catch my breath in my throat. I don’t automatically grin at our lives existing side by side. There are symptoms that it’s possible to checklist. I think that we might have been kissed out of the same womb on some other plane, and sometimes he’s older than me and sometimes he’s not, but I think too that good friends are hard to find, no matter how often they cry, no matter how often they misunderstand you because they see a little so much through their own filters of Not Good Enough and Wars to Win. It’s an old story, maybe the oldest one we know how to tell. Boy Meets Girl and It Changes Everything. Feelings that never pass easily, emotions that claim us as theirs no matter what we think we want. Once In A Land Far Away is next door and yesterday, a gray pleated skirt in a coffeeshop talking on Russian History.
He wanted to be in this narrative since the first time he read it. I don’t know why it took until today, but perhaps a program grinding in the background has finally finished processing and a card punched full of holes has slipped out of my tongue to the black plastic keys in front of me. It might be that in my pictures, I can see him smiling at me. I understand that urge, to smile at the glass lens into someone’s eyes. Inside me are the same instinctual reactions, the same chemical manifestations of an infatuated membrane broken heart. These twisted hieroglyphics, yes, I speak a similar language. It’s as immortal as a virus and as tenacious as a lonely child. On an elemental level, the only way I know to explain is to say that we dip into the same river to pray.
KOREAN MOVIE MONDAY
This week we’re watching Attack the Gas Station.
Directions: walk west along broadway from commercial along the south side of the street. When you come to the psychic lady building, knock on the lower left windows.
note: Nicholas, Andrew wanted your manly emissions. He is sad that you have left. Also, David Byrne and Andrew W. K. should make an album together and call it House Party.
Chris and I have begun a story swap, but rather than create a new piece of fiction every time, we are continuing with the same story, embellishing it back and forth with our own vocabulary voice. This is my re-write of what he posted this week.
a story of siblings
This may be one of the most shirtless parties I have ever attended.
Also, people keep biting me.
Plus, biting me.
Andrea is taking July SinCity as conquest for her birthday. Her army is to be the Pantheon.
I am part of that army, as Eris Discordia.
If anyone has any ideas as to where to find tiny golden apples…?
Today I feel as if I’m procrastinating, though I can’t think of what I could be doing. My playlist is on random, my entire music folder shuffling back and forth between righteous piano and demo mixes for obscure bands that I feel sometimes like only I’ve heard of. It’s appropriate, somehow, melding well with the invariable sirens this neighborhood attracts, and it occurs to me on days like this, as I look out my window at blank rainy gray, to ponder if art is created more at night. Every painter I’ve ever lived with, every musician, all the illustrators I talk to on-line, they’re always up late at night, running themselves into the ground to finish something, to get that last detail just right. I imagine all the insomniacs creating beauty to fill up their time and their loneliness while the stars turn overhead.
Which reminds me, Chris wrote me something. In an odd way we wrote it together, much of it being pieces of my conversation, though he’s the one who put all the words on screenpaper. I want to actually try writing with someone, but I haven’t the first idea as to how one would go about that. Megan is having a blogprov week in her journal, and I’m tempted to do the same, just to throw me back into writing things down. (I gave her show me on the doll where the internet touched you as a seed line.)
Sunday afternoon is the Mad Hatters Tea Party. An event that I am continually trying to get involved with, only to be thwarted by life in general. Chaos raining down upon me as if I’m simply not fated to be an Alice In Wonderland Character. It’s at Trout Lake (15th and Victoria) from 1-4:30pm. I’m due at Jenn’s Last Sunday Tea in the morning and early afternoon, but this is where I’m going right after. (Come in Costume!) Sunday is also DriveFest, a neighborhood event where Commercial Drive is closed off for a few blocks. There’s going to be performers for hours and little kids wandering around with face-paint on. If we’re lucky, there will even be balloons. Commercial Drive is the only unified neighborhood in Vancouver, so this should be lots of fun. There’s been gentrification at work, but it’s still the artistic core of the city. (Come one, come all!)
It could have been one night, but instead it was one day. Something I knew would happen, all the way down to the fact that it wouldn’t matter to me afterward. As an illustration, it marked the harsh lack of chemistry while remaining kind. When it’s right, I cling. I am buried entirely. Ahead of time I know. Ahead of time I decide that the best I can do is try. I know it’s going to hurt, that some delicate thing is going to rip out of my inability to prepare. I’m aware that I’m not going to shake. My illusions weren’t shattered, the pressure was enough to shred unwilling membrane, a debt paid over again but I’ve done similar before, even lived with someone for six months where I paid almost daily but couldn’t gather interest. I let them captain the ship through horrible storm, haunted by violence and spoken words of You’re Never Worthy For me. Now I’m not as young. I’m acutely informed that there has to be a seed for there to be a blossom.
He’s since fallen into the sea, washing over deck into a body of addiction. We think he’s dead now, meth burned and vanished.
Regulators in the US could soon be asked to approve a human trial of gene therapy for cystic fibrosis that uses a hybrid of the HIV and Ebola viruses. In spite of my sketchy grasp of such technology, I can’t see how this is anything but a wretchedly stupid idea for a new Michael Crichton novel. The robots what run on blood might like it: Enter Hero Scientist, enter Military General. Hilarity Ensues. As does Much Bleeding From The Eyes.