Ice-skating’s at 8pm this evening at the 6-Rinks in Burnaby.
I’m cleaning my room. Ryan‘s things are unprotected, the consequence is boxes. There’s the idea floating about that we’ll see him more once he’s officially moved out, but no matter that, we’ll see far more of my floor. The perpetual pile of fabric that’s been living in front of my closet will have evaporated into the now empty drawers. This tightrope act of practically living tidily will collapse out of illusion and into reality. When the lady is sawed in half, this time there will be screaming. Think gore, think the horrible wail of a vacuum cleaner.
E3 conference banned “booth bunnies” at upcoming shows
Man trips, destroys ming dynasty.
UK phone company has Tom Baker read text messages sent to landline messages.
Part of my week in pictures:
In a glaring contradiction of new federal policy, the new face of Homeland Security seem to be animal-human hybrids.
Sarah has graciously offered her home this evening as an alternative to tonight’s NIN canceled Korean Movie Monday. There will be no korean movie, but it’s practically the same thing, if you squint at it a bit.
My day’s gone by with nothing addressed. I’m going to be in desperate need for some food later. I feel like going to sleep in a public park, let them erect a fence around me, and just wake me up when this all ends. I’ll be a public exhibit, free of charge, until the apocalypse has come and gone to the mountainside. When the weather is nice for ducks, I may turn to my side and let the wind destroy my possessing dreams a little, but that would be all. The grass will grow around me and tickle my hair into fantastic shapes. When it gets dark, it might get lonely, but I fail to see how that’s any worse than my current overwhelming lack of comfort, and maybe little animals might burrow in my skirts. Squirrels curling up for the heat of my body and sharing the night with me. Pets with human eyes I never see.
Did you know Queen Anne was buried in a cubic coffin?
Whipping past reflective surfaces, I make it though the day without looking at myself as much as possible. Work has two change-rooms, one next to the other, that are walled on three sides with mirrors. This makes it difficult, so when I stand in front of them, I try to focus on the colours in my hair or the angle of my shoes against the carpet. People tell me I’m pretty and I want to bite them. Pretty is useless. Pretty is not a skill. There are mirrors in the back as well, one in the hall and a large one in the bathroom. I’ve hung manniquin busts on the bathroom mirror, and so far no one has moved them, but the hall mirror makes me twitch whenever I pass and catch myself in the corner of my eye. The manniquins, however, I have fallen in love with. My hands trail over their bodies when I dress them, and I feel remembered sparks of tenderness when I smooth their artificial hair. I want to take them home with me and curl myself around the hard plastic bodies, protect them from the people who treat them as objects instead of people. I feel for them almost the same way I felt for the people who were the BodyWorlds Exhibit. A deep abiding respect with an underlying current of wanting to know their names. It’s commiseration that runs like oxygen through blood.
Tonight after work is Wolf Parade with Architecture in Helsinki then Cirque De Sade with possible Big Birthday Bash afterward.
When my camera download died is when I felt myself finally geared up into taking real pictures again. The irony of this is no more lost to me than the multitude of little chocolates that Ryan has scattered through my room. Picture a girl, pale skinned, almost the tint of home made strawberry ice-cream. Remove her shirt and put a cloth over her face. One eye can see you, the other is closed. Title this do not shoot me. Picture a boy, his arms are stretched out and his face painted gold. Picture bottle green velvet against mulberry crimson, a giant red lizard like sleeping with a voodoo doll, a feather mask dipped in a bowl of dead flowers, an x-ray lit from behind over the head of a sleeping man, this is what the doctor said – a eulogy for the dead party city. Click.