like the lady said

FELIX CULPA‘s new play, REVENGE, at the Firehall Theatre opens tonight with a free preview at 8:00 pm. The world premiere of an old play, David Bloom’s Revenge, inspired by The Revenger’s Tragedy by Thomas Middleton, is “a darkly funny tale of love and vengeance, set in a world obsessed with transient beauty, wealth and power.” Knowing David’s delicious humour, I believe it.

Liam and I are attending tonight, anyone else interested? Free is a damned good price.
edit: so far we have Silva, Wayne, Nicole & maybe Keith

Felix Culpa can be counted on to always deliver intense and outstanding work. (Some of you might be lucky enough to remember them from HIVE.) Their credo is to only perform intellectual, highly literate, yet recklessly unconventional theatre with as much panache and inventive brilliance as possible. They succeed 100%, a revolution untelevised.

Running May 4 -12, tickets are $25.00/$20.00, (available through the Firehall Box Office 689.0926), and Pay-what-you-can matinées Sunday May 6 and Saturday May 12 at 2:00 pm. (See Seven pass holders reserve through Tickets Tonight: 231.7375.)

it seemed like a good idea at the time

Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

David Bloom cheers me up.

D: Who was it?
J: An accordion playing morris dancer.
D: You should have known better than to sleep with a morris dancer.
J: What? Why’s that? How do you know?
D: I just know. Something about the little bells.

So does Michael Green.

M: Too different? That’s like saying a diamond is too shiny, that it’s too precious, too rare. Wait, they’re not rare. They’re terrible. Forget everything I said. Except the good bits. You’re not blood money. Are you sure you don’t want a drink?

now I’m at Sam’s, wondering where he is. it’s been over an hour. I was going to help him pack.

Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

I found out that the computer dot in Kashmir is my godmother’s amazing best friend, Joy. One down, 800 to go. All these mysterious places, I’ve been learning the world map a little at a time, just from peeking into where everyone seems to be. (The most interesting bit, I think, is how accurately my map globally describes what areas are spread with internet access.)

This summer weather makes me wish I drank alcohol. It rains a little, is cold at night, and when I open my eyes in a sticky hot room, companion in my bed to a clutter of books, an antique hunting horn, a handful of plush roses, my feet tangled in a pile of clean laundry, a wish for a wine bottle flashes into my hands. It’s part of being unemployed, of feeling that my accomplishments are accumulating too slowly to change anything. I want the melodrama of a morning swig of sour intoxication to insulate me against the passage of empty time. Not that I’ve ever managed to be drunk in my life, my thought comes fleshed only in media, but French television shows, Spanish movies full of lovers and taxi-cabs that drive too fast, one hand out the window, hair being tossed back by the weight of the sun, make saturated hydrocarbons look fun, meaningful and nice instead of unpleasant, a wretched taste similar to cassette-head cleaner.

  • Beautiful Day Without You, an animated video by Damien Ferri for Royksopp.
  • A Million Ways, a home-made music video by Ok Go! that sparked a make-your-own contest.

    I skipped out on Graham‘s movie night to visit with David and his last night of the big-screen TV he’d rented for World Cup. (As of today, he’s back off to Macbeth it up at the Caravan). We watched Requiem, took a dive into the perturbing anthropology that is modern television, and just generally stayed up too late eating pizza and drinking tea strong enough to dye skin. (Dear me, You Forgot the Pizza in the Fridge, Leave a Note on the Front Door for the House Sitters, Otherwise it Will be Two Weeks. Sincerely, Your Sudden Realization). I think we packed it in around four in the morning, but stayed up reading in bed until closer to five. The New Yorker, Lila Says. Comforting to be so domestic. The younger kids who stay the night at my place, crashing over after movies so we can all have breakfast the next day before work, they don’t know the subtleties yet, they can’t sink into it.

    Our first blanket arrangement was called the Too Hot War, but that one sank into the swamp. So we built a second blanket arrangement: the Too Warm War. That burned down, fell over, then sank into the swamp. So we built a third one: the Cold Toes War. And that one stayed up. And that’s what you’re going to get, lad, when you get people like us together, the strongest castle upstairs of England.

  • felix culpa

    presents WarPlays

    The war over there. The war right here.

    Felix Culpa offers you three nights of plays, readings and dialogue on the topic of war and its consequences. This event is presented in the same spirit that created the monumental staged reading of Howard Barker’s The Possibilities three years ago on the dawn of the Iraq invasion. Then, Felix Culpa brought together over 50 of Vancouver best theatrical talents at the VECC as a benefit for the Canadian Red Cross’ relief efforts in Iraq. Today, that conflict has no end in sight. We pose the question – why are we unable to eradicate war?

    May 26th, 27th, 28th @ 8 pm
    Playwrights’ Theatre Centre Studio
    Tickets by donation, at the door only
    Proceeds to benefit The Canadian Red Cross

    Friday, May 26th and Saturday, May 27th @ 8 pm – Double Bill

    Written and performed by Una Memisevic
    Inspired by events in Sarajevo during the Bosnian conflict, Una Memisevic’s RAW is an honest, unsettling and grimly humorous look at life in a city under siege. Trapped in her apartment by a sniper she may or may not know, a woman builds herself an impossible means of escape.

    My Holiday Photos from Afghanistan
    Written and performed by David Bloom
    The challenge – We give playwright David Bloom precisely 68 hours to write his version of Canada’s war in Afghanistan.

    Sunday, May 28th @ 8 pm

    Howard Barker’s The Castle
    A reading, featuring Vancouver most dynamic emerging and experienced talents
    After a seven year absence at the Crusades, warriors return to find that the womenfolk have overturned the old system of feudal patriarchy. There follows an appalling conflict that destroys a society. With Rukiya Bernard, Bill Dow, Alex Ferguson, Kevin Loring, Linda Quibell and Veena Sood.

    Felix Culpa is Vancouver’s première language-based company. The mandate is to produce work that explores contradiction, conundrum and moral ambiguity. Recent past productions include Howard Barker’s Und, Wallace Shawn’s The Designated Mourner and the Governor General’s Award winning The Monument, a co-production with Rumble Productions.

    For information contact Linda Quibell at 604.251.7889 or

    -note- I was assistant stage manager for the Canadian Red Cross benefit, and it remains one of the more defining moments in my brief career in theater. Felix Culpa put on a damned fine show, to the point where I still have a placard from The Designated Mourner up in my room. Support these guys if you can, folks. There’s not enough people like them.

    lost my face

    Wednesday night I fell asleep with the skin of a bear’s head draped over my hair and face like a mask and bodies sprawled at my feet. I was an urban medieval Frezetti painting. All I needed was a grand gold spear in the hand that wasn’t sleepily curled around one of the black fur ears.

    Last night I didn’t sleep at all. Instead I held someone and let them come back to life. We’re damaged people, love. Yes, I know we are. That’s partially what holds this part of clan together inside our tribe. Family words, meaning country and lover and home. Parents, holding hands. The two of us writing words in the sand, the light off and my glasses by the side of the bed.

    When I’m here, so are you. Everyone reading and here I’m sitting, thinking “what is that sound?” It’s people, trying to find themselves in what I write here, as if it were important. Until recently, I wasn’t aware. I’ve become used to being put aside. The world goes around without me, I think, it continues and carries on. I am the merest drop of rain and the rain will fall forever. New creatures will be born, they will have stories, they will stop and stare at the enormous sky that birthed them and think in tones of wonder long after I have passed my way.

    I should be at a party right now. David Bloom sent out a mass invite to celebrate the fact that it’s not New Year’s Eve. No resolutions will be necessary, bad behaviour will be accepted, but I’m feeling a little lost for some reason. Alone and not a little intimidated, I want to leave the house and instead I’m thinking softly in excuses, It’s late. I hardly know any of his friends. If Bill is there, I’ll make him uncomfortable. Most of all, it’s late, as if they were real. Yet in denial, I still want to have my shoes on. I will leave the house, wrapped in this feeling of abandonment of not. This is what I want to believe. Make myself over into someone who can be brave with this strange cowardice bubble of uncertainty encasing my heart. (This is what I horribly suspect that other people might feel like all the time.)

    Instead, my arms are stretched out, trying to hold onto something beautiful and failing. I’m scanning every face now, trying to see into the future, trying to see who I might encounter as a friend. This city is full of strangers, they look at me sometimes when I walk by them as if I were unexpected, but rationally I know that some of them I will talk to. We will meet some day and speak together, they will tell me they saw me with that hat or the ferret or in bare feet. I’m the red head hippie that girl hated or that boy couldn’t get over. A tragic figure they saw crying. I stand on the street corner like a door I’m looking out of, the traffic a heavy silence, wanting to see that perfect memory unfold before me. The one that I haven’t had yet, because it’s still in front of me, as far away as falling stars.

    Before dreaming starts at night, there’s a time when you close your eyes and pictures begin unbidden through all the caring cells in your body. Mine have been providing me with the sensation of my hands on a piano, my body held warmly against the length of a stranger in time to old familiar music. Behind my lids, it’s not my hands I’m watching, it’s not my feet, the pattern on the carpet or the length of the room between me and that place to stay. I’m not re-evaluating my choices, my flight, my desire to meet those eyes across a room again with an impossible question. Instead, I’m trying to explain with equal grace to those images how much my strange days mean to me. It feels impossible, like climbing a rainbow.

    Where the hell are my angels?


    I realized the other day just how far away I have become from the person I used to be. The other day, I had a momentary flash – I’m older now, I have now hung up my underwear to dry in the bathroom.

    M’love and I went out yesterday. We went to the Flea Market. A red warehouse full of things that weren’t interesting enough to ask after. A sad sorry look at our consumer culture. He walked away with music, Lina Lovitch, and a Gowan, as self amusement. I staggered away with a gothic monstrosity. Pedestal, painted silver, with three gargoyles. Speak Evil, Hear Evil, See Evil. 50c = 3 pounds worth of clay and silver paint.

    This week I houseclean. It’s difficult with no hot water, and things tend to pile up. Still, there are things to hang up, and things to be put on shelves, and things to be organized to leave the house. Sold, bartered, tossed. Whichever seems best. Already there is a box in the livingroom fll of barbie dolls and toys. Fantasy books that were left on my doorstep and comicbooks dirt cheap.

    Unexpected people are planning on appearing at the party this weekend. Drifting into people on Commercial Drive. My ghodmum, and her boy.

    Unusual gifts, these people.

    “I’m not a fig plucker, but a fig pluckers son, and we’ll all plck figs until the fig plucking’s done”.

    We also ran into a David Bloom, and an Andrew, of The Hill and Biffy Perdu. I walked away from thier concert last night with a tiny pin, and an e-mail address of someone named Black. I should tend to my collection of people without names. They are fading away from me like dreams into morning.

    Last night, someone stared at me from thier car as I stood at the busstop. He sparked conversation between me and my love. “I don’t like being in the company of people who wonder if my lipstick matches thier cock”, then I took satisfaction in naming names.