R.I.P. Fido. 2006 – 2012.


R.I.P. Fido. 2006 – 2012.

David went out on the porch this morning to feed Fido only to discover that he’d passed away sometime in the night, presumably of old age. He was a tremendously cute bunny and will be missed. I’ve taken his body and wrapped in a towel, so David can take down his cage and dissemble his hutch. Later today we will take the body to Animal Control to be cremated. If anyone would like to pay their respects, we are hosting Sunday Tea this week from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. (Note: David’s weapon of choice is whiskey.)

Today’s Best Spam Subject Line: Can Lupus Sufferers Use Henna?

Rise Up Fallen Angel, an imaginary exploitation poster

Rise Up Fallen Angel, an imaginary exploitation film poster.

Yesterday was a good day. It started fraught with computer problems, the stupid sort that feel like steel wool endlessly scrubbing against the back of your eyes, but ended on a high note, with a visit to A. that left me feeling better than I have in weeks, to the point where I caught myself beaming at strangers all the way home, waving a broken stick of flowers I picked up off the ground. Oh dopamine, how I have missed you. It’s left me feeling super productive and significantly less like I’ve been crushed by steel plates. Not quite myself again, but a step in the right direction. I got up at eight and have been working on neglected tasks ever since, answering e-mail, putting away laundry, calling people, making plans, and continuing to tackle the broken hard-drives of idiotic doom*.

*First I could see the hard-drive, but not interact with it, then after Joshua worked on it an hour, it was discovered that the case was too old to be supported by Win7. Then, after the case was swapped, the drive, ostensibly a terabyte, refused to show up as anything but 1Gb, while the SeaGate software specifically meant to fix such errors has refused to run. Kill it with fire.

There’s been other good news, too. Tony’s going to be in town this weekend, up for a visit with me and Tamea, and staying here on Friday, the better for dancing and Saturday breakfast together. Apparently I’m being paid for my gig with The Short Story Long this weekend and my antique bureau should be selling soon, too, (see all my listings), which should go a distance towards clearing away my credit card bill and getting me down to Seattle for my NYC trip.

Unemployment has left me financially devastated this past year, so it will be especially delicious to finally shoot down some debts. To wit: EI sends me monthly letters, asking me to pay them back over a grand. ICBC calls every three weeks, reminding me to pay off $100 in fare evasion tickets someone put in my name while I was in Montreal. My credit card’s maxed out, a slow death that one, used up on groceries. I finally did all my taxes, dating back ten years, (minus 2010 and 2011), but through the magic of interest, late fees, and general tax evils, even after living below the poverty line for a decade, I still owe them $70. It seems like the worst part of being poor is that the system is set up to keep you there.

But back to the good stuff! David was just promoted to manager of the Yaletown Book Warehouse! Not only will he be finally making a living wage, soon he’ll be able to start saving to go back to school to be a primatologist. Related to books, but more personally, I got to meet Zsuzsi Gartner, one of my favourite authors, at her book launch for Better Living Through Plastic Explosives. She’s going to be doing a reading at the VPL main branch on May 11th that I’ve decided I cannot miss. Also, the Dusty Flowerpot Cabaret is hosting a pay-what-you-can, tickets-only-at-the-door show at the Roundhouse on Sunday, 2 pm. Would anyone like to come with?

have I introduced you yet? his name is mask replica, he’s a trout


In an odd bit of unexpected news, a side effect of living with David is that Matthew Good has just posted/stolen (uncredited) one of my photographs from Dec. This both pleases me greatly and bothers me intensely in bemused equal parts. It’s an odd yet understandable mix of reactions, and David has promised to call him today to rectify the matter, conveying as well my gleeful shaking of a tiny fist in his general direction for his unintended rudeness. Asked where he had found the image, Matt replied, “I found it posted by some chick on the internet.” Thank you, Matt, that’s pretty damned awesome. In fact, it kind of made my night. That said, all wry appreciation aside, I truly am deeply glad of who you are and what you do. You’re one of the Good Guys. (And, yes, I’m totally digging the new album. Which you, gentle reader, may find streaming free at the top of his site.) I can’t wait until you come over for tea, if only to introduce you lovingly to my nerd-smacking fish.

leaving the curse behind (story seed, a letter)

Tony illustrating a point with my picture and
a frame from one of my favourite music videos,
Elbow – the Bones of You

Video: Alasdair on a gigantic plinth in London as part of an art project.

Instead of going to Michael’s office after work yesterday, I went to the shop and got stick-on blackboard for the fridges, (both the one here and the one in Seattle), and scoured my way through Chapter’s cheap section looking for books about painting and colour, to try and better pin down what would be nice in the bedroom, (both here and in Seattle). I felt alone in the city, dislocated, as if my movements were an echo of someone else’s long past afternoon, a pattern of motion left like a mark on time, waiting for the right kind of lonely to step into it to manifest.

Eventually I shook it off, bought bus-tickets and a slurpee and went home, uncertain what my plans were, not thinking about it, reading a discount Hannibal Lector book and wondering what I needed to feel present in the day.

Thankfully David was home when I got in, and about as aimless as I was, so it was we found a mutual solace in finally tackling neglected projects around the house, our new sticky tape blackboard our starting off point. We folded away winter blankets and hung art and mirrors to Temple of the Dog and Live until eleven at night, when it was decided that continuing to bang nails into the wall might be crossing the line from antisocial to fully justified murder. Much of my art still needs to be framed, so most of what’s left isn’t going anywhere until some future pay-cheque, but it was mighty refreshing to get a start on what’s been on our To Do list since possibly last summer. The only thing that would have make the evening better was if I had a head full of hair dye, but again, of all things, that one will not hurt to wait.

Gam Zu Letovah (this too is for the best).

via mshades: From Portuguese – Saudade According to Wikipedia:

“…a feeling of nostalgic longing for something or someone that one was fond of and which is lost. It often carries a fatalist tone and a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might really never return.”

Bones and silk, flesh, diamonds, and suede – the sound of our relationship sifted through breathing, through waiting, through stumbling to a slow, crumbling end. Finally our slow unraveling, thread by thread, has dissolved us. It is no longer us together, us against the world. Our ship has capsized, not by a sudden disaster, but by the slow leaking of quiet depression, silent and heavy and too much to bear.

(I realized during my time away that I am done, that I can no longer hold myself static, that I need change. Even something as small as a declaration of stepping away, to feel that I am no longer against the wall, no longer holding my breath forever.)

He, of course, has been hit harder than I have, as I’ve been adjusting towards this since December, slipping away, unable to survive as an equal in a relationship without communication, as my increasing demands that he simply talk to me were set aside, excused, and our stone connections patiently eroded into sand. He began confessing only recently, began speaking in spurts and dribbles late at night, trying to explain, but it was, as many things, too little too late. Poor little words, stalling, halting, too worn out to dance. Yet, already, between the worst moments, we seem to be relaxing, finding space. He’s begun writing, I no longer feel pressured. I have hope for us now, when before I was beginning to have none.

things more important than “by the way, want to sleep with me later?”

Over my shoulder, the message lands, beginning with “Happy New Year Lady” and ending with “My love to any animals frozen in your freezer.” What else is there to reply but, “I love you too.”? We were a disaster in Toronto. We’ve been a disaster plenty of times. It is okay that I am Atlantis. Yes, I can see the forest for the trees, and these trees are shaking, waiting for the rain that falls to break them, waiting for the day when your hand takes my hand and we run into the ocean, laughing.

The Queen has a YouTube channel.

I touch both my eyes, and hear the real question, “what is romance to you?” It’s been a question he’s been skirting, trying to fall into step with me, but not having any idea what I might want to expect. I dredge my memory, easily splintering a few emotions, and call up past relationships. Riffling through the options like thank you cards. The day I collected all the light strings in the house and taped them into a giant glowing heart on the wall above the bed. It lived there for over a month, crookedly falling down regularly, charming and gentle. The cookies I baked iced with naughty poetry, the candles I left in a trail like flower petals, she loves you, she loves you not, she loves you, she loves you not, something to count on the way to the bed. Notes left in clothing, under books, inside his wallet, inside the lunch bag. I like your eyes they might say, or you make everything worthwhile. A magic trick recorded at four a.m., exhausted, but glad. The chocolate I made, then left in a tin at the front door of his office, with a calligraphy note signed in invisible ink.

I thought everyone expressed themselves like this, moving through the world with poetry, an unspoken law, but I can see by his tightening smile, so sad, he does not.


Hannekuweenmas house-warming party at Jhayne and David’s place
(it’s not our fault he wasn’t moved in by October 31st)

365 days one hundred & sixty-two: being my friend

Saturday, December 13, 2008 at 11:00am – Sunday, December 14, 2008 at 7:00am

An all day non-denominational, costumes optional, holiday social and house party
to celebrate David moving in, with crepes in the morning, tea in the afternoon,
and candle-lit silent black and white horror films until dawn.

In regards to BYO:
Bring your own syrup, eggs, fruit, or toppings, bring tea, cookies, or pie,
bring flowers, feathers, or figs, whatever you feel appropriate,
but most importantly, bring yourself.

Extra guests welcome within moderation.

Facebook event link.

facing away from the desert

Southern California is Burning Again.

Yesterday someone replied to the Craigslist ad I put up regarding our old catboxes, (the cats have taken over the bunny-igloo litter-spaceship David brought over and will never give it back), and I replied, “Sure! Come on over.” while sending David a note, “were they bleached or were we overwhelmed by other things?” The message back, “overwhelmed.” So while I’m at work, feeling guilty for having David scrub the catboxes, as it was my chore to do, I decide to rectify matters I must fetch him delicious treats and chocolate while getting groceries on the way home.

(It’s fully dark by the time I leave work. The only benefit to this: Keith and I watch the result of the four p.m. sun set from our seventh floor office window as the tips of ordinary architecture are suddenly beautiful, bathed in melted girl-music gold, while everything at street level is already a heavy blue day-crunched dark.)

Fast-forward to arriving home. I stumble in, ready to drop, heavy with bags of vegetables and canned soup, and then I stop, stunned. The apartment I left in the morning is gone, replaced by an entirely new portion of space. Everything unsorted that was haunting our living space, (minus the bathroom and the bedroom, untidy disasters both), has been shifted into neat piles in the spare room library. There are no more boxes to step over. The floors are clear, flat surfaces have resurfaced, it’s a miracle. The apartment has been organized.

Summary: There is Not Enough Chocolate In The World.