I remember the feeling of being a widow

Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

As if I’d conjured him with thought, I encountered the sweet latin-american cocaine dealer on the bus again, the one I’d lent my copy of Pattern Recognition to weeks ago. He was sitting in the back wearing a black oversize Francisco football jacket, huge dark blue jeans, and a face that cheerfully lit up with recognition when I said hello. I like him, he doesn’t know what to do with me, and past our brief conversations, we have no social connections. When he told me he’d called me, I belatedly realized that he must have been the mystery caller that I’d been neglecting to call back, assuming, due to the timeframe, that it was the producer creep who’d got my phone number off a drunken friend in a nightclub. I hope he calls again. I hope he reads the book. I picture him at home, flipping it over in his hands, reading the back cover again, wondering what sort of person I am to give it to him like that.

Trojan Nuclear Plant Implosion – May 21, 2006

My birthday is quick coming up. Celebrations are to begin this week. Wednesday evening, there will be a gathering of like-minded individuals for an All-You-Can-Eat chocolate fondue at the Capstone Tea & Fondue (1118 Denman). It’s something like a $10-ish minimum tab per person. I would appreciate an RSVP as the venue is very small and I feel we should warn them if a slavering horde is to descend upon them and ravage their fruit like a glittering pack of starving crows.

Next on the list, I’m trying to find myself a ride to Seattle for Sunday, May 28th, the day before my birthday. After that, there’s talk of a party at my place for June 3rd. Nothing concrete yet, but words have been happening and words tend to have this nasty habit of becoming plan without anyone noticing. Just keep it in mind is all I’m saying. The week after that is the masque June 9th, (which you’re also likely invited to, just say the word and I’ll see what I can do).

Man with viable(?) rocket boots – 2005

My brain keeps playing callous tricks on me, blatantly assuming I have someone to come as my date to various special things, (a birthday dinner with my godmother, the party in Seattle, the masque), then reminding me as I reach for the phone that I’m not welcome to love certain people anymore, that I am to remember that such thoughts are supposed to be anathema. It’s frustrating, to be so pleased and then so hurt in the flash of a second. It’s not like I was shed yesterday or even last week. I should be used to the thought by now that I wasn’t worth more than a beddable test-drive instead of these contemptible, brief, indefinite intervals of softly smiling, touchy-feely experience, thinking that there’s someone special I’m still allowed to see.

you could have told me less casually

Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

When you say, you in the plural, in the too many of you, “I’m not telling my wife,” I have a perception shift as a tense block of knowledge creaks suddenly into place. You are partitioning me away, removing my reality. You are creating a space for me, which has nothing to do with your solid life, that is to abandoned as soon as primary characters arrive. I’ve done this before, had to live as my role is reshaped around me into the idea of my body and grace, I know what you’re doing before you do. When I look down into my lap with resignation, what else is there to do, it is with this understanding. From there on in, your honesty diminishes every time you kiss me. You might not even see it. Every time my hand is held, every time I am told that I am loved or treasured, our light dims, laced with the knowledge that I am an eradicable betrayal that you will want later to erase.

And then we playfully kiss like sticky children outside a door, we share a glance and giggle at something improbable. I carve lines in the air around your body with my breath like prayer. You hold my hand and trace the lines there, as if you could grant me immortality with the poetry of your smile. But there never is any poetry. As soon as I am out of the room, you can reattribute your actions, decide after the fact what you meant and how you meant it. It burns, your plausible explanations, how you write all the rules, how you’ll still be cruel enough to pretend that I have any say in the matter, as if I had any power except to leave.

Yesterday the line, “cradling my hips like a warm cup of tea,” popped into my head. When I was younger, I imagined that’s what I wanted. Someone who would hold my body canted to their lips as if I was a chalice of some sort to be poured. It might have even been the word canted that gave me such a fancy. Now that I’ve found a few of those people, I’ve discovered that I was right. It’s comforting to know that not everything I thought would be nice turned out to be wrong. There’s a not a lot else that I still have, not in the long run. I had a golden summer once that taught me how to smile. I cried when it was time to leave and when my then partner held me in the cloak of his obscene hair and comforted me, “Life is long, you will fall in love again, many times,” through my wracking body, I knew he was right. What he failed to explain was how few people would bother face the fear of falling in love, how they would hold back and hold back and hold back until finally, in cowardice, lose their mind and flee to be free.

edit: p.s. Finland won?? whiskey tango fff?

mihi cura futuri (but my concern is the future)

LiveJournal Haiku!
Your name: porphyre
Your haiku: in less perilous
times it was dedicated
to musique concrete
Created by Grahame

The preacher called me martyr as he finally found his name, (it’s good to have a name, I cannot write without a name, oh my tarnished scientist, oh my bleeding star), because I give in to the emptiness biting at my heart, because I strive to believe it better to drink the dreadful rain than to be proud and drown in it. I walk out alone, looking at the smoke that passes for a sky in our city and wonder why I’m never good enough company to keep. I have no pure fey and giddy anticipation, it’s threaded through with hard-earned dread. Crumbs from a table. Semantics twisting in. And I’m still terrified to talk to you, still too tired to cry. When everything changed, when the worst happened, it was the supports I never questioned that gave way, that turned from stone to sand beneath my feet. The cement is the same colour as the rain and as the water runs, I feel it must match my eyes. I lost the charm to fly, the meaning. Sometimes I only laugh to let a cold wind out. When I can’t casually say your name without feeling like I’m lying, what can I help but dream you’ll dream of me? My answering machine is silent, except when asking me what I want to do. Press two. Press three or four. I hesitate and hang up.

Original letters sent by Frank Zappa and the PMRC to various instances during and after the ’85 PMRC hearings on music and censorship.

I dream you will come with me to the station when it comes time for me to leave. That you will reason with me the night before, try to hold me as if I would crack, like the light of a candle dimly holding the darkness back. In the morning, you’ll kiss me goodbye and wave, knowing I’ll come back for you. I dream I’m enough to fight for, an ideal with flesh surrounding, not a shell with soft hurt inside. That’s I’m real instead of filler. That there is music to my madness, that it’s not a lost cause again. Another reason to be myself, another reason to stand my ground against the cynic’s world. I dream and think sadly that I’m too young to feel this bitter, but there is no one to cradle my hands and draw my poisons from me. Not in this city. Not in this place. My time here has already been drawn as dry as glass burned back to sand.

Every single Playboy centerfold ever published, (in order).

The weather the past few days has been beautiful, sun and wind. I have been keeping busy. Friday was beach visiting then Jacques birthday, Saturday was dinner out with Duello-folk, then the TV on the Radio concert, Sunday was Sunset Rubdown and Frog Eyes, Monday was Korean Movie Night, Tuesday will be the Secret Machines concert, Wednesday is dinner with Nicole and Matt, Thursday is dinner and archiving vintage family-photographique with Silva, and then, as true as the trees let me be, Friday-I-do-not-know. I work this weekend, Raphealla having something else she’s doing, so I will only be available outside of shop hours. If you want to claim some of them, do so now or hold your peace. I have no internet at work, however, so you’ll have to use the telephonic device made so popular by the previous century, TOLL FREE: 1-888-HYPATIA. Handy, no? Yes. Minus the lack of net at work, which leaves my employment stupefyingly dull.