hypatia shoes looking to act as a gallery

This is a call out to local artists, pass it on.

The shop I manage, Hypatia Shoes, is looking to act as a gallery for appropriately themed paintings and framed photography. The space available is approximately 3 feet by 10. It’s high on the walls, though space for small prints may be found. Commission rates start at 15% and pieces may be left up for a month of more, depending.

Images with gothic themes or alternative models are welcome, as are any with creative use of sexuality. We are looking for tasteful, subtle, more artistic, less pornographic, but some nudity is acceptable. Anything not pg-16 will be discounted.

We are also looking to sell clothing from local designers on a consignment basis.

If you’re interested, please either call or drop by the shop Monday to Friday, 11 a.m. to 6 p.m.
We’re located at 1340 Davie Street and our phone number is 604.688.4862.

if I were related to James Burke, it would be illegal for me to seduce him, which would shameful

the brothers ire
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

I just gave my copy of Pattern Recognition to a stranger on the bus. I struck up conversation with him because he’d been hassled by the police while we were waiting. Trafficking, I figured. He looked the type. White sports clothes, white glass stud in his left ear, had that attractive young latino look going for him. Perfect black goatee and perfect black hair, though hidden mostly under a bandanna. He asked what I was reading and I told him, inscribed my name and phone number in the front and handed it to him right before he had to get off.

Today’s been busy. I got up a little early but got out a little late from playing phone tag with one of Cale’s friends. She’s been kicked out of her house and I offered my apartment for a few days or at least as a little storage space while she gets her feet under her again. It’s tough to come home and find the locks changed. I understand. My mother’s boyfriend stole my keys once and would hang up when I phoned. Slight differences in essentially the same situation.

Late, for once, was alright though. Raphealla had already been scheduled to open the store for me today so I could hit up the Office Of Vital Statistics for my Change of Name application. So after my back and forth with a crying Chloe, I plucked my ferret out of bed and went down to the Bureau and picked up my form. There was an unexpected line-up, but nothing deadly, just enough to instill me with nervousness about the whole thing.

I brought my ferret because a student of Alastair‘s needed one to map for wire-framing. That all went without a hitch. Skatia was picked up from Hypatia at around 4 o’clock and returned sometime around five:thirty. The students, an Italian couple, were very nice about it and loved him dearly, in spite of the fact that he slept more than he ran around to give them footage. After work, the barflies at the Waldorf, including James, the bartender, adored him too. Spoiled him rotten even, as apparently he has a taste for beer and pecan pie. I’m going to bring him back for visits on quiet nights. It’s a surprisingly comfortable place to spend time. I would never have guessed.

However, I knew full well that the strip club that Mike picked in New West for his Going Away To England Birthday Party tonight is notoriously terrible. Mugs & Jugs it’s called, and the name, I think, explains almost everything. It’s full of tacky lights, atrocious rock music and inhabitants whose parents drank when pregnant. We had an alright time, some of the girls displayed such amazing feats of anti-gravity on the pole that we actually watched them for more than five minutes at a time, though we didn’t get Mike as drunk as everyone had apparently promised him. Nick tried, it’s true, but he was barely slurring when Rick and I, the last ones standing, brought him to the Skytrain. I waved goodbye from the opposite platform then had to go back to get my William Gibson book, Pattern Recognition, that I’d forgotten at the club, dodging vacous drunk skater kids to do so.

when he is gone, I feel alright about nibbling on the corners of his food at 2 a.m.

Heinrich Kley
Heinrich Kley

A triff trailer mash-up that hurts in only the good ways, Toy Story 2: REQUIEM.
&nbsp &nbsp link thankfully appropriated from Andrew.

Relaxed, she stands at the bus-stop. Watches a man exit backward, pulling a small wire basket full of fake red flowers, wonders briefly what they are for. A book is folded under her left hand. Her right hand has already fumbled in her coat pocket and found her bus-pass. She’s going to be on time for work with fifteen minutes to spare. She’ll open the store early, she decides, instead of waiting.

In her mind are tiny snippets of conversation caught like film stills fighting against a projector. Nothing stays very fixed, it all moves too fast for words to bind. Outside there is blue sky, her eyes blandly track a cloud as it intersects with an airplane contrail. Seizures, that’s what her thinking can be like. Feelings overcoming her body, twisting her lips or her hands into a smile. Remembering when he kissed her, her eyes warmly close and open again. Curious if anyone else is doing the same, she scans the other faces on the bus. No one interesting today. A cluster of yoga clothing imitators, some people going to work, a couple in the back discussing a television series. Someone is reading a paperback novel but the cover looks too glossy, the book looks too thick. It’s an incarnation of the dime-store novel, the summer blockbuster hit parade. Empty calories and too much talk about weapon specifics.

Her key in the new lock turns harshly. In spite of the extra filing when she replaced the lock with the hardware store clerk, there is still something uneven. An expected alarm sounds when she opens the door, a warning keen, piercing but still quiet. Enough to tell the wrong person that they’ve made a mistake. She half trips on a newspaper someone kindly slid under the door earlier in the morning and pulls the CLOSED sign to OPEN. The useless paper and her bag are deposited on the glass topped counter while she wonders why she never seems to do any of these things in the same order. Some mornings the buttons stick on the alarm console and she has to talk to stoic sounding security people on the phone. She smiles nervously when she does it, knowing she doesn’t have the passwords and not sure if she should care.

Heinrich Kley
Heinrich Kley

A combination of coupled enzymes to construct a simple circuit in which enzymatic reactions correspond to logic operations.
&nbsp &nbsp link cruelly wrenched from the bosom of darling Warren.

My housemate, Graham, is away right now, up with his family, clustering around his grandmothers death. He says in his journal that he got to say to her the things he needed to say before she left. I’m glad for that through the commiserative sadness, though I keep a narrow sliver of being unable to relate. I know when my remaining grandmother goes, it will be barely a family affair. My mother and I will stare at the ceiling a bit, covered with the inevitable and distinctive blanket of pondering about immortality that every death brings. My brothers will ask if we’ve inherited anything and we will ask my mothers sister, Reine, who will be far more affected, the one in charge of all the necessary arrangements that accompany a death. She will tell us of something small that may come our way. Tacky jewelry from her shops, maybe, or an inappropriate coffee-table. Then it will be done. If we were the sort for annals, her passing would be the year of nothing in particular. All the known history in her head is either commonplace or inaccessible. Her drop in the sea has no flavour to leave and savor.

I like how Graham talks about his family. They seem to be a unit, a partition of people that all carry more than just a name together.

he wants to run his fingers through my hair but he doesn’t call

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:

IMG_0582hard at work

tough like candy nailsyes, and?

she's so very tim burtoncuddlewhat I imagine babies look like in the womb

  • In a glaring contradiction of new federal policy, the new face of Homeland Security seem to be animal-human hybrids.