“Some people reflect light, some deflect it, you by some miracle, seem to collect it.” —House of Leaves
Though set lovingly adrift in a cotton sea of comfortable bedsheets, in the best of all possible company, I didn’t sleep enough last night. To my disgrace, I took Arron along with me, waking him as I tried to creep out of bed, the better to pace outside, dressed in rain, and walk out my stress, the painful squeeze in my chest. We spoke in the dark until the attic of morning, that interstitial breath of night which claims “too early” as well as “too late”. (Stars not quite beginning to fade.) Today I’m left feeling as if I’ve worn out something essential, like the catch to the spring that lives inside my ribs, as well as incredibly grateful.
Seven o’clock. Huh. Last time I looked it was only six, and the time before that, somewhere around four. The night drowned in the hours I was working on photography, clicking through pictures, polishing, discarding. Carlos bought one of my test Plywerk runs, a large black and white print of Vancouver in winter, a man standing to the right of a snowy street, elegantly silhouetted in the midst of chaos just off screen, a glittering sea of girls in club dresses with high heels up to here, shivering on the arms of loud men, boys really, too drunk to fuck, too young to care. My first photography sale at the new shop, the first, I hope, of many. I remember the very small sound my camera made in that moment, somehow saved for me by the miraculous insulating properties of snow. Even in the midst of a thousand voices shouting into cellphones, desperate, dangerous, all seeking cabs, I could still hear it, that minuscule, hesitant click.
The silence is suffocating, I can hear not only my heartbeat but the quiet susurration of my blood. The cats are both asleep, two soft weights draped over my hips. I can’t hold them close, they’ll wake and wander away in search of a late night snack or some invisible ghost to chase. I wonder, briefly, if it’s possible to dream while so awake, at least rest the brain, but discard the thought, preferring to try and imagine where the people I love are right now. Various time-zones away, some of them aren’t all that far.
South three hours by plane, he’ll be asleep, strewn like an elegant game of pick-up sticks in his bed, lying feral on his left side, pillow loosely clutched to his head, hair caught in his fingers, cute in a way that tugs at my lungs, steals my breath, inspires me to slowly cut away his invariable black t-shirt with a pair of silver scissors and wake him with my tongue whispering poetry to his closed eyes. Stories of drinking in Vegas, Passover, his panic at the word marriage, how we laughed into every single night. Somewhere there will be a red curtains, a disco ball, a potted palm tree, and a video game console.
Another mind-set, seven hours hard drive in the direction of the impossible dawn, someone older, obsessive, more emotional than I could ever learn to be. Skin a different texture than mine, our hands exactly the same size. A half-fictional time-line, we’ve only spent time in hotels, I don’t even know what colour his sheets might be. The only picture I have is comfort, taking second place, offering a place of safety to someone falling apart. When we were together, there were no camp ground rules, if he fell down, he would try to take me with him, though accidentally. Eventually I cut the tether. Life got better. Now we could stand on a roof and scream at the stars together, if we were so inclined. Which we’re not. So don’t ask me to.
One day ahead and five hours behind, another sweet Jewish boy, like a new melodic theme, currently so far away the seasons have flipped, but not so far that we don’t have darkness at similar times. It’s not late enough for him to tucked into bed with the rest of us, however, so I lose my thread, can’t kiss him awake, begin mentally scanning pictures I’ve seen of the general antipode of the North Atlantic Ocean. Lush beaches, insanely colourful coral reefs, endless summer, dry dusty wastes, and ridiculous movies I love dearly. Lethal wild-life, big bouncing rat-things with gigantic feet. Some big rock right in the middle. Nowhere I can clearly place him. I’m bad at this game. Instead, I can picture him playing, his incredible, wry smile drenched in sweat, the effort of his music literally dripping off in waves. I can picture a stage, something festival, hemp clothing, om beaded necklaces, something wide and tent-like, people dancing, and the perpetual threat of rain. Completely and utterly wrong. He’s probably at dinner, I should go to bed. This is presumably the sort of thing that drives little girls mad in Victorian novels. Oh Herr Frankstein, only speak when you’re spoken to. Don’t use the wrong cutlery. Remember to sleep.
Seattle: March 18th.
f( x ) = 4 ln(x +2) walks into a bar.
It’s elementary that there’s no shadows after midnight. Stating anything else is merely setting the mood for an unsettling story, but that being said, the certain lack of them in my life is messing with my circadian rhythms. Conceivably, I should be able to get to bed before our sun tries to break free of the clouds. However, Saturday was going to be my re-set and I royally thrashed that idea until it practically bled. Now it’s close to three in the morning and I feel if I were to look outside, the sky would be stained with mid-evening instead.
Sympathy for Lady Vengeance
The Conclusion to Park Chan-wook’s vengeance trilogy
Monday, January 16th
Doors at 8:00pm
Film starts at 9:30pm
The film will be shown in widescreen on a projector at the psychic lady building one block west of Commercial on Broadway, (knock on the lower left windows), and refreshments* will be served.
*The offerings shall include a selection of certified organic camembert wheels, including ash-ripened, herbed, and traditional served with tamari crackers. Water is available and donations of certified organic beverages such as lemonade or wine (white preferred) would be appreciated.
the bartender says, “we don’t cater for functions.”