the kinds of things I now refuse to keep

I took apart a small cardboard box covered in shiny blue foil today. I made it out of scraps when I was a teenager, glued the dark foil onto the cardboard with navy nail polish, used a broken earring I found in a burned out house as a clasp. It went with the waterproof dead-drop that I put in the messy rose bush outside my bedroom window, my pre-internet solution for letters or presents to or from the people connected to my house.

The dead drop worked. Well, sort of worked. The blue box filled, but mostly with terrible things. So today I decided that it is time to let it go. I am finally loved enough to read through them and empty enough to throw them away. These bad memories are a country that I am going to burn down. By which I mean recycle.

Going through them, I discovered the letters inside the blue box are long folded and strange to read. Some of them have probably only been read once, while some are so creased and worn their paper feels like fabric. Either way, none of them are recognizable. Who were these people? My life! Such a terrible place. The majority seem from 1999, the year of the dead drop, but they range from ’95 to ’01. Most of the names are completely unfamiliar.

The first letter I read was a warning from someone I went to high-school with, “I saw your bruises. I’m worried. p.s. Don’t show him this letter.” Bruises? Him? I have no idea. Maybe it refers to the unstable teenager who sent me the barely legible poem I found next, “A thousand pardons / Won’t forgive / What I put you through / But do not worry / This shadows time has come / The crack of dawn / Unerring call / Alight upon my soul.” Yay. How tremendous. Discard pile.

“Spiritual doors just keep opening. After being locked into a three dimensional material world for so long, knowing there is more, occasionally expressing more… I felt a timelessness of spirit, I felt the point all souls meet when you spoke to me today, where a ray of light becomes part of the light itself..”. Signed, “the busker who saw you through the window”. Metaphor? Probably not. It’s the sort of thing that would happen when I had a dead-drop, so it fits the history, but I have no idea who it’s from.

The next I pulled was six pages long, describing some sort of unspecified accident that ended someone’s martial arts career. It’s signed with a scribble I cannot understand, but seems to begin with a D. Going further into the box, it turns out that this is where this task gets dark.

Whoever “D” was, they were prolific. They wrote profoundly dull letters and insisted on referring to me by pet names that border on insulting – Angelface, Sweet Stuff, Honeybear, Doll, Bombshell. (Almost all of them are written on stationary branded with the name of a collections agency. Maybe where “D” worked?) They read like an imaginary film noir relationship where I star front and center. “I apologize for getting up in that guy’s face last night, I just don’t like people who threaten my happiness, and you and I are so happy together. It was so good to kiss you after I bashed that guy’s face.” Given the content, I suspect that they wrote me without my knowledge, the letters like a journal, then delivered them in a anonymous batch. I remember we shut the mail-drop down because someone was exceptionally creepy. I can’t remember specifics, but I’m guessing “D” was the reason.

No wonder I hate this place. Special mentions to the note threatening to skin my cat, the note that accuses me of being involved in an acquaintance’s murder, the come-back-to-me letters signed in blood from the aforementioned teenager who used to leave vials of blood in my house, and the note that reads only, “I don’t care what the teacher made me say – I’m not sorry I set you on fire.”

seriously, I hate that guy (1435 francis st.)

Dear annoying man who always bombs around my apartment with an offensively loud dirtbike at inappropriate hours,

It is two:twenty in the morning. You do this a lot. It is always a problem, but right now especially so. Please stop. There are three inches of snow on that cobblestone street. Today you are waking the neighbors and you might die. Though you are apparently a terrible human being, I’m sure there are people who would be sad if you were dead.

Thank you.


the girl who always wants to steal your fucking spark plugs.

edit: I just confronted him. he was out getting smokes, in this snow, without a helmet, with a stoned passenger, who also had no helmet. he might maybe seem nice, but dude, really?

With this post, I am officially calling dibs on Oren Lavie.

Soon she’s down the stairs
Her morning elegance she wears
The sound of water makes her dream
Awoken by a cloud of steam
She pours a daydream in a cup
A spoon of sugar sweetens up
Sun been down for days
A winter melody she plays
The thunder makes her contemplate
She hears a noise behind the gate
Perhaps a letter with a dove
Perhaps a stranger she could love

Today, using addresses given to me by friends on the internet, I prepared and mailed tiny packages to London, Seattle, Atlanta, Brooklyn, Carolina Beach, Herts, Cambria, Dumfries, Burlington, Urbana, Roanoke, Phoenix, and Manhattan. A fine spread, beautiful evidence of the far reaching influence of modern communication.

I sat in a puddle of white envelopes at the park, addressing them, tipping ingredients into one, and then into another, slipping cards into each, slipping in cards, rose petals, and my smile, wishing I had through to bring more tiny plastic dinosaurs. The sky was almost like summer today, except too pale, as if seen through a film of soap.

Curious pedestrians would stop and ask what I was doing, wanted to know if this was a business I had, sending interesting letters to strangers. I told them this was far too bare bones, that I was too poor to be anything but kind in a nostalgic way. “People have trusted me, wouldn’t you want to reward such behavior?” This seemed to satisfy as, once I said that, they would gently walk away, glad to have asked, but not interested enough to stay.

my dad the psychotic penpal, episode two

Remember that little note I e-mailed to my father right before my birthday? I forgot entirely about it until today. There are, so far, four replies.  

To refresh your memory, here is what happened last time.


RE: Hi dad, it’s my 25th birthday this week – Uhmm …‎

Sent: May 30, 2007 5:36:47 PM
whoever you might be

This is XXXXX* Holmes alright but if you are JXXX* Holmes - you want to
ask yourself what kind of people would prevent you from a single
conversation with your father in your entire lifetime. These people don't
want you to know who they really are or uncover the lies you've been subject
to - which includes ripping you out of a $100,000 education in the arts.
I have 'never' achieved a single conversation about a child of mine
from anyone in my life. In fact, it's Vicki's only criteria for association
- anyone who would be willing to destroy my kids. In case you want to waste
your life even further ... try to find a Canadian office that will publicly
advocate Parental Heritage. They have never asked or answered a single
question about anything and like Vicki, they never will. Don't confront
Vicki about anything ... she's extrememly dangerous.
Those Gibson's seriously hate talented musicians. There are a great
deal of insanely jealous people around and I was/am tired of people trying
to kill me and my friends (they have killed some). Vicki is that kind of
person but she was very young so I tried an experiment with her and dropped
all my friends (who are all in the Hall of Fame) to see if I could get her
to appreciate something in life. As you can see, I've had to run for my life
... yours too ... if you would've exhibited any natural talents, they would
have killed you.
I will not have any personal contact with you as long as a Gibson, or
anyone who has anything to do with them, has access to you. Period!
They ARE capable of killing you. There is no doubt that you are
entitled to the truth and I can assure you that half the people in the Hall
of Fame will verify everything I say. I DON"T LIE. Every person in your life
has been lying to you. If you want the truth - you drop everything from your
past and go into hiding. Have a professional courier deliver a phone to XXX**
East Pender Street Vancouver and we'll go from there.
If you can assure me that NOBODY knows about this email communication -
I may respond a little further but the reality of the situation is you are
not climatized (trained) to withstand the enormous amount of brutality that
has been dumped on you. It will take the rest of your life to understand and
possibly a few years before we can even see each other.
For what it's worth, the main reason I took Vicki on is because she
would be dead if I didn't. I have a bit of a phychic hook and get radar on
bimbo's who are about to die. I met Vicki shortly after a girlfriend of mine
was killed in a car accident - exactly how I told her she would be killed.
Vicky was living with a girl named Mary who got herself murdered. Vicky
would have been with her. I know a lot about girls because I lived with a
half a dozen at a time for most of my life. I taught and managed them when
NOBODY wanted girls to do anything but have babies. Anyway, I have at least
50 kids who've all been stolen & ripped out of educations. They are
souveniers and the gov't backs their snivel without a single question
because they they are a guns and drugs industry in need of gullible,
uneducated meatloaf to drug and kill. 50% of N. American children are being
designed by the #1 demographic for ignorance & poverty. You got a huge
amount to learn, Toots. Ta.
I figured you'd make it this far if I stayed far away from you. All the

*I don’t want this to be easily indexed.
**Perturbingly close to my home and that of many friends.

 So that one letter pretty much re-caps the general themes of the last batch – the corrupt and evil government that is out to kill him is working in collusion with my vindictive mother to brainwash me and destroy my talents. It’s evident that he hasn’t gotten any medical attention. He is still, yes, bonkers. 


RE: Hi dad, it’s my 25th birthday this week‎

Sent: May 31, 2007 12:14:55 PM

I hope you're JXXX. I just hit return by accident and might have sent
you the previous draft but I just Internet at the libray so I'll do a short
brief in case you didn't get the first one.
I haven't been able to gig because Vicki and Sarina are holding my
children's lives ransom. They don't want me to exist on any level and they
surround my children with people who hate them as much as they do. I don't
dare advertise or even play anywhere. When I play with real musicians I
attract a lot of attention. It would put me in everybody's face and the odds
of them killing my children go up. - I'm in the Hall of Fame for stuff I was
doing when I was 20. I was playing on the radio at 13 & had my first kid
stolen by the art teacher/school secretary of St Marys School, Chilliwack.
Your grandfather is buried in Sardis. DON"T get into it. Dangerous!
My health is very poor as a result of all the hate generated by
kidnappers and government personell that don't want me to expose them.
Consequently, I'm making plans to leave the country for good and I don't
intend to leave a trail ... one year away-ish. I have a few equipment issues
yet and I continually study because once I go public again - it takes up a
lot of time.
You've been raised by kidnapping terrorists who hate musicians and want
to kill their children. This is NOT a huge shining portfolio for people who
are dedicated to the arts. You've been deliberatley poisened by very hateful
people and are bound to have seriously skewed perspectives that may or may
not be addressed within this time frame. Every decision Vicki has ever made
is hate based ... she has no other capacity. The only 'genuine' passion I've
ever witnessed is her desire to destroy a musicians children. It took me 15
years to sneak in a grade 1 music through the spit. In case you haven't
noticed, there is absolutely NO MUSIC in the Gibson background but she uses
my efforts for her entire cool. What little she knows about anything - I
taught her and all she still wants to do is kill me. I'm outa here toots.
How much is anyone supposed to take in one lifetime. I've paid enough Gibson
dues to hold a few more Universes. Hopefully I cracked the egg. Gotta go.

Sarina was my step-mother for a brief period of time when I was little. She hooked up with my parents and her two kids came with her. It was neat – I had siblings for the first time. This odd family unit is where Robin comes from. Sarina had one too, named Blake. Her family lives on the Island by Parksville somewhere – I sporadically try to find them. Blake would be around eighteen now? (I wonder if my dad is on his birth certificate). This means that Daniel and Brianna would be, (I think), 20 and 21, well old enough to be reasonable conversationalists. 

I don’t know very much about my grandfather, except he was a jazz musician and an alcoholic. My grandmother loved him very much when they were young. (They had a ridiculous number of children, too). I don’t know if I’ve ever been to Sardis. It’s in the middle of absolutely nowhere. 


Wishing Well, Toots – missing ya huge‎
Sent: June 3, 2007 1:36:44 PM
This idea of trying to have something to do with you is pretty much just
wishful thinking, JXXX. The math doesn・t add up ・
There・s nothing left of me JXXX. I・m absolutely terrorized at the idea of
having Vicki start to attack me some more. My health and finances are so
pathetic that I need all my time and money just to blow this pigpen. There・s
no way you can be salvaged and educated anyway. Whatever programming a child
encounters in youth draws the lines for life. Government・s know that and
deliberately helped Vicki rip you out of a $100,000 education but now you
need $100,000 worth of therapy too. Vicki knows you would have been a huge
success and she・ll kill you before she allows that to happen. I surrounded
her with most of the Hall of Fame ・ you can・t get a better education
potential than that. She PREFERS to hate them because they can play and she
can・t. It・s pretty much like dealing with a three year old with a loaded gun
that can・t be taken away because so many lowlifes find it convenient. Be
very quiet ・ leave sleeping dogs lie.
At any rate kid ・ you・ve made two attempts to communicate in fifteen years
・ that・s one sentence every seven years. Maybe we・ll let one more Universe
go by and you・ll be up to speed for a normal conversation. Mind you, that・s
two more attempts than Vicki・s made in 30 years. Have you ever seen her make
an attempt to have a conversation with me about anything under the sun? Has
anybody? It doesn・t exist and it never will because everything she does is a
lie. What can she say?
Unfortunately, the people she recruits to support her lies are
themselves liars and don・t have the slightest concern for anybody・s welfare.
Why would anyone give a three year old more bullets? ・ Blowjob? ・
Bloodmoney? ・ Uhmm ・ what else would she be good for? Duh ・ let me think ・
no, that・s about it ・ anybody?
You know, there・s a simple telltale sign that distinguishes people who
care from liars ・ Question ・ that・s it ・ you actually have to ask a question
to get correct information. Did I spell that right? Now, wasn・t that easy?
JXXX, have you ever met anyone that understands what a question is?
I・ve never achieved a conversation in my life about anything at all.
Wouldn・t it be reasonable to conclude that my children have been killed for
a blowjob and blood money? Oh gosh, we haven・t even established if there・s
anyone around that knows what a question is. I・ll come back in a universe.
There has never been a person in your life that cares if you live or
die, JXXX. Vicky wants you to be the stupidest, biggest airhead meatloaf in
the Universe because you are Danny・s kid. It makes her feel important to
show us educated people how important she is. It・s her life・s passion and
There・s absolutely no way that I could ever impose her on anyone in my
future. She did a good job kid. You・re the exact little piss ass bimbo that
comes downtown wanting to play with the big kids and gets killed. That・s
exactly what she wants.
You haven・t heard anything yet ... just the tip of the iceberg. You
won・t want to hear how Robin was almost killed because of her hysterical
tantrums ・ how many lives and careers she・s destroyed ・ how one of the best
drummers on the West Coast was murdered since I saw you last ・ simply
because he wanted to play with me.
If I said duck ・ you・d piss yourself for a year.
How about when Sarina was staged to be murdered by a jealous lowlife
that I had to hire regularly to play with Vicki because quality musicians
can・t stand her and how Vicki・s tantrum levels went through the roof when I
explained what I had to do about it. She wanted Sarina to be killed ・ same
jealousy that・s being directed at you.
Gosh, Jane, there・s not a single person in your life that wants to
know a single thing about the forces trying to kill you. Are you getting
I would also need to go into hiding if I had anything to do with you.
Do you have enough money to hide us both for a year without any engagement
but the task at hand? ・ Grow up fast or back to a frothing Gibson. Not good,
but I can・t let you jeopardize the safety of the people I・m going to.
Incidentally, you used to love the road. You were always the first one in
the truck. Owners of clubs used to parade you around and give you money.
Everybody loved you and, of course, that・s why Vicki hates you.
We have that in common Jane. The last time I saw my dad, I was ten. He
was a great musician and everybody loved him. He tried to teach my mom but
she hated him into an early grave and he died when I was ten. My mother・s
birthday is exactly the same as Vicki・s. She killed me when I was a baby ・
same jealous streak as Vicki. She suffocated me to death. I was pronounced
D.O.A. but the hospital brought me back. She said it was an accident but
didn・t tell me about it until my mid forties. Anyone concerned for my
welfare would insist I have that information to watch for complications,
right? I watched her spend her whole life spitting on my father to the
younger kids that weren・t old enough to know him. None of them acquired
educational interests. I did manage to teach them some music but they never
made much of a living with it. It・s because I couldn・t cut through my
mother・s spit. My dad had me promise to look after them because he knew I
was the only one who would ・ so I was busy buying them a house and
instruments when I was young. Also, like you, I couldn・t relate to such a
degree of violence in people who were claiming love. I didn・t go to her
funeral. She・s like Vicki ・ the biggest contribution either of them could
make to the arts would be to commit suicide. Also, I・m the only one who ever
truly looked after either of them ・ Vicki would be dead ・ let・s not forget
that I・m also the only one with enough guts to table the necessary and
inconvenient truths required to stop future killings ・ if only I could find
a Canadian who cares ・
Even at ten, I knew she hated my dad to death. That・s why I wanted to
see if I could cut through with Vicki but it will kill me too if I don・t get
out of here ・ it・s been 30 years of life threatening suffocation and its
life or death for me, hon. I cannot take another drop of Vicki Gibson ・ I
will die like everything that has ever crossed her path.
What the hell is a little peanut like you gonna do about this stack of
Get everybody killed? I・ve been shot by a jealous cop ・ my buddy was
shot by a jealous groupie ・ I・ve been rammed of the road at highway speeds -
vehicle a complete rightoff - guns in my face - knives at my throat -
vehicles sabotaged for accident potential - everybody trying to frame me for
anything and everything (like Vicki) - attacked just walking down the street
including some of Vicki・s sniveling buddies. I had to run away so I wouldn・t
have to put them in the hospital. I could fill a book but stupid shit gives
me a headache. I just try to teach everyone music. A couple of Canadian
Universities asked me to teach when I was twenty five but I was always
living with a lot of girls and it freaks the standard Christian Canadian
culture out. They get pretty violent ・ jealousy. Otherwise, I might have for
I seriously need to get back with my own kind and I・ve got to go to
another country to completely get away from Gibson・s and their poisoned
I・m just so sorry JXXX but these people are never going to come clean.
As a safety precaution, I・ve placed this story, in triplicate, on every
News Desk on the West Coast, half of Canada, United Nations, several global
humanity groups and a small novel in my files at the Hall of Fame. If anyone
(who has been in the presence of a child of mine without my permission)
crosses my path, (anywhere) we will continue this conversation on the front
pages around the world. Good idea? ・ or will more people need to be killed
to keep those wholesome reputations in the doughnuts?
Meet ya next universe kid.

PS - JXXX - if you confront gov・t. about heritage genocide or Vicki about
anything ・ especially having anything to do with me, factor in some serious
illness to your schedule. People with low IQ・s don・t have the courage to
stand up for anything and get very angry at anyone who does. Hate kills.
It・s planet Earth・s #1 killer. Not just war, but disease and, of course,
peaceful emotions don・t sell guns and drugs. Who ya gonna call?
You can・t go halfway ・ you have to get out of Vicki・s thoughts before
you can regain health. I・ve been through so many personal relationships that
I・ve noticed a trend where I begin to assume the heritage illness of the
person I・m with and it・s directly linked to the stresses they undergo from
reaction to their perspectives. It can take years to shake it off but
typically you have to get away from them until they stop thinking of you.
You can see for yourself that there is never anything but hate coming from
Vicki. I mean, not a single conversation about my own children in an entire
lifetime? She wants me dead ・ real serious dead. How could any health crawl
out from under that?

My friend Blake put it best a few years ago when, over dinner in Victoria with the other One Yellow Rabbits, he kindly asked, “So when did your father fall off the edge of the world?” 


RE: Hi dad, it’s my 25th birthday this week‎
Sent: June 5, 2007 12:39:23 PM

JXXX - I just want to point something out and I’ll get out of everybody’s 
hair, ok?

You DON”T ASK QUESTIONS! That’s what going to get you killed. Like I
said … you have to know who’s who in a hurry to survive and there’s only one
way to do that … ask questions. Never mind what anybody says about anything
… ask your own questions. You’re surrounded by chickenshits who don’t ask
questions because the results would expose their lies but I can assure you
that there’s a whole army of lowlife’s who fully understand what the
government does to peoples kids. Keep in mind that 50% of N.American fathers
have had their children's educations destroyed by this system. Also keep in
mind what kind of a society this is as a result of century's of intelligence

The lowlife's prowl for bimbo’s constantly. They know exactly how to
feed you what you want to hear and will feed you that bullshit while they
clean you dry of anything they can get out of you before you catch on. Most
of them are hardcore druggies and are typically in some kind of strained
financial/social problem. They wouldn’t give a second thought to set you up
for anything at all ... just like Vicki & her lowlife's. They don't want you
to ask questions because they'll be found out and they don't give the
slightest damn that they're dealing you an attribute that's going to get you
killed. They just don't care.

A common example for a bimbo setup is ... stolen drugs return a dead
girlfriend. They look for Bimbo’s to take the heat. . That’s what happened
to Sarina. I’m not going to give you details because Vicki doesn’t want you
to know anything about me except her version but it’s the most common reason
bimbos get killed next to being a hooker.

Vicki wanted to be a hooker with Mary. Mary was murdered with a rifle
butt to the head.

The people in your life just want to waste your intelligence on Sunday
school and fairy tales and the guns/drug dealers behind this ‘compulsory’
Christian culture make trillions off the carnage. Religions generate
climates for conditioning people to obey important sounding tones and
costumes while presenting non logistic intelligence as acceptable doctrine.
When authority tones and costumes are presented in government, people obey
without questioning the logistics. If you question the logistics of N.
American moral code you will see that it’s entirely Christian. Remember
Christians? … murdered over 600 million people.

Television propaganda glorifies guns/drugs and hookers. Most bimbo’s
are small town/suburban types with religion backgrounds. Believe it or not,
most druggies and hookers are too. Kids that grow up downtown get the
unvarnished versions and don’t go there.

Good luck kid – boy are you going to need it. I used to tell you when
you were a kid that the Christians are going to get you. How can you even
tell if your communication is not being sabotaged. I would fully expect
these killers to redesign or remove intelligence from you. That's all
they've ever done. I'm just obligated to try and get something vital through
to you anyway.

By the way - I ran a soup kitchen for hookers for 3 years. It was a
pretty stressful gig but I wanted to glean more info on the subject matter
... typically about 30 girls. I kept a few from getting killed but some are
killed ... usually before they reach twenty-five. Very few make the news.
Christian women hate them because 'Johns' are typically their husbands and
lets face it, Christians are the government. The gov't. kept trying to stop
me. They make huge dough on the murders. BC's murdered girls are way over 1
million apiece so far.

Keep in mind also that 'ALL' gov’t health situations have to sell you
drugs to make money. You will not find any support for emotional health.
Their shrinks are typically Christian suburban’s who also sell drugs. It’s
ALL guns and drugs. ask! ask! ask!

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what I’ve found in there so far. A continued obsession with my mother, her (dead? fictional?) roommate Mary, my ex-stepmother Sarina, the christian government that wants us all dead, and a very strange note on hookers, which may or may not imply my father spent time as a pimp. Rock on.

So, what was your childhood like?

We live in a silent convocation of decisions.

I sent a letter to my father this morning. Yes, my violent, clinically psychotic, paranoid schizophrenic father who I can only hope is now old enough to be toothless instead of terrifying. (There’s a long shot, wow). There is always a chance the e-mail will bounce back. The address I have for him is very old, from five or six years ago. Here are the results of our last correspondance, from 2004.

Subject: Hi dad, it’s my 25th birthday this week

In truth, I don’t know why I’m sending this, given what or last communication degenerated into, but somehow I feel that 25 is one of those vaguely landmark ages, and I wanted to try to say hello again, and at least let you know I’ve made it this far.

Course, there’s always the possibility this will bounce back. This e-mail address is from a newspaper clipping from many years ago. The paper’s gone yellow and brittle, easy to tear. I’ve kept in one piece, though, not even sure how. It’s just been one of those things where every time I clean my apartment, somehow I manage not to throw it away.

I hope you do get this. It’s been a very long time. I haven’t seen you since before I was ten or spoken to you since I was twelve. I hope you are feeling better since our last letters, and have gotten some medial attention. I don’t usually recommend little coloured flakes of chemical to anyone, but there’s always new pills on the market, you know, maybe some of them will help.

At any rate, good luck in your endeavors, whatever they may be, and happy birthday to me.

my sparrow tongue in aspic

Originally uploaded by natalia*.

A beloved friend of mine, (who will remain nameless), inspired by the anonymous love letters I was receiving last spring, has been sending me his own letters. They carry me more than I have the ability to tell him. They paint me as I feel in my most glorious moments. I have quite a collection of them now. I spread them across my room, tuck them into books, and generally leave them where I might re-discover them later. I’m not sure why I’ve decided I should start posting them, but this one came today addressed to Dr. J. Holmes Esq.

Dear Jhayne,
&nbsp &nbsp Once upon a time, long, long ago, there was a girl who made herself out of wires, feathers & tiny silver bells. Precious thing that she was (& she was) she was ill used by the winds of fortune, tossed hither & yon by rapacious storms ’till one day (a day like any other) she said
&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp enough
& thrust half of her wires deep into the soil & wrapped the other half tight around a nearby tree & screamed in pain and defiance as the winds tore at her feathers & set her bells a-ringing & the cacophony was almost as unbearable as the wrenching tearing straining & then it wasn’t, and it wasn’t.
&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Here I’ll stay
&nbsp she said & the trees all bent to listen, for precious thing that she was (& she was) the peal of her voice was like fresh fallen acorns gone to root in spring sunlight & they bent their trunks & spread their boughs low & she slept in the shade for a century or three until the raggedness of her feathers receded & her cables grew back thick & strong. Precious thing though she was (& she really was), memory is not forever & she spread her wings one autumn morning & flew straight back up into the waiting arms of the storm.

And this one is a favourite. It lives next to my bed, where I don’t have to read it, but simply know that it’s been carefully folded and placed there in memory of something that almost was as well as what most certainly managed to be. I refuse to admit how much of this I have actually spoken.

&nbsp “Intelligence cannot be a one way street,” you lazily alleged, more to pick a fight than because you really believed it. Or anything.
&nbsp &nbsp (Your hair, burnished copper, framed your face like the latin in a sermon, painfully bright against the cool ebony of your naked shoulders)
&nbsp “When we think about things, things think about us,” you continued blithely, “Think about it! Why does genius die young? It’s not simply that nature abhors a smartass. nature abhors everything, but only in the presence of brilliance does it have the wherewithal to do anything about it.”
&nbsp &nbsp (I traced the lines of your stomach, the graceful curve of your hips as they levered you upright with that gentle susurration of rock on metal.)
&nbsp “It works with people, too. Intelligent people don’t cluster, have no real power to attract each other; they make each other, force each other up out of the endless sea of stupid, form conversation partners out of, effectively, dust.”
&nbsp &nbsp (The clack of gears is the voice of angels as you stand and look down at me, amber eyes glinting, teeth glowing gold in the firelight)
&nbsp You add, offhandedly, “Of course, this applies doubly to us.”
&nbsp &nbsp (You may be right, but I’m not listening, am too wrapped up in the wonder that I could ever build anything as beautiful as you.)

heaven feels like teeth

I think part of me is disintegrating. Today came another anonymous letter. Reading it, a surge of sharp sorrow welled in my chest and threatened my eyes. With the last line, I felt on the verge of a revelation, as if this time, instead of the word Love, the letter would be signed.

Treasured Jhayne,

Once upon a yesterday, when waves
whispered secrets that seashells never
tell, the man in the moon appeared behind
you in the mirror. “I can tell you a
story, of the girl who gave away a stone
heart and died without it,” he said.
“Sounds like a sad story,” you replied.
“All stories are sad,” he said. “They all
end, don’t they?” “What about happily-
ever-after?” you asked. The man in the moon
smiled and touched the reflection of your
hair. “There’s happily, and there’s after,”
he said, “but I am too much like the
moon herself to promise
anything forever.”
Your reflection
whispered, “Promise
me a story then.”



Previous letters: one & two, three, four & five & six, seven, eight.

reminder: today, wednesday, may 25th, birthday all-you-can-eat fondue, $10, the capstone tea & fondue, (1118 Denman), 7:30 onward.

Who are you, writer? I am divided. Your name would menace my loneliness, but shatter the mystery. Where are your stories going? Every ur-fable steps closer to me, who I am, the way I speak. My words are quoted through these like scattered rain on a lake. That last line, that last line is vividly mine. The shape of those words slots onto my tongue every time I love someone. You mention my hair in such a way that I think you have touched it, that you have spoken with me, that I have held your hand and grasped it tightly. I was beginning to be afraid there would be no more letters, that the terrifying intimacy had ended, but you sent again a letter, one so awful and personal that it scares me and I’m glad. These are magic and magic is not meant to be safe.

Foxtongue - Writer

Ask me five [inappropriately?] personal questions and I’ll answer them no matter what they are.

Walking down the dock felt natural. Finding no key in her pocket did not. She sighed, unable to understand how she could have forgotten something so simple. It felt like a holiday, being here, sitting on the dirty deck of the boat, as if even stepping foot off of the earth was a reprieve from her day to day life. Uncertain what to do about the key, which was likely sitting on a table an hour away, she looked down at the dirty water, wishing she were somewhere it was possible to swim. She’d love to slip out of her clothing and bravely splash foot first into the ocean, but this water was grimy, covered in a scum of sea-wrack and oil. Instead she looked about, trying to remember if there was a spare tucked away somewhere. Under the plant pot would be too easy, but it reminded her of the small window at the prow. They didn’t lock it, thinking it was too small for anything but the boat cat to crawl through. She stood, balancing against the rock of the craft, and decided it was time to prove herself wrong.

The paperclip guy has finally traded himself a house.

Sunday night, for a lark, Stephanie, her teacher friend, and I wrote a love letter by popular consensus over drinks at the bar at Moxie’s. (I told the bartender what we were doing and he gave me a free drink.) It came out strange. Our three personalities laying out the groundwork for an intimate exchange didn’t create a cohesive whole. I feel like my words sit on the surface of the elementary sentences like oil on water in a tourist shop toy.

foxtongue —

Visually addictive

‘How will you be defined in the dictionary?’ at

My Dearest Love,

When we finally made that connection, you made me forget myself. I looked into those mesmerizing blue eyes and I felt something in my soul change. I felt my sadness slip away, to be replaced by the feeling of light serenity. When I dance with you, I feel transported, as if my limbs were made of silk. Before we were together, I felt like I was sleep walking, but your kiss has brought life into sharp focus.

Somehow we managed to cover all the bases in such a way that I don’t feel like there’s any effective communication. I think part of it is that the three of us have wildly differing needs in our relationships. We’re all three monogamous, but Stephanie is a very strong Men Are Pigs type, and though her friend is a bit more laid back, she also inherently believes that every one of them will cheat on her, while I yearn more for grace than control. My control issues are invisible, cloaked in my absolute trust. My need, instead, is to be essential, but from what I’ve gathered, they’re more concerned with getting regular sex than being necessary. It was an odd realization. I’m not sure what most people expect.

Why did I never notice that Bob Marley was sexy?

Now this is a real opening: She thought, There must be a hundred thousand dollars here. A man attacked me, chocked me, bit my neck, burned my hand, then stuffed my shirt full of money and put a dumpster on me and now I can see heat and hear fog. I’ve won Satan’s lottery.

for though my eyes read, they do not need to plead anymore

Darling Jhayne,

Once upon a yesterday, when wishes
were fishes and fishes came true,
a young man saw the moon drowning
in a pond and fished her out with
a bucket. “Thank you,” said the moon,
“How may I repay you?” The young man,
taken by her beauty, begged her to
stay with him always. She hesitated
and hedged, for the moon is more
someways then always, but finally she
said said, “I promise, I will stay.” She was
gone the next day. The young man
waited by the pond and one day caught
her again with his bucket. This time he
said, “Let me teach you
always.” Every month
the moon drowns,
and she says,
“I will stay.”



Dearest Jhayne;

Once upon a yesterday, when
promises were promises & lies
were promises too, there was
a little girl without wings. Which
is not so unusual, as little girls go.
Perhaps the unusual bit is that
she felt she should have them
at all. The little girl would pick
up feathers in the park, and ask
the pigeons, “Have you seen my
wings?” One day a little boy heard
her query and laughed. “Don’t be
stupid,” he said. “Little girls
don’t have wings!”
“Neither do little
boys,” she said,
and he fell
out of the



I recieved an enchanting gift today. Two small envelopes with my name and address beautifully printed on them were in my mail-box. They carry canadian stamps and no return address, though the postal office tracking number tells me they were sent from a mailbox downtown by W. Georgia Street.

Thank you, my unknown Polyhymnia, for reminding me to wonder. Your letters bring the poetry my life has been lacking, the mythology I have been strangling without. Thank you for catching me as I fall, for knowing me so desperately well or guessing so grandly. You have given me a gift I cannot measure without vivisection, without the sudden demonstration of spontaneous conflageration. Thank you.

I’m looking forward now.