Tag: mark

beautiful creature almost died

I sleep on the bus flat on my back like a tipped statue of buddha, crossed legs along the wall, knees pointed vaguely toward heaven, my hands demurely folded together, tucked in the warm, ragged edges of my sleeves. Awkward, possibly, but it’s comfortable.

My dreams last night were all of an old friend, the two of us living in a city we’ve never been to, walking through a community garden together, visiting his tent-like home on the side of a river, entertaining at a wedding somewhere on a bridge, everything underlaid with memories of his old kitchen, the music he made for us while I cooked dinner. If they was anything, they were dreams of missed chances, a universe where never were became might have did, became could have been, became not history changed, but future history made.

for his sake I hope he was kidnapped by aliens

365 2009: 28.01.09
365 2009: 28.01.09

My lovely friend Mark, who I hold dear like hardly anyone else, has been standing me up this month. Yes. Month. First we ran into each other on the street and decided that Sunday! We will get together Sunday. He will make me dinner and play me music he wrote and it will be a lovely time. Then Sunday came and when I called, he had to cancel. Cousins unexpectedly in from out of town, he said. Ah! I said, that is unfortunate and completely understandable. Wednesday, he said? And I said yes. Then on Wednesday, I did not hear from him and when I called, it went directly to voice mail. Wednesday passed without him. Thursday night I got a call, "Migraine," he said. Ah! I said, again, that is unfortunate and completely understandable. I hope you are doing better. I am, he said, let me make it up to you on Sunday. Alright, I said. Sunday then. When Sunday rolled around, he called again. Jhayne, he said, you are going to hate me. What has happened now? I asked. Band practice. An accidental double-booking. Ah! I said, again, that is unfortunate and completely understandable. Wednesday? Wednesday. Now it is Wednesday and I still have not heard from him, though I have left two messages on his phone. The latest one was very amused, "Now you owe me dinner without question. I am going to put this on my calendar, The Month I Did Not See Mark. Then I will write a short story called The Month I Did Not See Mark and publish it. I think it will sell. It’s a good title."

even this feels like it’s not enough

A Young Mad Scientist’s First Alphabet Blocks.

I had just had a terrible break-up, been thrown out of a last chance desperation relationship, a lower-the-bar can’t-take-it-anymore sort of thing after an assault, when I was spending time with A Boy. Someone I’d known for years, though with a gap in the middle, who popped up at a party with my name in his mouth, as if all the space between I was always a reminder, just like he was for me. Curly hair, kind eyes, all the usual suspects.

When we started seeing each other, it was without capital letters, friends spending time with friends, being delighted, being glad. I made him tea, he made me laugh. When I spent the night over, it was platonic, though appreciative, and only sleep, with a walk alone to the bus-stop in the morning. When suddenly I was single, distraught, he was discreet, but gingerly there in a way that he wasn’t before, and when I stayed over, he kissed me. He kissed me and kissed me and kissed me, moving my body cautiously to press against his, surprising me, attentive, his white linen shirt on the floor, mine unbuttoned and left behind. And I was okay with that.

The next night I was over, his mouth moved from mine to my throat, to the clavicle triangle of my collarbone, to the space between my breasts, and down, purposefully, towards a wonderful idea. I was impressed, ye gods, I was, I’ll never forget it, show me ten men who claim it’s their favorite thing and I’ll show you nine liars, but it was too soon. No, said my hands, no, my knees, my angle and body. I pulled him back up the bed and we stayed there until we fell asleep, nestled together like a carving.

Bolivia’s Witches’ Market: Llama Foetuses and Dried Armadillos

I was terrified of the timing, of the brutal year I’d had bleeding in like poison, of the nightmares I’d still been having of the attack, of why I continued to say no. Eventually, after two weeks more of identical nights, I finally did not call. Sometimes I did not even pick up the phone. The relationship, such as it was, quietly expired. Trapped in myself, we stopped talking, and barely said hello in the street. I felt like I should have had a brand across my forehead, the word ruined in copperplate block letters as if typed there, my blood for black ink.

Years went by, accidentally as they do, the friendship slowly healed in our absence, though never completely, while still I never explained, never sat him down and told him, “Look, I was cagey, but it was a bad year. It was never your fault.” Words well known that don’t generally come out in casual conversation, “I should have told you. I love you. I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. Please forgive me.”

I can look back with all the grand power of retrospect and think I didn’t too bad considering my age, considering the date and the time and how much the trauma of my reasons was wrecking me. Considering that trip to the doctor, considering that night I spent up too unhappy with my memories to get back to sleep. I can look back and think a fade out is not so bad a way to go, considering, always considering, but I don’t really buy it. My skull can’t shake that I wronged him. Social penicillin in action. I feel like I missed a best friend.

1800s Vampire Killing Kit Nabs $14,850 At Stevens Auction

“No reason to be scared of other people. We’re the ones who carry the flame, the light.”

Sunday – we were still a city burning, but now on the horizon, as if the time between us were embodied in distance, impulsive steps out into a desert. Persepolis, though his name might be the name of my next god-child, I was never certain if I would wake next to him again. Enchanting, built of admirable social immunities, a strange ruin painted with glyphs that I desperately want to run my fingers over. Even in the bed, under familiar strings of lights that sang starlight like blood-cells, wrapped around a body that felt like evolution’s most satisfying proof, I didn’t know if he would keep me safe in the morning. He did today. I know I want him to again.

33 writers. 5 designers. 6-word science fiction. The old meme is back, what’s yours?

Saturday – a different house, one letter different. I literally vaulted over him to get out of bed when I realized we’d slept through the alarm. Over and out, into the rest of my clothes and up the stairs, without even saying goodbye, leaving only a kiss brushed quickly on his cheek, too quietly to wake him fully. My last glimpse of him, through the closing bedroom door, was one of a selkie trying to hide under blankets. It was only at the bus-stop that I realized I was going to be fine, I wasn’t even close to being late. Tea could have happened, breakfast even. I wondered, belatedly, if I should have woken Mark-with-a-K for his audition and mildly cursed the erratic illusion of clarity that comes from waking in unfamiliar surroundings. Early mornings after late nights, working seven days in a week, it wears – I left my mother’s umbrella behind in my abstracted rush.

more on heart of the world when I am awake

work, dressew, dance center, call the man, groceries, sleep/die, tomorrow

My clothes all smell like clever musician. I’m almost too tired to be writing.

Albino Moose in Norway is under threat.


Lillian Bassman
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

Running late today, trying to figure out what I’m doing this week. I suppose today I’ll try to buy fabric for my All Hallow’s costume, as Wednesday I’m going over to Jenn’s to try and make it. Can’t forget Thursday dance class. There’s a chance I might be pulled out of town for a few days instead, but I don’t know when. The phonecall hasn’t come in yet. There’s a chance I might work tonight or tomorrow night at the Dance Center, but I have to hear back from Jay. Everything’s on hiatus until I hear from other people. Damned are we whose pleasures depend on other people, because the chocolate cake breakfast was probably a mistake. Grocery shopping, need to get around to that, find time. Make time. Create, from thinnest air, the illusion of minutes to give to the store.

A coroner has recorded a verdict of unlawful killing on ITN reporter Terry Lloyd, who was shot dead by US forces in southern Iraq in March 2003.

Barely a sky today, except for the fig tree outside the window. Barely an straight thought in my head. We’re waking up slowly, drifting up out of the covers like bubbles through water. The shrill alarm is terrible. I need to get home, check messages, take my daily little pink pill. Walk past Oliver’s house and refuse to look. I need to get home, change clothes, pick up music, write down instructions, measurements, phone numbers. The last time I checked the clock was when I took my glasses off. Five in the morning. I’m not going to have a chance to call that dancing man from the Portuguese Club. Too busy, too bad. Bloody Monday, nothing graceful about these except our crawl from the house. I think this could become a weekly thing, though, something I could prepare for with more than the perpetual toothbrush in my bag. I haven’t forgotten the tricks of urban traveling.

“Under the Cherry Tree,” a new music cut-out-CG video conceived and directed by Dael Oates, (Animal Logic), for Telemetry Orchestra.