Tag: puppets

thanks for the reminders, chandra. you’ve saved me.

The Erotic Anguish of Don Juan, Performance Works, (1218 Cartwright Street, Granville Island), April 21 – May 9.

“Following the 2006 sold-out hit Famous Puppet Death Scenes, The Cultch will present The Trouts’ new show, a radical re-imagining of the Don Juan legend, a refraction of the many manifestations of that old ghost, who haunts us in our dreams, anxieties and fantasies.”

The Ghost of Don Juan is summoned from Hell to repent for his sins, and to tell us the tale of his nefarious life so that we may avoid his fate. But does he truly repent? Is he a monster or a saint? He will attempt to save us from our amorous errors, and deliver a sermon of universal love. In the end, we are liberated from our fears, and what we thought would be a simple evening at the theatre becomes a transcendental orgy that will change us forever.

Most nights, anyway. Depends on the audience.

Tuesday to Saturday: 8:00pm, Sunday matinees: 2:00pm

Tickets from Ticketmaster, (604-280-3311):
Adults (+s/c): Advance: $26; at door: $30
Students/Seniors (+s/c): Advance: $22; at door $26

I’m likely going to be buying my ticket this afternoon. Tuesday, May 5th sound good for anyone?

I didn’t join so much as I was assimilated

I’m front page at Sinister Bedfellows this week. buy my book.


Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

So very suddenly I find myself attached to a band. A band that is going on tour this weekend. I only found out yesterday, but the plans are well in place. I’m not sure how this happened, that I’m coming along, but it seems I am some sort of package deal. I’m going to Victoria this afternoon to hook up with Nikky for his gig, then I’m to meet a van-load of musicians at some random cross-roads disastrously early tomorrow morning to go to Gabriola for a concert at their wine festival. Sunday we’re back in Victoria and only returning to Vancouver for Monday night. I foresee a lot of not sleeping, really. Part of me is glad and part of me wants to know what the hell I think I’m doing. I’m not a musician, it rails, I’m barely even a writer!

Monkeyfluids is pretty good today, thanks to Michael for reminding me it exists.

Yesterday I went to a surreal educational puppet show about bees put on by DeeDee, a transgendered line-backer of a harpist from New York who drives a giant custom tricycle. It was in the park near my house and I know Vern, the fellow who made most of the bees. April was there. Strange days on paper, but alright in person. I’m still unemployed, though I’m crossing my fingers for a local PA job that looks like it would be utterly perfect for my odd myriad media skills. (I have a viral marketing gig for September lined up in case everything else falls through). Last night I got some recording done at my mother’s house, so there’s a mp3 polished ready to send out to the darling people who thought I was worth paying for. There will be more when I return. It’s been a stupidly busy and unexpected time lately, I’m sure you understand. See you after the cut.

Jesus Monkey Pants in Space has a new home on Warren‘s The Engine.

You cut me on your shoulder blades.


scaring children
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

This river is my holy ghost, this red trail that leads in drips and smears from me to you across the sheets. We are enclosed.

I spent today finding a gift for Dylan, who turns three tomorrow. The son of a ghost, I wanted to find something sweet. The perfect soft toy to be carried lovingly around for the next seven years. I believe I succeeded, I found a bear who passed my every conceivable cuddle test and a child size hand-puppet of a fox, though I must also admit that I have done the dreadful deed of purchasing something for myself as well, which is something I consider tantamount to sin these days and vaguely unforgivable. A hand puppet of a soft white fluffy rabbit in a hat.

It’s fun. I was both delighting and terrifying small children, I practically refused to take it off my hand walking around streets and stores, waving a little paw to almost everyone walking by, those who did not glare at me. I think I’m going to bring him to work, try to find out his name. He’s pretty.

In spite of that, I am not well enough to be up this late. I feel too raw to try to talk to the world. I need consolation and I’m not going to find it here before I go to sleep, nor tomorrow, likely. Tuesday, I have to wait until Tuesday, and that’s a maybe. Dying to hold on, it is like my skin has been taken off and packed in someone’s bag before they walked away. It is like a monastery falling and being trapped in the rubble. Of course it’s fine, fine like grit between my softest teeth. Truth and truth again, more of my year of ruination wrapping, up, finding its feet. We are vile in our perfection, me and this feeling. There is nowhere left to pray.

Bombs dropped, the last city has blazed and I am left blind.