people keep asking how I am

Fondue was a success thanks to Ryan, Eva, Silva, her two friends, Ian, Ethan, Lung, Michael, Imogyne, Mike, Nick, Duncan, David, Beth, Mike, Alice, and Adam. At one point, the teahouse ran out of seats and I stood, leaning over people to get at the tasty treats.

  • The origin of HIV has been found in wild chimpanzees living in southern Cameroon.
    we look like we're related

    It doesn’t seem real that my birthday is so close again. Just Monday, Monday and the number clicks over another digit. Three to four. My mother got it wrong, thought I was older. It was her graduation from the University of British Columbia yesterday. I got the day off work to watch her walk across the stage to receive paper proof of her achievement. The pride that thrilled through me was burnished bright by the satisfied smile on her face. I took pictures after of her in her cap and gown, holding the blue folder that contains her degree. Then we took pictures of me in the gown on the basis that it’s very likely the only chance I’ll ever have to wear one. Driving home with her through the sharp rain on the motorcycle, I had to lean forward and hug her, the love and respect simply swelled to more than I could contain. She’s survived a ridiculous amount of harm to get where she is, and though it’s not ideal, she’s still scraping to get by, it’s a testament to her tenacity that she persevered and put herself through university as a single mother with three kids. It’s more than most have done.

    Tonight I have dinner with friends, tomorrow I have dinner with Silva, Saturday Ray is rescuing me possibly from my masque-panic hell and sweeping me about town to try and find something to wear, (suggestions bloody appreciated), and there’s (as yet unverified) rumour of a second SinCity to be held at Richards on Richards. (If there is no Sin, who wants to have a party?) Sunday I’m still planning on being down in Seattle with Eliza, though it’s looking less and less likely as the day approaches and no rides have been forthcoming. Monday my mother is bringing me to a soiree at the Mansion, and Tuesday is the last May Mandarin Movie Tuesday.

  • there’s a membrane drawn over my week

    Originally uploaded by camil tulcan.

    A sound like god, what happens when a man covered in microphones walks into a room full of speakers.

    I have been measuring things more in my eyes than my hands this week, which leads to interesting bits of missing time that I worry for, as if they’re my children and I’ve abandoned them for that crucial minute too long in the shopping mall where now the only way to get them back is in newspaper articles I clip out and tape to my fridge.

    Last weekend, Burrow was in town. I know that for certain. The order of her arrival is written down, there were pictures taken. She stayed over Friday night with Sam, the evening of Meat Eatery. Sam and I had walked to BJ’s after dinner, watched atrocious movies with Bob and his girl-darling from Parksville, then returned to curl up with Burrow asleep in my bed. We were quiet, but woke her unintentionally.

    Saturday we crawled out of bed in time for the Fool’s Parade. Sam went home to shackle himself to his desk and Burrow and I rolled like tired thunder downtown and met with Duncan, Jenn, Georg, and her pink-dyed ferret, Silky. The parade was rainy and under-attended, so after coming close to winning the Fool of the Year award with ferret breasts, we abandoned the street for Taf’s. When work didn’t have my paycheque ready, we turned around and walked to the Bay to visit with Eva at her clinical cosmetics booth. It was fascinating, in a quiet colourful way, but not enough to keep Burrow and I from going home to rest before Duncan pulled us out to the graceful Fool’s Cabaret on Main st. Reine‘s mother was there, and Siobhan, a friend of friend’s we went to dinner with after.

    Monday is missing, a played out afterburn. I took some self-portraits, but I don’t know if I slept there at home or not. There was one, two ideas. A number, undifferentiated. Something.

    Tuesday is more concrete, not only written down, but recorded. Video, audio, photographs. Imogyne and I at Hawksley Workman with darling Sophie. The Cultch in all it’s warmly worn desiccating glory, intimate, red curtained. I remembered all the shows I’d played there. Running through the back when I was a child, that one time making love inside the roof. Downstairs hot-boxing the worn office, how there was once a pane of glass violently shattered in the middle of an orchestral piece, how the beads of my necklace clattered as I bounced and clapped. The music was good too, his acoustic version of striptease sincerely captivating.

    After, Devon came over and we stayed up until the last bus, listening to our bootlegs and drinking weary tea. Imogyne eventually went home, and Devon and I talked until far too late, making me late for work Wednesday. The day I went to Andrew‘s after work and Georg and I re-dyed my hair into the colour of sticky quill ink while watching Ghost in the Shell. She came back to my place after, and we let the ferret run free through my apartment as we talked about partners and lives lost, the soulmates of just then and not today and maybe yesterday we knew something and maybe tomorrow we’ll have some hope. She wrote poetry and I woke up in the morning holding her hand.

    Thursday I had a date with Sam, a real live date, not one of those on-line long-distance approximations my life seems to enjoy lauding me with. Cleaned up versions of us met at Tinseltown for the Brick preview and had dinner at Wild Ginger before walking out to False Creek to hang out on a water fountain and eat caramel ice-cream. We sat under the moon passing the tub back and forth like a cheap cigarette and talked about some of the same things that Georg did. We’re all divorced, the lot of us. It’s like a curse or a disease catching in all the social circles. It seems like every split has had very little to do with love and everything to do with a basic need to keep evolving, to keep trying to touch forever.

    Friday Michael stole me out from under dinner with Andrew, Navi, Ryan, and Eva, and accompanied Robin and I to Thank You For Smoking instead. It was gleeful, with some damned nice moments, (there was a montage of Bad People that slaughtered us like baby seals), and led well into creeping alone up the stairs into Duello for the end of Fight Practice, a small red flower as my sword. I sat on the couch with Lee, letting him show me knife tricks, as people cleaned up and we sat for coffee until it was too late to think of going anywhere else but home. Friday nights, however, traditionally lead into mornings without work, so we survived.

    We survived well, in fact, not doing a damned thing until somewhere after two in the afternoon, until the body-call to breakfast was too deafening to ignore.

    Cloth instead of drug store bought, cloth instead of paintings, cloth instead of a tongue.

    Usually I can deal with the unexpected, but lately I’ve not been keeping myself well, (not enough sleep, certainly not enough calories), and my dizzy lack of amino acids is leaving me open to feeling threatened. There were people in my house pretending to be characters in some game and I’m wasn’t comfortable with it. I’ve always had a very stiff Leave Your Dice At The Door policy and it’s always served me well. That felt like a breach of contract between me and my life. I was supposed to go dancing after, but those participating didn’t seem to care much either way if I attended or no, so it seemed wiser to hurt alone rather than inflict my hormonal self on the world. One of them is too important to me still to have to heir his false affections tonight, though bonds are thankfully dissolving in his self obsessions and my glad distractions. It’s my time of month to be lonely, to want particular people to call on me in the middle of the night and crawl warmly into bed with me.

  • Accountant “cashanova” embezzles 1.9 billion Yen for 17 mistresses.
  • Ohio Police Arrest Woman For $1 In Unpaid Taxes.

    Saturday I woke up too early, walked out the door before I was entirely prepared. Today I did the same. Today I didn’t go hiking all over a treasured nature park though, instead I went wisely for breakfast with Ryan, Navi, and Jenn, then went with them to Sunday Tea before work. (I hadn’t been for months. It was nice to sit and harmlessly flirt with Travis. My world needs more remarkably tall intelligent gay pirates in it.). I met up with Lori after, a friend I haven’t seen in something akin to four years, though it may be closer to three. We couldn’t remember.

  • A two year old toddler has shot a three year old in the hip and thigh.
  • Dead women elected as councilors in Pakistan.

    Now I’m up again after lying awake for over an hour brushing off Ryan’s in-sleep cuddles and trying not to let my emotions tackle me down to the ground. I found myself wondering where my loved ones are, and then, how many of them are there anyway all told. I am tiny and my mouth newly empty of teeth. My tongue probes and explores the gaps and depresses me. How am I to tear into the world like this? I feel as if there have been far fewer influences on my life than a regular tally would count. Years from now, I will remember Joseph clearly, though not who came before, then my marriage to Aubrey. Then there was a hiatus, a few artists already fading. One, however, overlapped the others with a fish-hook heart that I’m still recovering from. Shaking that from my system has left me a little peculiar, as it was deeply lodged in my own for so long that I still feel an absence. Wisdom teeth coming in. Growing pains. Matthew discarding what self I still had to give. Every person a lesson in trust, in disbelief, in the eternal ridiculousness of pain, in the undying willingness to try the damned idea out repeatedly. As I’m gathering myself back to my feet, I am knocking others off them. Let’s take this as a good sign, a marker stating the game’s afoot again. Same field, different rules. Maybe this round I’ll get to win something pleasant.

  • today someone called me by my middle name

    Alto Firenze!
    Originally uploaded by Iv0/0vi.

    Traffic at this time of the morning is mostly trains. Heavy rumbles of solid metal thunder grumbling too far away to hear properly, fog horns mournful through the record scratch sound of violent heavy rain. If I were to speak, my voice would be a surprising sound, something too big for the space of my hearing to encompass without setting off a quickened heartbeat.

    Even my music is off.

    Ryan is asleep and recovering from being mildly ill. This was ostensibly to be his last day at work, but they decided to have him on a couple more days before his contract with them runs out. Hours are welcome, he says, and I believe him. We are young and finances not bright. The jobs we have are tenuous, the jobs we have [are/our] small grinding wheels. I don’t have the skills to find myself something better and currently it seems he doesn’t have the will.

  • Red blood cells fitted with artificial tails.
    (quicktime here).

    Respirocytes – Designing an Artificial Red Cell.

    Concern is dawning.

  • munching on things that maul children carries a certain satisfaction. CLICK ON THE PICTURE.

    Make way jungle, we want oil!
    Originally uploaded by Nick Lyon.

    So it’s not tonsillitis after all. Apparently it’s strep throat.

    This week has been red lights and green. Wolf Parade was exquisite. A hipster sardine packed illicit space with ghetto lighting and terrifying wiring for the stage, I led Ryan and Andrew successfully to the very front. I leaned against the monitors and tried to dance crammed next to a short asian student of cultural ethnicity with my shirt off and tucked into my bag. I suspect her disapproving looks did wonders for my mood. The opening band was fun, stealing back everything from music that Weezer made suck, and when Wolf Parade came on, we offered them James‘ place in Montreal as a crash pad. (You should toss them an e-mail, lovely. See how serious they were, win some points with all those pretty girls with asymmetrical haircuts). Opening with Sons and Daughters of Hungry Ghosts* set the tone well, though they could have been a bit louder with the vocals. You Are A Runner And I Am My Fathers Son is quite the experience live. The lead singer is a lean wrung out guy who froths at the mouth and screams with musical fury through a cigarette that he barely holds onto in a Keith Richard pout, and the keyboardist glares with such concentration it was surprising his intrument didn’t melt. His grandfather was in the audience somewhere, though I would imagine he would have been hiding in the back next to the hole-in-the-wall bar. I was situated a foot in front of the man playing theramin and he was just as impressive, holding his little electric keyboard above him as if that would bring is closer to some holy god, his eyes rolling trance-like into back into his head. The room was dripping wet, sodden with brilliantly sweaty notes that just didn’t translate well onto the album. (Though one must be mad to not to appreciate I’ll Believe In Anything.) In summary, the heat was unbelievable and the music just as hot. The concert next month, with Wolf Parade opening for The Arcade Fire is my next most anticipated thing. Everyone capable should go. *both albums for download with this link

    The Fetish Masque afterward wasn’t half as fun, nor was the burlesque show. Andrew went home and Ryan and I stopped to dress properly for the occasion, gothing to the nines with feathers in my hair and running gold powder down my face. When we arrived, we let someone take us from the burlesque line-up to the fetish one around the side and downstairs, therefore missing the show entirely through a mismanage of poor timing. Aaron was there, and Brian and Kevin, but Herminia stole us away upstairs before I could properly find them. Tristan was upstairs, and a friend of ours was attempting to MC, poor thing, on no warning whatsoever. The show was apparently terribly last minute, so disorganized that it only took me a moment to infiltrate the blueroom and begin ordering people around. “Who’s in the band, you’re up next. This fruit is to go out to the table. You, cut it up with me?” Ten minutes later I was curling someone’s hair in the backstage bathroom and trying to think of ways to get away while the organizer thanked me. I don’t know how to curl hair. I escaped by carrying a plate of peanut butter chocolates out to the covered pool-table and re-collected Ryan. It was getting to be close to shut-down then, so after a bit of dallying, I smuggled us into the freezer and we stole out with some strawberries that no one was going to miss and a pineapple in my skirts. When we came back is when we found Kevin finally. His hair had gone from white to an attractive jewel-tone blue, and I’m remembering now as I write this that I really should drop him a ring. I hope e-mail will do, this not having a voice could make things difficult.

    I shan’t admit

    Originally uploaded by aeillill.

    My suppositions were correct, the power supply had popped, and now we’ve got my machine plugged into Andrew‘s. We’re crowded on his bed, clearing big chunks of tasty media off my hard-drive onto various sized discs. When James left me his machine, he left it filled to the brink with wonderful films and brilliant programs. There is almost nothing it isn’t capable of, if I had the skills to take advantage of it or or if it had a damned power supply. Ah well. Tomorrow such problems will be fixed. I have breakfast in the morning with Matthew, which will lead into our mutual appointment with Sarah and drop me off at the lunch reservations I made for my mother‘s birthday.

    He tells me he loves me when I say goodbye on the phone. There has never been a voice so sad as mine in my heart when I cradle the reciever back in its plastic bed. I don’t say it back, what need? I am branching, my arms boughs, my fingers as twigs. Someone has offered to teach me to float glass like air in my palms, like dreams. I want to. These lips are remembering his eyes and hair. I feel my Saturday as a wondrous thing. The Party Not Starring Peter Sellers was exquisite. The bit with Chris, at least, he is magic incarnate, and Crystal does things with two sets of tassels that defy the imagination. I won a dance contest while in a corset, though I will never attempt such a thing again. I felt like dying for fifteen minutes after. The rest of it was fairly basic, but enjoyable nonetheless. I reacquainted myself with lost theatre people, Terry, Jacques, darling Chris, and I finally met Bill’s wife ma’am. I touched her stomach where his child is brewing. I saw how he looked at her, I’d forgotten. I can feel his face in my expressions again. When he swung down from his perch, I had to squash my urges to go and hug him, instead I left my smile intact and tried to not crowd him. When I was downstairs in the hall, a staff member asked what I came for. I joked, “To see the show, of course, and to discomfit my ex.”

    We laughed, but I’m so sorry to say that it’s what happened. I miss his muppet gestures. In my recent cleaning of my room, I found a picture of him from one of our earlier anniversaries. There’s flowers in his hair and ‘I love you‘ written in chocolate on his chest. The rest of it, I dare not say in public, but needless to say, it was rather touching. I’d put up blue lights on the wall over the bed in the shape of a giant heart. It stayed up for months, though every time we had sex, we would tear part of it down.

    I found Vancouver’s secret burlesque bar, Saturday. It’s a room fifteen feet wide, and as long as the block is wide. The second floor is a golden balcony overlooking the dancefloor, and instead of a disco ball, there’s a silver merry-go-round horse studded with mirrors. I fell instantly in love. Terry and Ryan and I arrived just as the very last of the burlesque ended, (two minutes of shadows having sex), and soon set up camp upstairs. Terry is especially brilliant, as he is one of those most precious people who continues to be astutely brilliant when proceeding to be drunk. We leaned over the balustrade and shouted communist political slogans at appropriate moments in between dancing ironically and splashing the people below with ice-water and gin and tonic. Within half an hours, I collected an entire stag party, (with phone-numbers), and commandeered a few of them into affixing a fan to a table for me to have a private dance-floor on the balcony. I felt, finally, like I was having the sort of evening that silver_notebook regularly inspires my jealousy with.

    bustedwonder made a sketch of one of my favourite photographs

    she knows what kissing’s like
    Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

    Mice infected with the Bubonic Plague are missing.

    Sitting on the floor felt like a miniature picnic. Instead of a blanket, I had a book. Instead of a park, I had a closet-room full of costumes. Raising my eyes from the page to fetch my grapes, my head brushed the petticoats of a dozen frnech maids waiting on hangers, my hand grazed the hems of a dozen schoolgirl outfits. Next to me was a box of ballgags and next to that was one of garterbelts. My back leaned against a cheap plastic mirror and I faced a drawerchest full of stockings in crunchy plastic packages. It’s quiet there, the soppy unimaginative music can’t find me in among the skimpy pieces of cheap fabric. I didn’t think it was possible to suck the soul from a Phil Collings song. Work had been dragging, the clock, I swear, occasionally ticking backward. Customers were few and young and silly, boys laughing nervously and winding up the annoying hopping penis with feet.

    Light bulb malfunction at school sends 18 to hospital with radiation burns.

    Later was better, the day got it’s feet under it and began to stride. I had a pleasant interlude with a friend of mine from SFU, teaching him how to use a paddle in such a way to leave marks before he remembered who I was, and Aiden snuck in breifly to ask me to dinner while my manager was vaccuming the back. I learned how to properly mark costumes down as restocked, something that had been baffling me, as every employee possible had told me to do it differently, a practice rumoured to be common in retail that I had never encountered before and hope to avoid in future. I’m trying to grasp the essentials of shop-front politics, but so far I have only, “Don’t volunteer any information that doesn’t sell something.” which doesn’t seem incredibly helpful.

    A blind man is accused of raping his own guide dog.

    As if counterpoint to the early afternoon, dinner was splendid. I let myself out at nine to find Ryan and Aiden waiting out front looking incongruous, like a foppish rentboy and his thug pimp or rough and tumble boyfriend, and we walked up Davie to Denman with intent to go to Guu, a japanese pub known for it’s sincerely authentic food and drink. Our plans was thwarted, however, by my fish sensitivity, the air thick enough with it to set me leaning against the outside, choking to breathe, after only stepping foot in the door. It was a pity, the place looked interesting, the waiters shouting orders to the kitchen and the bar crowded by chattering people sipping odd looking beverages. However, we ended up at Moxies, who, before we left, allowed us to order a side dish of dry ice, so I suspect we had far more fun than anything that strange alcohol might have offered.

    A Black Velvet Art Flickr Pool.

    meme from riotlounge: If you have anything to say to the person who posts this, say it to them. If you love them, tell them. If you hate them, tell them. Whatever you have to say to this person, even if its something you’re having trouble saying, if the person posts this entry, say it to them. You may never get a chance to, so just do it. Warning: Do not post this in your journal unless you really want people to do it. I expect good things but I expect bad things as well, and that is something you have to take into consideration. Not all of what you hear will be good. Comments will be screened if I figure out how. All comments are screened.

    string them together

    Adrian’s finally a father. Send tentative moments of nervous congratulation over to him and A.J. They’re braver than the rest of us. When Adrian first informed me at SinCity, almost six months ago, I actually began to fall and he had to catch me. Apparently that was the most popular response.

    It’s Ryan‘s birthday on Monday. I had mixed up the date, thinking it was to be on Sunday, September 11th re-wiring my brain for importance. I thought about having party for the Fallen Towers, a wake for the American Empire. Very antique commiserations, a very old world celebration. Fancy dress, champagne glasses we smash in the street, a cake in the shape of a flaming airplane. A toast! Oh land of freedom, we barely had a chance to say that we’re sorry for letting you become what you did.

    Out in the real world, the California Assembly has become the first state legislature in the US to pass a bill endorsing gay marriages and pictures of Katrina are finally coming on-line. Someone accused me of harping on about New Orleans the other day, claiming that I was blowing the disaster out of proportion. I have to wonder where they’re getting thier news, because I don’t think I’ve an imagination that could overstate how badly the response was handled, (ex. Hosptial closed for President visit.), even down to the simplest things:“The good news: If you’ve survived Hurricane Katrina, the government will let you register for help online. The bad news: But only if the computer you’re using is running Windows.

    transmigrant‘s been posting some fabulous links on the topic, like this short clip available for download.

    Carpark North has a video that sequels Human. They’re the same children who work such miracle wonders as love, only a year later. They seem so much older, the wisdom has changed into something far lonelier. I don’t like it as much, I feel it lacks the wonder that makes the first one gasp, but it’s still interesting to see. Click on Media, then Video, to watch them. Human is simply divine. Andrew found a page of films by the same director on Videos.Antville, a multiblog list where people join and post links to “cool” music videos.

    As a nice segue, I’ve discovered Sigur Ros‘s new album, Takk, is available for a listen on MySpace here.

    Once I thought the world turned without me. I stood still in a small bubble that was coated with my name and no one ever saw me. Now I’m recognized on the street so regularly that my friends don’t act surprised anymore. Last night after work, a tall boy approached us at a bus-stop. “I’m a struggling artist, I’ve just released my first CD.” A familiar refrain, the voice of an indie kid who might not be any good, and we don’t have any money, sorry. Mid sentence he stops, “Are you Jhayne?” Ryan laughed and part of me cursed for not knowing who he was. “We went to elementary school together. My name’s Kyle!”

    I blink, this is too surreal. My memories of him are as sharp as lonely knives, I used to watch him to try and figure out how he laughed in such a world. He wore a red t-shirt with a neat band logo on it and won all the racing games in the gravel field. The brightest flame of personality in the entire grade, he’s now unrecognizable. What happened to his smile? Where’s his curly mop of hair? “You were the tallest boy in grade seven. I remember you. You were the only one who danced at our end of year dance.” I told him that I hadn’t any money, but there was an ATM at the end of the block. As we walked, he explained to Ryan how I was the weirdest girl in our entire school. “You read books, well, I suppose you still do, but you were really strange.” It occurred to me that he hasn’t seen me in about a decade but he managed to know who I was. Does that mean anything? There’s a guitar on his back, my eyes passed him over anyway. “Would it be safe to say that you were far more conservative then?” He didn’t have any change, so I bought him peanut butter cups at the 7-11 on the other end of the block, handed him his ten dollars and felt uncomfortably like I was being charitable.

    We talked a little more after that and I wished him luck and promised to e-mail him. I’m wondering where this will go, what I will discover about the people who ostracized me when I was twelve. Thinking now, I miss the rare kids who talked to me. I think he’s still in touch with some. Brodie, he mentioned, a boy I knew in highschool who wasn’t that bad. Rather sane, by my accounts. He played Seymour when I played Audrey when we put on little Shop Of Horrors. Our strange plant was a cactus covered in shredded newsprint. Apparently he’s in a band now, the Living. They have gigs sometime. I hope to go.

    a cello sweep of not in my bed

    That Swing Thing
    Originally uploaded by Mute*.

    I’m a velvet encased palace today. Bottle green pants, a black tank top, a pale pink tongue. The world is full of girls like me, I just haven’t met any yet. It’s such a shame. Kiss me sky, please kiss me. Tell me that I can learn not to be haunted by that devil smile, that ragtime pair of whispering lips. Desire has been lying to me, telling me that I’m beautiful and I don’t need that right now. This week is set aside for young reactions. The ember burning boy knows I’m the sea and stars, and the memory of that dizzying reaction shall be enough for me. My cup of human kindness was quietly laid to waste with my lover touching someone else’s skin, so now I need to find the will to make another. I’m getting better. It feels superficial, but I don’t know enough yet. I’m still learning. Maybe it will turn out to be easy to rebuild. I can feel focus accruing on me, meshing with my skin. It feels top-heavy, hollow, but I suspect that’s just who I’m going to be right now. A pop song princess, simple, lyrical and confident if shallow from the inside out.

  • women in corsets told to cover up
  • I am no longer infekted, boingyboingy.
  • Thai Artist Bakes Edible ‘Body Parts’.

  • blessed, the way, it is

    for kentucky megachurch;)
    Originally uploaded by sucitta.

    “The U.S. government has chartered three luxury cruise liners for the next six months to provide temporary housing for victims of Hurricane Katrina, Carnival Cruise Lines said Saturday.”

    You are what I haven’t written about yet. Stability and comfort, two unexpected islands ringed by eye-liner, shored by language and anchored with glyphs in the middle of the night. That you’ve never seen me naked means something for once, like it did when I was younger, before I began to try and discard romance because everyone around me had grown out of it years before I was born. You are what I haven’t questioned, because it won’t matter, because what you are thinking is enough for me. I watch you and it’s like I can see a mist around you, an aura of intelligence that I can walk into and feel safe. It should be uncomfortable, but instead I feel like I could fit like a smaller matryoshka. Nest inside, curled like fingers over the keys of an ivory piano, and sing with you, creating chords with the words you haven’t learned to say yet and yours that I never thought to know. You are slender fingers poised artfully and laughter longer than your hair. You are interesting in a new way and I’m hoping you come home to me. I like your smile. By the end I’ll owe you so much time, I’ll owe you so much effort and attention and missing you more that I worry a little at the deficit I might be wracking up this month in my time of tasting peculiar dust. You don’t see how strange this might be from my eyes. This city’s been a bloody cage, bars of people and relegation, since I walked out into the desert, saw visions, and never found my way back. My house has been cursed this last while and my luck brought out from under me to be thrown on a pyre of miniature disaster – who are you to stand by my side? You’re the closest thing to freedom that I’ve held by me in quite some time. That you’re mild, it’s fresh spring water. Something clear, something to carry in my cells after standing dry so long. I’m hoping somehow that it doesn’t matter that I’m hanging by threads, that the ink used to write on my heart was just bitterly burned, a frostbite scorch needing too long to heal, and threatening to scar in complicated knots. I won’t claim you’re the only person on my mind, but you’re patient. Like stones in fairy-tales I said, and it’s true. It will be enough.

    New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin speaks openly and candidly about the current situation in New Orleans. Transcript here.

    From unquietmind, “One of my jobs in monitoring the Associated Press photo wire. I see hundreds of images that will never be published, but I think these photos are worth sharing with you. Even though some of these images are sad and harrowing, I take comfort in them. They remind me that people are inherently compassionate and caring. I hope you draw strength from them, too. All images by The Associated Press in New Orleans, Biloxi and the rural Gulf Coast.

    Topography of the flood