Tag: sam

spreading the love!

So many of my friends are beautiful (in ways that don’t necessarily show to the eye) that I can only be thankful. They are painters and philosophers, musicians, parents, scientists and actors, directors of film, photographers, doctors – creators of modern faith. Because I can’t sleep, I follow the future, I talk on-line to Israel and Chili, and feel loved and warm, though I am alone in my apartment but for cats asleep in another room and the cold of fall coming in. It is enough, and more than enough. They are my new morning, my complicated comfort.

However, sometimes they send me things. You know the sort, an innocuous looking link tossed over messenger, like, that turns out to be pure, unadulterated evil.

So – Sam Dulmage is awesome, but sometimes for all the wrong reasons.

Also:

China sends Kung Fu Fighters to Darfur.

we could build a comfier version

“Who’s got the ball…I’ve got the ball..”.

In a bit of a gravestone triumph, I’ve got reliable work in the week upcoming, but only because a friend’s mother has caught thick with cancer and, as she flies north to take care, her absence creates empty shifts at the Dance Centre. I’m going to be spending next Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday evenings there. Time will go by slowly. Visitors with, say, cupcakes, juice, bags of frozen vegetables, cheesecake or turkey sandwiches and especially delicious books will be met with especially slavering open arms. Bonus points for [CENSORED-edt] with red.

More on Baudrillard.

For those who like philosophy, there are two plays coming you should take a gander at, (not to, if you have a goose you want to abandon somewhere, I suggest my freezer. furthering the thought I should have scrounged more food earlier):

Kyle! As! Miami Vice!

Our resident Official Thinker-Person, Michael, is going to see Socrates on Trial, March 14th at 7:30, at the Chan Center. Tickets are $12, $5 for students. It’s a short run, only two nights, with a talk-back after the show on Thursday. Tickets can be bought at the door, unless you’re a keener, in which case you deserve the woes of Ticketmaster. Go with my blessing. I’m not going to be there, not being much a fan of Socrates, but Michael will be and he is cute and single. Kyle (as seen on the left) will also be going, but he is less single, so not as much a draw, though he does recite dirty poetry about otherkin dragons furries and in return for taking nice pictures of him, he’ll write horrible plageristic things about you and chocolate pudding in Mike McGee’s voice. He’s a dear. Honest. We’re only at war when the dessert supplies run low.

The second play is Bertolt Brecht’s Life of Galileo, running March 29th to April 14th, at The Western Front. Tickets are $20, $15 on discount, $10 on 2-for-1 Tuesday. Mimi is stage manager, our friend Peter New is in the lead, and Sam‘s playing, um, something with a slightly pretentious title that I don’t actually have the power to recall right now. Needless to say, it’s got a good tag-line: He showed us the universe. The church showed him the rack. Despite the cost, I’m going to try and lure someone into going with me on Tuesday. Peter is always clever, and Sam, well, I haven’t seen Sam act in anything in the last year other than films about creepy black and white priests. In fact, I may have only ever seen him play priests*, so perhaps a different sort of cleric will be a breath of fresh air. (This role may not be that different, but suffice to say, I do not expect they have him singing with a kids toy or a crucifix-in-the-eye scene).

Than is dreamed of in your philosophy…

*I lie, I think he was a skinny opera singer in Lady of the Camillas.

I want Edward Teach panties, so I can have pirate booty

The BodyWorlds Exhibit opens today at Scienceworld! (His website’s been updated, it’s nice now. Really).

I went with Alastair to see it when we were down in L.A. It’s beautiful and liberating in a way that’s difficult to describe. I wanted to cradle every body, kiss thier eyes and know thier names. I stared and I stared, I crept as close as they’ll let you to try and memorize every exquisite detail. The exhibition is full of moments of deep, abiding, and very surprising glory, where you find yourself suddenly enraptured with unexpected appreciation for things you’d never think you might see. The volunteer application sheets they have on-line require that all applicants have “Solid comprehension of moral issues regarding death and the displaying of human bodies.” I suspect I would fail the test, if there is one. I am brimming with admiration for what Von Hagen has done, I am delighted in respectful awe, but I doubt I have any idea what other people’s moral issues might be. Mine are unperturbed, only upset that there are not more of these shows, that it is not at least mandatory for school-children at the age of nine or ten.

Censearchip: exploring search engine result differences returned by different countries’ versions of the major search engines. (The Web and image search functions of four national versions of Google and Yahoo!: the United States, China, France, and Germany.)

Summer is over and I’m not sleeping well, though I should be alright. My Oliver-inspired Pirate day is getting posted around as it should be, {it’s come around back to me from three different sources today}, and people are saying they’ll come. (My man Crow: “I was almost an innocent man!”). Last night I was ship building. Stephen supplied all the construction materials, minus silly string and blue glitter, I made the body of the big one, then Michael came over and made me a mermaid and an anchor, and Ed helped make some brackets for the ropes. Cardboard boats with broomstick masts, it looks like the big one will fit three to five people and the little one will fit two or three. That way we’ll have a main ship and an attacker. I plan on simply chucking them off the balcony instead of wrestling them down the stairs when Tuesday comes. Should be fun.

Bush ‘Slush Fund’ possibly courtesy of the Canadian softwood lumber industry. (hell.)

I brought Sam two baby frogs in a fishbowl and a green mint cupcake for his birthday Monday and we curled up in a chair together and talked. It’s comforting to have him back in town, extra special to feel safe and warm while being given small stories from Burning Man. I’m glad he went. He said he didn’t miss me because I was everywhere he looked there. Funny how the man keeps me sane, like he’s a shadowy mirror of a relationship or a wish I made as a child on the dried out fluff of a dandelion.

spellcheck doesn’t think “motherfucker” is a word

“London, London” a video by Cibelle featuring Devendra Banhart.

I went to Vancouver Island alone for the first time in my life on Friday. All I knew was that somewhere in front of me was Oliver, whose name creates the feel of kisses on my tongue. He is an older man, as mine are, and sweet as I always wanted them to be. He won’t tell me he loves me yet, but says instead that it’s close, as if the words are a race he hopes to win.

I like the way he looks at me, mildly stunned, as if I am some ultimate unexpected good fortune. Silva likes it too. He is a nervous man, but his worries are only an outward mark of his extreme consideration, like a gold birthmark that stutters in the sun. He wraps his body around mine when we sleep, so always I wake with his arms curled around me, warm ribbons tying me comfortably to him.

I wonder if I will like his parents.

My inclination is for description, for setting down my appreciation for his hair and the length of his body, but no matter how charmed I am with his colours, his skin darker than mine, the streaks of tarnished blond silver that paint the frame of his friendly Brian Froud smile, it is other things that want to drop here. Moments of personality, of detached devotion. Thanks you’s for finally bringing me to somewhere safe. Today he gave me a key to his house. On my way home, I had the men at the hardware store cut him copies of mine.

Mexican court rejects full ballot recount, leftist candidate blasts partial tally.

Coming back was not as difficult as going. In spite of a messenger glitch, meaning I didn’t get one damned message all weekend, there was plenty of news waiting. I didn’t get the job I’d hoped for and there’s nothing I can think to do about it. I have a little design portfolio made-up now that was in case of a second interview, perhaps it will come in handy later. At any rate, there was good news too. This week looks to be intensely and awesomely busy.
Tonight (or tomorrow night, her and the websites have different opinions on when), April and I are going to the Thee Silver Mt. Zion Orchestra & Tra-la-la Band concert at Richards on Richards. (A group led by founding Godspeed You! Black Emperor guitarist Efrim).

Thursday and Friday I have extra work on a film named Hot Rod, out at the Cloverdale Fairgrounds. (I have to figure out how to bus there first thing in the morning, augh).

Friday is the Robot Skytrain Party plus Sam‘s big party at the Treehouse. (“Come to the party that will send a shiver down your back years from now as you suddenly think “Oh, God… I remember that party.””).

Saturday is Vancouver’s first Flugtag, our Second Annual Zombiewalk, and Bob‘s party.

Wolf Parade plays the Commodore on Sunday, (not that I have a ticket, I’m just lusting after one), and Andrew says there’s something else but he forgets, so if you remember, I’d love a heads up.

Oh! And Snakes On a Motherfucking Plane is this Thursday at the Rio, (Broadway & Commercial), at 10pm.

If you comment here saying you can’t come, Andrew will have Samuel L. Jackson call and persuade you.

Also, he checked with the box office, you can buy your tickets at the Rio anytime it’s open now.

Oh, and CROSSPOST this mofo! We want to own the theatre.

Geocities + Web 2.0 = Myspace

Toot-a-Lute has put me in charge of their website. This makes me happy, as it needs a hell of an overhaul, and they’re a good group of people. They deserve a better on-line face. I’m thinking something sparse and clean, with a little bit of edging in green. In the interests of up-keep, would anyone with appropriate photos send them to me? Your work will be fully credited, with a link to you when possible.

Nouvelle Vague is coming to Vancouver!

So I’ve returned from Clinton, which wasn’t as strange as I thought it would be. In spite of my worries, I fit in well. It turned out I had fifty or so semi-unexpected friends and acquaintances there. More than I knew the names of, by far. As soon as we arrived, some pirates tucked us into a good camp spot and we were told to make ourselves at home at a number of different camps. Everyone was surprised to see me, but glad. It was fun though the sun beat us hard enough for me to question its self-esteem.

On Saturday, after an initial exploratory wander, Isabella tied me to her merchant tent and put up for ransom. Eventually James set out with this news and fetched Oliver back to rescue me, who manfully offered them his accordion. A price too steep, we decided, so instead we dressed him up in women’s clothing and took pictures. Emancipation was not so easy, as then she wickedly tied him up too.

Later in the evening, we started a dance circle and I taught steps to people and sang with the band. I’d forgotten what that could be like. Lantern lit and dust everywhere, hallelujah. Singing isn’t as terrifying as I remember it to be. It got dark as we were there. I partnered with Gerald for Morris dancing after that. I don’t think I would have gone through with it had I been paired off with anyone else. He’s a lovely giant of a man with tawny gold hair longer than my arm, and our crazies are so compatible that I used his machete instead of a stick during one of our rehearsal run-throughs and the only thing he did was laugh. See, I had this problem where I was breaking his sticks, all of them, until he finally gave up and, because he’s big enough to do so, used a length of tree trunk instead.

Sunday was more of the same. During the day was socializing with the ridiculous number of people I knew and wandering about with Oliver, who didn’t know a tenth of them, playing music, and eventually visiting the lake. It was atrociously cold. When people tell you something is brisk, what they mean to say is, “I would be a coward if I didn’t jump in and cowards are reviled, therefore…” I don’t recommend it. The chance to wash clean of the desert was nice, but the price was a little too high for comfort.

We were dancing and singing again by the time the sun set. When it came to be night, too dark to dance in large groups, I took out my chemical packets of powder and threw them in fires as we traveled from camp to camp, acting as an alchemist, bruising the flames into different beautiful colours. Blues and greens and purples. Instead of a lantern, I used extra long sparklers. The light was fantastical, radiating magic to the drunk people who were watching and didn’t quite understand. I felt like I was creating a circus all by myself. It was almost as glorious as fireworks.

On a more somber now, Veronica and I sorted out as much as is possible in such circumstances. We sat under the shooting stars and didn’t quite cry together, but it was close. We are in sympathy, we both know where the other person is, and I’m glad it worked out. I believe she’ll take time to vanish for a little while, but we’ll carve out a place to be friends again soon. I’m proud of her as I’m proud of myself. I was going to do what she’s doing now, and walk away, but she beat me to it. Honourable we. I’d like to catch her as she’s falling, but it’s not my place. I hope she knows I understand how it’s a lonely thing to be, brave.

Nicole is needing a two bedroom apartment for September. She’s looking for $1000/month maximum, East Van from Commercial drive area to Kits, and nothing over 30th Ave. Laundry on-site and with a deck or a yard. It’s a tricky one, but if you see anything, please drop her a line at 604-306-6188.

now I’m at Sam’s, wondering where he is. it’s been over an hour. I was going to help him pack.



Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

I found out that the computer dot in Kashmir is my godmother’s amazing best friend, Joy. One down, 800 to go. All these mysterious places, I’ve been learning the world map a little at a time, just from peeking into where everyone seems to be. (The most interesting bit, I think, is how accurately my map globally describes what areas are spread with internet access.)

This summer weather makes me wish I drank alcohol. It rains a little, is cold at night, and when I open my eyes in a sticky hot room, companion in my bed to a clutter of books, an antique hunting horn, a handful of plush roses, my feet tangled in a pile of clean laundry, a wish for a wine bottle flashes into my hands. It’s part of being unemployed, of feeling that my accomplishments are accumulating too slowly to change anything. I want the melodrama of a morning swig of sour intoxication to insulate me against the passage of empty time. Not that I’ve ever managed to be drunk in my life, my thought comes fleshed only in media, but French television shows, Spanish movies full of lovers and taxi-cabs that drive too fast, one hand out the window, hair being tossed back by the weight of the sun, make saturated hydrocarbons look fun, meaningful and nice instead of unpleasant, a wretched taste similar to cassette-head cleaner.

  • Beautiful Day Without You, an animated video by Damien Ferri for Royksopp.
  • A Million Ways, a home-made music video by Ok Go! that sparked a make-your-own contest.

    I skipped out on Graham‘s movie night to visit with David and his last night of the big-screen TV he’d rented for World Cup. (As of today, he’s back off to Macbeth it up at the Caravan). We watched Requiem, took a dive into the perturbing anthropology that is modern television, and just generally stayed up too late eating pizza and drinking tea strong enough to dye skin. (Dear me, You Forgot the Pizza in the Fridge, Leave a Note on the Front Door for the House Sitters, Otherwise it Will be Two Weeks. Sincerely, Your Sudden Realization). I think we packed it in around four in the morning, but stayed up reading in bed until closer to five. The New Yorker, Lila Says. Comforting to be so domestic. The younger kids who stay the night at my place, crashing over after movies so we can all have breakfast the next day before work, they don’t know the subtleties yet, they can’t sink into it.

    Our first blanket arrangement was called the Too Hot War, but that one sank into the swamp. So we built a second blanket arrangement: the Too Warm War. That burned down, fell over, then sank into the swamp. So we built a third one: the Cold Toes War. And that one stayed up. And that’s what you’re going to get, lad, when you get people like us together, the strongest castle upstairs of England.

    • now my hands are bleeding and my knees are raw


    slaves to money
    Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

    There are no birds today. The sky has become a hard stone floor waiting to be swept by wings, but there are none forthcoming. The threat of rain hangs too heavily over my neighborhood. All the flying voices are hunkering down, trying to get comfortable, and waiting for the inevitable soaking. I understand where they’re coming from. My desire to go outside is being stifled by the overbearing clouds as well. Cities feel out-dated on days like today, like no one’s progressed in architecture since the seventies but we’re all too cowardly to say so.

    New Googlebomb: Scientology. Pass it on.

    Two days of barely moving from in front of my sleepless computer, surfing the tepid industry* of employment websites, I feel like I’ve been joylessly glued to a square of carpet. Telus turned be down, albeit as politely as they could and with many personal remarks upon my general awesomeness, so now I’m holding my hand out to the internet, hoping to feel a brush of work upon my palm. Sara is in town scouring for funky apartments, so tomorrow her and I are going to attack the city classifieds as a brightly coloured yet highly dependable unit that you so want to know.

    New Music: my Masque Soundtrack that never aired.

    Tonight I was supposed to be with Jacques at a Karaoke Fundraiser for something, but I accidentally double-booked, so I’m due up at UBC for a bit of an analytical nature-walk through the endowment lands instead. Due in about twenty minutes, actually, if I’m going to be a little bit early. Apparently I’m to bring an umbrella. Amusingly, my friend who’s arranging this didn’t expect me to actually own one.

    * Russia’s something too awesome for words.

    typical


    I am almost too sick to move today    , though I’m not as bad as I was last night. It started on my way over to Korean Movie Night after work, just something suddenly wrong with my stomach that doubled me over in the street and left me choking into the gutter at Broadway and Commercial. Surprised and thinking I was far closer to Christopher’s than I was to my own home, and knowing that if I went home, I would be alone, I decided the best thing would be to continue to movie night. If nothing else, if I was going to be a little out of it, there would be people to make sure I was safe. This proved to be the best idea, as eventually my illness surpassed all expectations and left me doing my best impression of wretchedly dying in the bathroom. Today I can keep water down and hobble around with some semblance of remaining upright, but my fever is still ridiculously bake-breakfast-on-my-forehead high.

    I’m trying to get a ride home somehow, because otherwise I’m stuck here, is anyone available?

    Course, this seems to fit my week fairly well, the pattern of a nice day ending in misery. Like, as if to off-set the fact that I was attacked by police dogs after SinCity, the nice mild hero who came in to mend the internet last week, (name of Robin), kept me company at work yesterday and bought me a darling little cactus from the florist next door to replace the one I accidentally neglected to death. I don’t think this one flowers, nor are the spikes soft like my last one, but it has sharp prickly little spikes, which is pretty neat. I’m rather pleased about it, actually. My new little cactus. It never would have occurred to me to buy one for myself, I felt a little too wretched over the death of my windowsill garden to replace any, so it’s good to have a second chance. No longer shall I feel a drifting pang of guilt when I walk into the neighboring florist.

    Canadian content: Evelyn, The cutest little dead girl.

    Kitsilano is an uninhabited kingdom at three in the morning. There are no cars and certainly no pedestrians, so when I walked into a pitch dark alley and heard someone running up the street I’d just turned off of, I turned around to mark how they passed, figuring it’s only safe to keep tabs on one’s surroundings. A jogger, I thought, running their dogs. Wrong. A large serious man with large black dogs burst into the alley mouth with an unexpected ricochet of violent barking and ran at me. Stunned, I stood my ground and braced myself. One of the dogs jumped at me, the one not on a leash, and grabbed onto my arm, trying to pull me down, which is perhaps the only thing that saved it’s eyes. Police, it had to be police. Sure enough, as I was dragged down to one knee, the man pulled out a flashlight and shone it directly into my eyes and tried to shout over the barking, “VPD! What are you doing in this alley?!” In a flash of anti-clever, I yelled, “What?!?” because what else could I do? Miss Manners doesn’t talk about these things. Half wrestling with what I think was a Doberman, I was not very capable of wit.

    He called the dogs off, though they continued barking loud enough that house lights were clicking on up and down the lane, and asked me again.
    “I’m going home!”
    “Are you sure?”
    “What, yes! Of course I’m sure!”
    “Why are you in the alley?”

    I shook the dog off and stood up, incredulous, resisting the urge to kick it.

    “I’m going home. I go in the back door. What are you doing here?”
    “Strangely enough, there was a report of a woman in someone’s back yard.”
    “What? Strangely enough!? You attacked me with dogs because someone was in a back yard?”

    At this, he had the decency to begin pulling the dogs back, though he wouldn’t take the flashlight off my face.

    “Just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, ma’am. I would recommend in future that you only walk on designated pathways.”

    Then he took off, leaving me blinking blindly in the alley, wondering what the hell just happened. My immediate urge was to drag poor Sam out of bed and go cop hunting. It was just too outrageous to parse on my own. Instead, as I woke him quietly blathering about big black dogs and barking, “It was all BARK BARK BARK, you don’t understand,” unable to understand how he’d managed to sleep through the noise, he calmed me down and put me to bed. I was still incredulous the next day, but it was easier to feel less persecuted in the morning.

    “A willow deeply scarred, and somebody’s broken heart”

    IMG_2000

    After Rick was a no show yesterday after work, I tagged along with Sam to a game of pool. A friend of his leaving town. Let’s get together. Celebrate. Yaletown, home of the tax-bracket enabled. Thread count, thread count and pool halls with clean floors and flat tables. Prettier people, better teeth, nicer shirts. Barefoot, I walked in and looked around. I made a three, not enough for another set. I looked around and wondered. I should be at the hospital. I should be finding busses, climbing hills, breathing sterilized air. Pressing twelve, the elevator button lighting red under the pressure of my finger.

    Massive Attack – Teardrop

    Matthew, Sam’s actor friend from L.A., was paired with Francois, a SFX make-up artist from Montreal. They were the cats. Graceful, fun, the polished easy flirts. In this situation, the social strata lattice-work puts them on top. I barely exchanged words with them, but species calls to species. When it was time to leave, I railed a little at Sam, as if by sheer force of will I could change his community DNA into something that would be helpful to me, some sort of chaperone who was in on the game, but he was left behind. A secondary player, uninvolved in the double-meaning conversation of glances and inconsequentialities. When it was time to go, I railed and gave up. I gave in. Francois left first and I followed, confident I would find him on the corner. We drifted out like smoke. Matthew would follow. This is all part of the scene. Leaving behind everyone else in such a way they don’t think there’s more of a party. Tag, you’re it crowd.

    Media Banned from Red Light District.

    Now I’m in the clothes Francois’ was wearing yesterday, low slung dark blue jeans and a long sleeve black shirt with ZERO written on the front, (my mind is now pronouncing it “zehro”), that I stole from the hotel room floor while he was sleeping because mine had been too spattered with chocolate and strawberry juice to wear to work, wondering how to create a break in my chemical fall-out refusal to go back to the hospital. I know I went playing pool out of avoidance. I agreed to hang out after out of avoidance. It’s clinging Monday depression like a wall, thick and cloying, turning my thoughts away, making me think twice. I went in Monday needing to feel cared for and walked out feeling like I’d been shot. Not his fault, I didn’t say anything. I never can. It’s not my place.

    That’s part of the problem, same as it always has been. It’s like the business card that Atticus threatens me with. Jhayne Holmes: Awesome Mistress.

    there’s a membrane drawn over my week


    axismundi
    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.