wherupon my brain shows its true colours

Snow snow SNOW snow!! SNOW SNOW snow snow snoooow! SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOOOOOOOOW!! SNOW snow snow SNOW SNOW SNOW snow snow!! SNOW snoooooooow snow snow snow!! SNOW snow!! SNOW!! SNOW snow snow SNOOOW! SNOW SNOW snow snow! SNOW snow snow!! SNOW! SNOoOOW snow snow snow snow snow snow snow! SNOW snow SNOOOOOOOOOOOW!!

We can’t see farther than four buildings away through our eigth story office window.

My bus slid on ice and I had to walk to work from Crackton.

Other buses have also been jack-knifing.

Meanwhile, I can’t stop singing the snow song or doing the happy snow dance.

It’s real snow, too. Dry, crunchy, catch it on your tongue beautiful, glittering gorgeous snow.
None of the gross, clingy, west coast wet stuff.

When I say I walked to work, really I mean I frolicked to work, wide eyed and happy.

Dear merciful life, I freaking LOVE snow.



I need to download an MBA into my brain

Weather Canada has issued a snowfall warning for Greater Vancouver.

10-20 cm of snow is expected to fall overnight.

Gregory Colbert clips are beginning to appear on YouTube.

I have a habit of not spending nights home. I fall asleep on couches, at tables, pen still in hand, my head cradled in papers, in someone else’s pillows. My bag, invariably it carries books, my camera, and a small overnight kit. Always carry a toothbrush, always carry something to read, never say no to a free plane ticket. Lately, though, it’s like I’m trying to make up for lost time with my room. I stay up late in my own house, writing at the keyboard, trying to grind a miracle out of my business plan. I delete and re-edit until the original version of my paragraph returns to glare at me from the screen with a malevolent beauty. I chase sentences until I simply have to sleep, frustrated that I don’t have a choice. My regular nights out, Sunday’s etcetera, I think I’m feeling too delicate to be around such a false sense of security.

Yesterday, however, I took a day off. I met Minesh at City Hall, and instead of spending energy in a double-run at the office desks which had already individually thwarted us, we sort of did the whole run, really. Lunch at Tomato, then to the Lennox, (consistently a place to run into people – Ryan first, then Kit said Hello, and my brother Cale and his girlfriend Chloe joined us for drinks), then a movie, then dinner, then staying up until 4 in the morning sharing pretty his and hers things on-line until we fell asleep in front of downloaded episodes of Heroes. We even had the most drawn out argument about who would get to sleep on the couch that I’ve had in years. (We’d previously stood outside for ten minutes, trying to get the other person to go through the door first. Who says chivalry is dead? People who aren’t around stubborn goofs like us, obviously).

Robert Altman died this week.

I remember at some point realizing that it was dark, that all I had to show for the day were some blueprints, and that I didn’t mind as much as I thought I might. It was nice, not having to pour myself into one thing, to rein in my recent obsessive focus and merely be social. Tonight, however, after work… I want this done by Monday. Sleep is for the week.

snow is like lightning

Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

Though I walk through the valley of strange holidays and mouths that ask me for change in the name of a dead man that people believe in like tables and chairs and truth, to this world I say, “You can not take the wonder of snow away from me, for lo, it is powerful and bright and slides under my feet.”

You Are Beautiful.

My flight leaves from the airport here at five:thirty and arrives in Vancouver, though the strange vagaries of time-zones, at only eight o’clock. I imagine Ray will be there to greet me and whoever else would like to be there should contact him. I understand the Twenty-fourth is traditionally a family evening, so I won’t feel slighted if you’re busy elsewhere. However, if anyone has any parties, get-togethers, pot-lucks, or general meanderings that are open invite, I would like to know about them. I want to continue moving when my feet touch the ground, to distract me from being there and to remind me why I stay.

You Are Movement.

It’s thirty and ten steps to the corner of the street. Another fifty to notice the absence of good friends in the crowd, another fifteen to secretly smile at a pretty stranger. Six backwards and it’s possible to fall into a dream while you’re counting paces. Three, this leg wakes the dead whenever it slips on ice. Three is all stories, three then two, the pair, the holy lovers falling together though all the skeletons that live in the closets that were born in the suburbs. Back and forth, bodies and warmth and winter time is here, not there, but right in this very spot that I am looking up in the sky and trying to catch flakes of alien ice on my tongue and inside my smile. This smile, right here, this smile is wintertime. My feet hit the cracks in the pavement but my mother doesn’t die, only the little sheets of I want to turn back and explain myself. Take away my forgiveness and rain down ambiguous threats of calling you on the telephone until I have a map to follow back home, that mythical place that you all seem to have that I never found. I imagine a hall full of doors, a place of a thousand keys but no, I’ve got these three steps, now two, now one. My schedule is walk under this tree, walk forward, swing my feet like the water crumbling a sand castle by the sea glued together with my lipstick smelling like me.

Swinging like the back door, this is the final part of the operation, setting my feet straight on the slippery street.

I’m just not used to it

the first taste of winter
Originally uploaded by -Angela.

I woke up this morning and Montreal felt like home. Siz hours sleep and The snow was right, the fallible plans for the evening, the christmas music leaking up from the street. Everything, click. Out there somewhere is a boy who likes me, and I like him, and out there someone laughed when they walked past snow that I had tramped all over in a childish glee. Out there is a city with no pressure, a piece of land attentive to diversity in a way that the language monoculture doesn’t touch.

Walking on snow feels like walking on creaking cotton wool. It’s soft, but somehow the smooth texture catches on itself. I’ve been falling into unmarred pile drifts of it since Thursday. Just tipping myself backward until the white powder ground has caught me. Unreal, I keep saying it’s unreal. The sense of suddenly trusting the earth is novel, a cellular structure worth of edification.

Typing’s so difficult on so little sleep. I’m not sure of spelling as much, my grammar begins to decay, words begin losing cohesion like entropy coming down like heaven. Flakes cold in my lashes. They fly as if feathers to land in my hair and cake around the cuffs of my ankles. Magic and another name for wonder. Light, these crystals, the sun comes up and smooths them out. The wind comes up, flash and glitter. Pulling a white rabbit out of a hat two minutes too late, because I’m already leaning into gravity backwards, holding out my arms as if I’m being crucified, as if I’m reenacting the feeling given to me on a digital platter of my last two relationships. Then the cold catches me, it cradles my body, the perfect pillow formed exact to my specifications. I fit into the cavity made from giving myself up, pretending for a moment that everything’s all right, and I smile. I want to fall asleep, content in the knowledge that one day I too will die and all of this will have worked itself out and into the next generation of fools who think they mean something.

accented with a wet outlook today

  • Landmines now being cleared with arrows.

    The world gave us snow last night. It paralyzed parts of me. My creature mind went blitzing beyond compare. I wanted to drag my lovely out of bed. Look! I wanted to say. It’s snowing! Come dance with me!

    It was rain by the time I opened my eyes again. Another moment lost to the dark.

    The last time there was such a snow fall was just before New years two years ago. I was walking to the bus with Adrian from my first time at Rowan and Dominique’s house. He took a picture or two, but they didn’t turn out.

  • Aerial signposts point to Scientology’s sacred text storage facility.

    Work has given me extra hours today. I’m going to be working from four until eight. There were no other plans for today. I have no plans all week. It’s surreal, but let me say yes when they asked me if I could come in.

    It’s not that I don’t want plans. I have been trying, but I am still somehow unable to find people.

    Shane and I have been playing an odd phone tag. Congratulations, I want to say, when I pick up the phone instead of the answering machine. Mercy, I am alive and as difficult to find as you are. Poetry rolls over the line, measured as come play poker with me. I don’t know how and nor do you so maybe we can teach everyone else how not to drink so much. It was cold out. I said no but call me later. He did, but now it was too late. My turn to ring.

  • The Vancouver Ridge Theater is closing its doors.

    What the hell are you up to?

    (all the real humans are hiding)

  • I cursed myself for forgetting my place

    I found myself unexpectedly in a pub full of familiar theatre people this evening after rehearsal. As it’s been close to three years since I was regularly working shows in Vancouver, there was a tacit agreement that I belonged, but hardly anyone could place me. Jacques arrived, and when he finally noticed me and said hello, I caught several people relaxing. They’d been worried that I was some strange mis-perception, a mental twitch of a stranger who only seemed familiar. I collected a few e-mail addresses of people I’ve missed talking to. I’ve got to remember to send them an appropriate hello before I go to bed.

    Then she sank down to her knees, grasped the cutter by both hands, took a deep breath and plunged the long blade through the middle of the package, through the middle of the masking tape, through the card- board through the cushioning and (thud) right through the center of Waldo Jeffers head, which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs of red to pulsate gently in the morning sun…

    My teeth feel sweet now. Rose gave me a black to smoke while we stood outside socializing after. I accepted, forgetting that I don’t smoke, never have. The tops of my lungs are now complaining, reminding me that it’s been six years since I’ve lit anything up, but I mystified myself by having all the proper mannerisms. I suspect I will either eventually blame the city I live in, as Vancouver is a place where Marijuana isn’t considered a drug by any but the repressed children of the far right, so everywhere there are people with little rectangles of white paper rolled into tubes to be gestured with, or my exes who smoked and so gave me a character to unconsciously pattern. Either way, I was somewhat perturbed by how easily I took holding the soothing crackle of tar and clove.

  • Texas Voters Approve Ban on Gay Marriage.
  • Denver voters make adult possession of one ounce or less of marijuana legal.
  • Kansas education board downplays evolution.