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.

because the words going around are already highly ficticious

the fighting irish
the fighting irish
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

Lately it’s come to my attention that there are more lurkers here than I can account for. As well, as of earlier this month, there were more than 300 LJ users who have me on their friends lists. That’s thirty decareaders. I think it’s about damned time for you to explain yourselves. Yes, this means you:

1. Who are you and why?
2. (bonus) Recommend some music that you think I would enjoy.

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Shock! Scandal! Two Irish brothers were caught fighting at the Burnaby 8-Rinks Sunday night, firmly damaging reputations and causing at least thirteen dollars worth of rumours. Mike McDonald and Daimhin O’Dwyer, witnesses confirmed, began to brawl upon the realization that they had both been sleeping with the same girl. The fight was abandoned briefly as a brave young woman, Sophie Isbister, stepped in and declared a truce. However, the fighting began again only a few minutes later, culminating only when one boy dragged the other over the side wall of the rink head first. Staff completely ignored the entire matter.

  • 16-year-old studies journalism, then runs away to Iraq alone,

    Rick and Sophie are asleep in my bed like Jack Spratt and his feverish wife snoring like a pair of adorable kittens. I love them both with the same careless affection, but I’ve been staying up too late lately to go to bed just yet. I’ll join them eventually. First the planet has to rotate a bit. I admit, though, the bed looks terribly welcoming. There’s an inviting heap of extra blankets, because Sophie is mildly ill, with a space on the edge set aside for me to slot into. Already I can feel the body heat radiating off them that’s fogging my windows. A new sensation, but as I’m an old-fashioned girl, warming my room with bodies strikes me as appropriate for winter.

    Not that January is cold here, far from it. Vancouver, recently, has been embalmed in a strangely humid spat of warm rainy weather. The constant cloudy skies have been trapping the earth’s energy and not releasing it until night is well fallen. It’s almost irritating as I remember the clear, crisp, and certain winter of Montreal. No waffling seasons there, but clearly delineated passing of time. I love dearly how the trees there have no leaves.

  • Ignoring UK ban, bloggers publish leaked torture memos.

    Reports from the hospital confirm bruised egos, but no one in critical condition. The current prognosis is hopeful. It is expected the rift opened between the two contestants will repair itself in the next few days, as they are currently to be found fiercely debating the politics of drinking Guiness for dinner and haggling over the price of the shepard’s pie to be found in the cafeteria. News about the girl is not as good, nurses tell, her belly having shaken with laughter magnitude of 5.9. She may require the resulting stitches be extracted from her body, but this has yet to be confirmed at the time of publishing.

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    I have been continually reminding myself that I have to gather Robin up after school tomorrow/today and explain to him where Academie Duello has moved. He’s been slack lately, claiming location ignorance as a reason not to go to his classes. I’ve never been, but I know where it is. It’s now housed in an odd part of downtown, busy yet not particularly thought about, kitty-corner to SFU campus and on top of Waves coffeeshop, the only 24 place with free wireless. I’ve been going over routes in my mind, trying to think of how to show him how to find it from as many directions as I can muster. What buses pass by, what skytrain stations are closest, what streets should he avoid? I have to factor in that Duello is close to Crackton now and Robin is not known for his keen instincts. The junkies wander far enough west that he’s going to encounter them. I’m wondering if I should be teaching him how to notice them too, as well as the landmarks and which way is north. He’s my only source of income at the moment, if he’s grounded due to sheer empty-headedness, I suddenly won’t be able to afford to pay my way. That would be bad. A lesson in How To Tell If The Homeless Are Dangerous is fomenting as I type this, can you tell? Envision something like a cynical Far Side cartoon featuring a city awash in drug culture and you have the basic seed of the idea. Let’s hope that he never has any practical application to apply it to.

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