Tag: spoken word

let me just photoshop you into my schedule


Originally uploaded by y0nderboy.

Thanks to Warren, I’ve been in the number ten slot on BlogPulse, (an automated blog trend discovery system), for two days in a row now and I’m listed as the 34th most popular blog.

If I were the sort of person to use exclamation points, that would be a few of them right there.

I’m doing civil war themed pin-up photography with Spider Robinson’s photographer before the garden party today. I’m not sure how that sentence came into reality, but I blame living on Commercial Drive. He’s making me breakfast, then we’re going to figure out how to fake vintage lingerie.

Montreal team announces advance in HIV research.

Oliver and I have found ourselves a month together held in our hands like sticky string, (fun, wonderful, but what the hell is it?). We’re still being late to everything because of the trouble we have dragging our bodies from one another. I should have left the house already, but the chance at internet is too good to pass up. My evening house, my fairy-tale, it has a computer but no connection. I am cut off when the sun sets. I am directionless, trapped in warmth and white sheets, unable to find purchase in the ether. My fingers tap away on count-tops and tables, asking for information, trying to morse code the air itself. Late at night, I look down into my unemployment and try to wonder what’s going to happen.

I never heard back from the people who asked me to be their company blogger, Telus didn’t hire me, though the interview seemed almost perfunctory, but I have extra work again on Monday, a paid focus group on Tuesday evening, and a freelance odd-job coming from RipTown Media. The longest I’ve been without gainful employment, but somehow I’m keeping it all together. The utility companies are going to threaten me again soon, but I’m hoping that I can cover that by taking Robin out and about the town for a little Social Therapy.

To the people who bought mp3’s off me. Yes, they are coming, and I am most dreadfully sorry it has been taking this long. My microphone died, leaving me with little equipment options. I have been using my mother’s home-studio, but it’s all the way across town, which can be literally hours away by bus, and I’ve been scrabbling so much that I haven’t had a day to devote. (Some of the work has been finished, but I thought it would only be fair that everyone have to wait together. Think ‘according to the principles of Mercerism.’). I’m planning on going over to her house early Wednesday and not leaving until everything is finished or the busses stop running, whichever comes first.

Apple said it will pay $100 million for a license to use Creative’s patented technology in its iPod music player, settling all legal disputes between the two companies.

The Muse Speaks


Let’s Sing a Song!
Originally uploaded by aNNa Munandar.

Since I have some time on my hands I thought I’d like to try an experiment in broadcasting, offering some of my posts as sound files.

In the interest of maintaining my addiction to a warm place to sleep, they’re not going to be free. Instead, I’m offering them on a by donation basis.
(The donation button will ask you which post you would like a recording of.)

  • Do Not Listen to What Anyone Tells You
  • Yes
  • Redemption Songs
  • Love Like That
  • Fit to Break my Heart
  • Knowledge Less Casually
  • This is Your Fault
  • The Heroin of Amber Sparks
  • the fear of being majestically on fire
  • Darling Thomas
  • Questions That Could Save My Life
  • Flint
  • Holy Stones
  • You are my Attraction
  • Dancing on my own Grave
  • Take me for the Hero





    • snow is like lightning


    phantomile.com
    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.

    call out

    Today after work I’m being bundled onto a motorcycle and being driven out to a private studio to record some spoken word. I am what we call nervous. I am also somehow lost. My only writing is what has gone up here and I am uncertain which entries to pick. I’m very in the tiny kitten step stages of thinking there’s anything of worth in here.

    If you have any you particularly like, please tell me now, as I have six hours left to dig through my journal and choose what we’re recording. I have very few that I’ve thought of and suggestions are appreciated.