A group of peacocks is called a muster or an ostentation.

My Bjork concert pictures have been uploaded.

Hey locals – Sanctuary tonight is your last chance to go dancing with Tyler before he takes off for his globe-trotting whirlwind summer of romance and fame. And if bleakly thrashing goths isn’t up your alley, which I fully understand, you might want to drop by the hospital to visit Steph, who is apparently dying of boredom after breaking her ankle in the last rollerderby. Either way, you’re doing a good deed. (I haven’t been by to see her yet, because I suck, but say “hello” for me, it is on my List of Things To Do.)

Shine, a SF nightclub, has a photobooth hooked up to Flickr.

I wished today for a real studio to play in. Crouching in my livingroom, having only two inches wiggle room, relying on the reflected light of a small hand mirror that I’d precisely taped to my wall, just wasn’t cutting it for me. Someone on MySpace wants to pay me $20/hour to take artistic nudes of him. He’s a hugely muscled man of the sort where I want to pronounce it muskles, thick as several boards with spelling to match. (His punctuation isn’t too hot either). I’m tempted to say yes, but only to connect myself with a shoot that won’t be locked behind a non-disclosure agreement, like the sweetheart shoots I do for women or the kink community boudoir photos. There must be an easier way.

Part of my reluctance to pester my photographer friends is the certain knowledge that I should be hunting more work for myself. Right now the best way to get me out of the house is promise me a meal. I’m wary of rent right now, too, though I already spend as little as possible. Underemployment is making me too nervous to feel I can blithely take a day off to scamper about the woods. I’ve been asked to write articles for a number of magazines, which is great, but it’s all volunteer work, which doesn’t help put food in the fridge. There was a run of film work last month, but it seems to have been a blip on the map, with no real direction.

Dreamy underwater shots by Alberich Mathews.

domni: “you do rather throw yourself into things with impressive abandon.”

Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

I feel as if I were planted in a warm garden only to be drowned in someone else’s story, some thick memory of another woman’s legs wrapped around him and how that tangle painfully untied. This feels like it has so little to do with me that I don’t understand how it came between us. It makes me wish I were a drinker, have the ability to blur my sold-out world, so I could take that fourth drink then try to drive to some mythical home. My heart is heavy and red, holding me down like a lover with their hands at my neck. I wake up raw, my nails having clawed into my sides when I wasn’t paying attention.

I know that come some far tomorrow, I will learn to break yesterday. Dismantle what I cared about and wish instead for something else, but right now I wake up with my eyes watering, exhaustion paramount, only knowing that I hurt and that there’s nothing to hold me up, nothing to feel right.

Tyler brought me to the opening of a comedy club tonight. It helped. The last man on, Marc Maron, strangely reminded me of a welcoming yet possibly unsettling-only-if-I-consider-it mix of an ex of mine and my not-godfather-seriously-people, Michael Green. In a charming aside, he explained from the stage why he and I shouldn’t go back to his hotel room and have sex. How it would only end in tears. His painted image had a lot of the intense flavour of We-Both-Have-The-T-Shirt.

Walking through Crackton to the bus-stop, I wondered what it would be like to live in a building with a lobby and an elevator, a swimming pool in the basement that’s always watched by a security man on the other end of a camera. See, I know there’s an enormous sun-dial on top of Tinseltown that’s always wrong. It uses the apartment building as a gnomon, but it doesn’t account for any time in the world. Useless thing, I love it. It’s not even pretty. It’s just this tacky secret for everyone who lives in a certain half of the building.

Stephen sez: Here’s a low rez picture of the Tinseltown sundial.

(Oh, right, and I figure I should mention this because there are people here who would appreciate it: In spite of the fact that I have been barely sleeping, barely eating, I still scored apparently far too high (only 155) on an IQ test, resulting in the people testing me refusing to hire me on the basis that I would “get too bored”. I also “did them too fast” no matter they gave me half an hour to fill out only 80 questions. Oi. Shoot me. Least it’s Rosh Hashanah tomorrow, which means a delicious dinner at Silva’s.)