shamanic fishing tackle

The buzzer at two:thirty in the morning, a brief sound, then a longer, more insistent beep, as grating to the ear as that alarm clock you meant to turn off, but didn’t. There is a wind storm outside, huge, tossing, beyond chilly. November brought snow once already. I decide to ignore the buzzer. It is likely, as it often is this time of night, for one of my more illicit neighbors. A junkie hitting the wrong button, someone drunk maybe, wanting to get in from the cold. I decide to leave it, but then it comes again, irritating. Deliberate. A voice calls from outside, but the weather tears it away. Defeated, I put on my permanently borrowed hoodie, draw up the zipper, and step out to the hallway in my stocking feet to go downstairs, too tired to puzzle out who it might be, too awake to simply let the stranger in.

It isn’t a stranger, but it is, in a way. Someone who used to be a friend, though not anymore. Hasn’t been for years. “Hey Jhayne!” He’s almost shouting through the glass, over the wind, weirdly cheerful. He must be freezing. “Do you recognize me?” He takes off his ball-cap and runs a hand through newly cut hair. “Hello, K-. Yes. It’s quite late. What’s up?” The last time I saw him it was difficult to get him out of the apartment. It was exceedingly uncomfortable. I had to involve a knife. He talks through the glass door, motioning for me to open it, but I shake my head no. That seems like it would be a stupid decision. He’s bigger than me, I’m tired, and he has a bicycle. As if to prove my point, he launches immediately into a well known scam, twenty dollars for gas for some guy he met down the street, sketchy details and a giant smile, as if it isn’t the middle of the night, as if the storm were instead a sunny, summer afternoon, as casual as butter. I gesture, dismissing the patter, “I’m going back to bed K-.” His grin becomes manic as he sees me begin to step away. He talks faster and faster. “But, do you have twenty dollars?” “No, I don’t. We barely have bus-fare. You still owe me rent. This isn’t a place for you to ask for help anymore.”

For a very brief moment he almost looks like he used to, before the drugs ate him up from the inside out, cracked the inside of his mind, and I raise my hand against the glass, like visiting a zoo exhibit, a glimpse into the past, and he puts his fingers against mine. Maybe one day he’ll be better, a father to his daughter, a friend again. But no, he doesn’t stop talking even as I try to say goodbye, too locked in his message, his bright, strange smile, his uncomfortable face. Finally I just walk away, his words, muffled by the glass, smearing into background noise as I slowly go back up the stairs and to my apartment, where I make very certain to lock the door.

lucky there was a walking cane in the closet

In a moment in poor decision making, I kicked an ottoman yesterday, possibly breaking my toe. I wrapped, splinted, and put it up on ice almost immediately, then used a cane when I went out. Given the circumstances, I admit that going out may not have been the most clever thing I’ve ever done, but Rhienna from Portland is visiting, (as well as my mother), and missing her wonderful DJ set and/or not taking her to The Unicorn would have felt like an indictable crime. She is a precious, beautiful creature, and if I have to walk on a broken toe to see her, well so be it, and I did, and it was totally worth it. Also, we sat a lot.

Today, thankfully, it seems my toe is likely only sprained, as standing no longer wants to make me cry. I feel this is a victory for a number of reasons, but mostly because even though the x-ray people all used to know me by name, I still haven’t broken any of my bones yet and I’d rather like to keep it that way. Especially given that if I’m fated to snap one some day, it had better be for something a damned sight more interesting than furniture kicking.

ps. I have, however, chipped my teeth. Twice eating pierogies, another time on Tony’s (since-absent) tongue piercing. Both satisfying narratives, so that’s alright, isn’t it?

I wonder if it will be a surprise

My apartment is getting a lift. The kitchen has been painted two mellow shades of pumpkin and highlighted with a russet metal gold, the bathroom is going classic with a coffee & cigarettes black and white, and Nicole and I are going to french stripe my living-room in something warm as soon as we find appropriate paint. (Got any?) A scour of Craigslist provided a nice pewter light fixture to replace the brassy nicotine-coloured hanging lamp that’s currently haunting the main room, (Brett will be over to install it tomorrow), and the silk sari that hangs above my bed is getting yanked out and put up in the hallway with white LEDs running behind it, with the blue ones moving to frame Gavin’s self-Portrait of The Artist that hangs across from the couch. I’m really looking forward to the change. And by ‘really’, I mean ‘it’s beyond about damned time’.

Which reminds me: Does anyone want to come along with Nick Eddy and me to Calgary for the first week of December?

It would be nice if he had someone to drive back with. We’re planning on leaving November 30th and arriving December 2st with a stop-over visit at his grandparent’s orchard in Osoyoos. He would be returning Dec 7th while I, (hopefully), continue down to dreaded Edmonton to visit with Ian and Christy.