and now for something completely normal (zappa will make up for my lack of interesting)

Contractions were still irregular when I left for work downtown. Now, hours later, I’m still waiting for news. Perhaps Xander’s been born already, perhaps they haven’t even left for the hospital. I suppose I will find out soon, but until then, I’m alright simply enjoying the solitude of my work. As a great bonus, there’s a veritable heap of delicious, untouched food left over from a ritzy party that didn’t (apparently) feel like eating, so now my desk is kindly piled with nibbles of fruit, vegetables, and expensive cheese. (There’s even cheesecake dip, a strange and glorious concotion I may become addicted to, though I didn’t know existed before today.)

News on the home front is the same sort of promising, as Marika’s things continue to dominate the living room a good two weeks after they were meant to be out, but new arrangements are beginning to come together around them anyway. Karen, for example, has painted her room an enchanting light shade of green. It’s like perpetual spring in there now. (I think she made an excellent choice.) Soon I’ll have to follow suit(e), continue reshaping my own space. The cats are adjusting well to her. She’s nice to them, and though they’re not quite conquering her lap whenever she sits down, they’ve begun keeping her company when she’s at her computer and following in front of her when she moves around.

Now if they would only stop falling asleep on my books.

We’re planning on having a movie night soon, showing the new Sigur Ros film, Heima, once everything’s settled. What nights are best for you?

my life looks better when it’s written down - 4672833129

I was given website hosting this week, (still under construction, I’m tackling the learning curve best I can, but it’s a damned wall. Suggestions and coding help welcome).

Last night I threw panties onto a stage where Mark played Frank Zappa with his teeth, rock-star style.

Wednesday, the Celluloid Social Club showed Kryshan’s Zombiewalk film, had me come up and talk about it, gave me a chance to promote like an expensive whore, and my friends won the Bloodshots 48 Hour Horror Film Competition with a Italiana Nunsploitation flick that you can watch here. See: Steampower Films.

Today my work has decided to pay me, (with a slight raise), to attend the Rolling Stones concert next Friday and look pretty.

None of which, by the way, makes up for the fact that they pulled my fireworks show out of the Parade of Lost Souls.

Oh, and for all these lily innocent doe-eyed “what’s this parade thing?” types, the Parade of Lost Souls is possibly the only completely marvelous event that Vancouver actually has. Be there unrestrained and fanciful or I will always cherish the initial misconception I had about you and nothing more.

mihi cura futuri (but my concern is the future)

LiveJournal Haiku!
Your name: porphyre
Your haiku: in less perilous
times it was dedicated
to musique concrete
Created by Grahame

The preacher called me martyr as he finally found his name, (it’s good to have a name, I cannot write without a name, oh my tarnished scientist, oh my bleeding star), because I give in to the emptiness biting at my heart, because I strive to believe it better to drink the dreadful rain than to be proud and drown in it. I walk out alone, looking at the smoke that passes for a sky in our city and wonder why I’m never good enough company to keep. I have no pure fey and giddy anticipation, it’s threaded through with hard-earned dread. Crumbs from a table. Semantics twisting in. And I’m still terrified to talk to you, still too tired to cry. When everything changed, when the worst happened, it was the supports I never questioned that gave way, that turned from stone to sand beneath my feet. The cement is the same colour as the rain and as the water runs, I feel it must match my eyes. I lost the charm to fly, the meaning. Sometimes I only laugh to let a cold wind out. When I can’t casually say your name without feeling like I’m lying, what can I help but dream you’ll dream of me? My answering machine is silent, except when asking me what I want to do. Press two. Press three or four. I hesitate and hang up.

Original letters sent by Frank Zappa and the PMRC to various instances during and after the ’85 PMRC hearings on music and censorship.

I dream you will come with me to the station when it comes time for me to leave. That you will reason with me the night before, try to hold me as if I would crack, like the light of a candle dimly holding the darkness back. In the morning, you’ll kiss me goodbye and wave, knowing I’ll come back for you. I dream I’m enough to fight for, an ideal with flesh surrounding, not a shell with soft hurt inside. That’s I’m real instead of filler. That there is music to my madness, that it’s not a lost cause again. Another reason to be myself, another reason to stand my ground against the cynic’s world. I dream and think sadly that I’m too young to feel this bitter, but there is no one to cradle my hands and draw my poisons from me. Not in this city. Not in this place. My time here has already been drawn as dry as glass burned back to sand.

Every single Playboy centerfold ever published, (in order).

The weather the past few days has been beautiful, sun and wind. I have been keeping busy. Friday was beach visiting then Jacques birthday, Saturday was dinner out with Duello-folk, then the TV on the Radio concert, Sunday was Sunset Rubdown and Frog Eyes, Monday was Korean Movie Night, Tuesday will be the Secret Machines concert, Wednesday is dinner with Nicole and Matt, Thursday is dinner and archiving vintage family-photographique with Silva, and then, as true as the trees let me be, Friday-I-do-not-know. I work this weekend, Raphealla having something else she’s doing, so I will only be available outside of shop hours. If you want to claim some of them, do so now or hold your peace. I have no internet at work, however, so you’ll have to use the telephonic device made so popular by the previous century, TOLL FREE: 1-888-HYPATIA. Handy, no? Yes. Minus the lack of net at work, which leaves my employment stupefyingly dull.