Month: June 2004

I’m being forced to sleep. It’s like being locked in a tower of
bone. I feel I must write, but am being flooded with so many subjects,
personal mythology, that I cannot choose. Dying, I am locked in my own
ivory cage. Transcendence into the fire.

Out there and in daylight, there is a girl at home.
She can write.

I was talking with Bill today and at one point I told him that
everyone has been giving me different pieces to fix my life with.
(Though what it needs fixing from is beyond me to know). I said, “To
everything, Ian says I need a tazer, Dominique says I need sex, and
Sophie says I need to go over and make her Sangria.”

This binary ink is not helping. These words are dripping wrong from my fingers.

inspire me to poetry so that i may rest

In spite of changing clothing, the scent of the frenchman has caught. Tonight I sleep alone.
Fur catching in my hair, unexpected. Trees of darkness spreading thier
branches over the nightrid bed. My wings have caught the air and I fly.

I love the Dance, the steps, the thoughts.
How is it possible to convey body language over the phone? An
ordinary conversation, an easy-going patter of nothing in particular. I
hang up knowing I’ve been asked over ‘for the night’ without a word or
inflection to say so.
I may be a happy person, but it’s because I’m laughing at you.

Puppy, patter, patterns on tile.
I write this down to remember you by. The backporch looks over an
orchard. Cherry trees I want to climb, the thought of pie tins
flashing.
I’m too tired to think, to type, to write.
It will be a lovely day tomorrow.

prepare, my dearest, for I fall from grace

Anything at all. I have scandalized. It’s great!

I wish Marissa were in town. I would love to hear her laughing at me
for my first non-fictional infatuation. Her height makes me feel 
protective. I noticed it yesterday wtih Chelsea and Dominique. Standing
a head above them created a feeling I know from being with her. Like I
should spread my black wings and infold them. Safety inside the cloak
of my mans walk.

the language of relationships needs a kick of italian

I feel like burning a bridge today to go along with my undone buttons.
I talked to Bill for an hour after getting home. Why does my sorrow
feel so good? There’s a bittercoffee taste, but it’s he who hates
himself. I only am left with old, familiar hurts that I’m learning to
expect. Neglect ever and after. These grains of rice collected on the
kings chessboard aren’t drowning me anymore.

At least I know the last name of this one. Laughable, really, the
thirty year rule. Where is my mind that I could think such a thing?
This is your fault, my darling girl. And then continue. Ah well – play
gentleman and I’ll still respect you in the morning, but don’t expect
me to kiss you. I’m drifting too much and knowing finally what I don’t
need. You know I thought about it. You know I’ll come when you invite
me back.
Same game, different players. This should be a pay-per-view television show with someone sexier as me. I’ve missed this. The Dance.

a word for those friends that are as close as lovers, perhaps more
loved than they – a word for those fools that you will play with yet do
not care for –  a word for thinging  – a word for um-friends
– a word for those in between spaces that do not exist in storybooks

Well – I seem to have come home with a vengeance. Amazing how it’s
possible to convey assumptions into conversation that have nothing to
do with words or inflection. That must be one of my favorite parts of
language. The subtly altered conversations. If I start seducing that
circle of friends, I am so doomed. Dominique gets to laugh at me.
*in the dark surrounded by glowing stars*
“I was just talking with a friend of mine today about how it would be
be good for me to have a two week fling with someone intelligent who
wouldn’t treat me as property”
“too bad I’m not intelligent then”
Thanks to the world for beautiful people.

 I’ve come home to my fish and my computer. One is happier than
the other. I just walked down the Drive with Prospero, stopping briefly
to say hello to Ada. The sun is brighter than it seemed to be when we
first got up, blinking. I don’t know who else I’m seeing today, but I
sincerly am hoping to share another bed sometime this week. Waking
happier. It’s so alone otherwise. My double-bed feels empty, like I’m
trying to sleep with the wind.

“I thought that at a certain point, boys tended to grow up a bit”
“where’s the advantage in that?”
damn the french

Please Forward Far & Wide

*:-.,_,.-:*’“’*:-.,_,.-:*’“’*:-.,_,.-:*’“’*:-.,_,.-:*

The “Alice in Wonderland” Mad Tea Party – Sunday June 20th

*:-.,_,.-:*’“’*:-.,_,.-:*’“’*:-.,_,.-:*’“’*:-.,_,.-:*

*The Mad Hatter*
on Behalf Of
THE FOOL’S SOCIETY
Humbly Invites
YOU

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
To
* THE 11th ANNUAL *
ALICE IN WONDERLAND
* MAD TEA PARTY *
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

a pastoral afternoon of costume,
cucumber sandwiches, and a ‘nearly-serious’
croquet match

SOLSTICE
Sunday June 20th 2004
From 12:00 Noon
Until 4:00 p.m.

At
– – – TROUT LAKE PARK – – –
(19th & Victoria)
In the Usual Spot
/// West Side of the Lake
Beneath a Shady Tree \\\

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Please Attend
As ANY Character
from “Alice in Wonderland”

* ALL AGES WELCOME *

Bring:

a Tea Pot
a Picnic Blanket
AND
a Yummy Treat to Share

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

CROQUET RALLY presided over by:
THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS
*
CAUCUS RACE LED BY THE DODO
+
SPECIAL APPEARANCES BY

THE CATERPILLAR
THE JABBERWOCK
QUEEN VICTORIA
&
THE CARNIVAL BAND
*
Stray Flamingoes
&
Backwards-Running Watches
to be Expected

STAY #TUNED#
FOR DETAILS

Or Ask The Cat

*:-.,_,.-:*’“’*:-.,_,.-:*’“’*:-.,_,.-:*’“’*:-.,_,.-:*

Papparazi and
Potentatoes may contact:

THE FOOL’S SOCIETY
VANCOUVER, B.C.

foolish@fools-society.com
www.fools-society.com

(604) 444 – MUSE

*:-.,_,.-:*’“’*:-.,_,.-:*’“’*:-.,_,.-:*’“’*:-.,_,.-:*

PLEASE FORWARD THIS
INVITE TO A FRIEND
Especially If He or She
Is a Fool

*

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
FINAL NOTICE:
In Case Of Terrible Weather
Tea Party Shall be Postponed
One Week
(Until the 27th)
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

I’m calling an older man and I have the appropriate soundtrack. I have the perfect young girl music to be playing.

I feel somehow diminished by noticing.

Sad little Sophie in her pretty prom dress.

She was forgotten, an “oversight” and not on the list. We left without
taking a step. I never even saw the room full of prettied people
waiting. I sat in the foyer, an empty twenty minutes sitting on a
bench, before she came out crying. Her graduation into real-life
bitternes a moment too soon. I know the feeling, the forgotten. I eat
my disapointment. I swallow it with it’s spikes and nails like hard
glittering candy.

With her and her friend, *she who has seen terrible movies of which I
can only dream*, we went to Blenz. We met a man with a wonderful name,
Burton Samograd. He joined us for coffee and went with us after to
Tafs. I think for us, he may have saved the evening slightly, though I
don’t know. He also left us with his bill.  Afterwards, we
fractured. Splitting at the Skytrain station. I waited at Broadway with
Sophie for her mother before getting on a bus filled with drunk people
having fun.

So no prom tonight. No prom for me nor Sophie, though perhaps she will
be along with someone else’s. I ran into T. Paul while getting her a
corsage to pin to the bag. He saw the irony of my going to such a
thing. he laughed a bit before walking on. It seems somehow destined,
in a bitterself way, that the evening was not to be. A pity as well, in
a way, for no SinCity tonight, no dancing at fetish night. I will have
to wait until next month and I need to go move.

Little by little, you will turn into stars.
Even then, my dear, you will only be a crawling infant, still skinning your knees. Little by little, you will turn into a whole, sweet, amerous universe, in heat on a wild spring night and become so free in a wonderful, secrete and pure love that flows from a concious, one pointed infinite need for light.

You don’t have to act crazy. We all know your good at that. Now retire, my dear, for all that hard work you do of bringing pain to your sweet eyes and heart.

We should make all spiritual talk simple today. It is trying to sell you something you don’t want to buy. That is what your suffering is. Whereas, my child, I’m afraid you still think you have a thousand serious wounds.

“I Heard God Laughing Renderings of Hafiz” by Daniel Ladinsky

who sent this to me?