Month: July 2004

I posted this to freeloaders international this evening

Hello!

My name’s Jhayne and I’ll be traveling with my friends Mishka and Ian. I work on-line, Ian is a psych student, and Mishka is a classical musician. Our plan is to visit Stampede and come back with a cowboy hat and a painter, though we’ll be interested mostly in playing tourist to the Arts community.

The three of us are in our early twenties, but not terribly the partying type. Well, not that sort of party, anyways. *grinning* We’re social, but geeks. We like to stay up and talk about philosophy and terrible movies. If you ask nicely, Mishka may play the viola. None of us are drinkers, nor do we smoke anything in spite of being from BC. We’re all English speakers, (Ian speaks french as well), though are more than happy to learn anything you may be able to teach us. We’re willing to crunch up and share a bed or sleep on floors as we’re not fussy people. We’re tidy and certainly not axe-murderers.

You can find out marginally more about us in our livejournals at porphyre and varsil respectively. Our writing styles, if naught else. We won’t be requiring tours, as we have a few people in town, but I have to admit a nudge in the direction of internet access would be appreciated.

Thank you,

~jhayne

Another year missing the Jazz Festival. If I had Rehkas number, I would have dialed her it so fast I would have broken buttons.

For some reason I can’t get the last show I did at the Cultch out of my head today. The Artists Against War Red Cross Fundraiser, hosted by Felix Culpa. I suppose it’s running into Bill on Canada Day. He looked so broken. He looked maybe a tiny piece of how I felt that night. Running the back stage – something like thirty theatre companies – then a hall full of congratulation and animated conversation, and I sitting on a stool in the back corner. Staring at the pale wooden floor and knowing I’m not allowed to talk to anyone. The one moment where I would have run off with another man. Thank you, I love you, for calling me out onto the stage to feel the applause. He wouldn’t face the audience until I stood out beside him. I wanted to hold his hand as we swept into bow, but I knew Bill was watching.

I have something for Davids son somewhere. I think I saw it while unpacking, but for the life of me, I cannot remember what it was. Something I thought highly appropriate for a young boy. I know Bill’s apparently working on the new Felix Culpa performance in the works, so I don’t know what the relationship might have shifted to. Knowledge of our break-up. When I find my little object, I’ll go leave it on the doorstep with a note.

Today has been a day of news that isn’t. Mishka’s breaking up with her boyfriend because they’re not “soulmates”, Beth’s had to cancel on me so no Costume Party this evening, and work was supremely dull. Not a day of inspiration. Working with children kills braincells. Ther’s nothing immortal about them.

Now I’m sitting like some Nice Girl from the fifties. Waiting by the metaphorical phone for a boy to call her out to the Malt Shoppe. Ankles crossed with a hope in hand. It’s not an image that belongs. I don’t sit right for bobby socks.

 

Whenever say stigmata, I think of a picture I want to exist. Someone screaming flowers, bleeding them from thier hands.

“you are mine to do with as you wish”
damn fingers!
*grabs them*
Brain?
check

sunday is slow    +    it crawls on inane fingers and toes

*quick cut image of paint and sweat*
You are just never going to win.
I’ve gotten older. Sharp, sharp and sharper. Twist you like wire to make a silver necklace to drape upon a naked belly.

:then the snap of mountains:
I had a wonderful thought today walking home. “I hope that when this ends, and he leaves again, or I leave, or we demolish in some quarrel. I want there to be some place that hurts to walk by”
like the very earth under your feet
It made me smile

I have a table, where we sat and you asked me a question. I have every single game of pool and billiards. There is a bar that’s dead and gone and a bench next to a terrible coffeeshop. The suns painted on your cousins mantle, near the end. The fact that I don’t have a black pillow anymore. There was a canoe outside Bretts new apartment, and it was in the dark. Skin like paper, love. Pale and willing to be written on.

“smoke and mirrors” the other day and I couldn’t stop laughing and couldn’t tell anyone why

I can so beat you at this one. Which girl do you think Brett ended up with the night we left them in the apartment next to the skytrain?

red nailpolish “I’m an artist – I can work a brush”

Brett was an odd one to hang out with – like sort of a window into a Nice world. Joe Average, wierd for his normalancy
Voted most likely to get married with 2.5 children. Why wasn’t he living in Kits?
and Nat? my portait of him? I dunno – empty angel playing with pencils maybe.  Pretty, pointless, and a lack of someone

I felt something die when it hit me. No one knew me. Or anything in my head or anything about me before 2000
I think I’m lucky I don’t believe in angst

It’s like the Enola Gay of arguement

I think I may have just evened the use of words. I may not be a writer, but you make pictures with pictures so stab me in the dark with memories, why don’t you?
I’ve got the crumpled paper in my head, the one with phonenumbers, the moments, the memories. You’ll just have to trail those words past me, and catch me like a kitten.
chrome and glass and the songs we played on the jukebox
I can breathe through the years far far better than most, darling. I don’t know about you, but I remember and there’s no effort. It’s all dead and alive all at once and there, at hand

My pity though, it’s all still capture images. snippets of film, unwinding. Doors that opened into the room, with the bed on the right hand corner. Coal Minors Daughter, and a metal bowl because we didn’t have music. You said your name coming back into bed, because I’d been restless in my sleep, and you didn’t want to wake me, except we were on the couch, and I’d been watching you paint a Five onto canvas, in a red circle. I asked why the five and, “maybe, if you get to know me better, you’ll find out” and I still dont’ know. But the shirt you had on had a little smear of red paint. I know that like waiting for you at a busstop in the dark.

I can almost imagine you sitting and sketching for me in a coffeeshop, doing this in pictures. Whatever you give me is more than I expected.

I felt that. Like a catholic part of my brain has decided that I only ever made someone happy so I could take thier joy
It’s untrue, of course, but I can still taste it as I eat it.
you’re catching my breath in those fingers

Blood and breath and tongue and bone, darling. the body and heart that pumps it. And the lungs the bellow it? the tongue that shapes the bellow, the rage that heats that air

don’t tempt me

I tried to get in to work today. I honestly intended to spend my hours in the cold AC, staring out at the damp city trains swishing by on thier magnetic tracks. I left hours before I was to meet Aiden, Nicole, and the Boy. Little did I know. I ran into Jaques at 1st, which led into Paul, then George, then Sophie & Lief, then Neriad, then continue until the trip becomes two hours from one end of the Drive to the other.

Now, after my day out, I feel I must have used up some sort of quota. No one on the way home, though Gavool on the puter for perfectly when I return. We’ve been talking the past few hours. Lyrical and cutting, I’m holding a fistful of aces. I win.

Jaques and I had some equally amusing things to talk about. We ended our conversation with self-referential gossip. “The Jessies were the day after, and I have to admit, I felt a bit guilty” “I wrote weeks ago that I couldn’t imagine what his reaction would be to.. yeah” Everything sounding worse than it is, because we’re Dancing smoothly. It’s a giggle, and a special secret. A case of my hands and feet being caught between my tongue and teeth.

These are the precious things. This personal definition of intimacy. I could tell you and you wouldn’t click into the moment, because you weren’t there. I could describe every action, every word, the colour of the cracked paint on the wall behind, and you wouldn’t understand the joke. Because it’s ours. I want to open them. Crack them like eggs to let the violently coloured doves fly out over the crowd like a religious festival in Italy. Sparks on the wire, let everything be seen.

Off to play the Ghoddess Cannabasita for the Nth year running. Time to strap on my wings. *grinning* I forgot completely last year and got phonecalls telling me I was a bad person from people I hadn’t seen since year previous. I haven’t set it up this year, but the last few, I’ve just been handed a large bag of bud to hand out randomly. It’s super fun.

2 pm – vancouver art gallery

be there or be lame