Month: September 2004

from any one of the eight people on my list who’ve done this

-Think of a word you would use to describe me.
-Go to Google Image Search and search for that word.
-Select the picture you see as most fitting, and post it as a reply.
-Post this meme in your journal.

Entertain me.

Love is thicker than forget. Sweetness embraced in your smile. I don’t get anything that I deserve, I believe these days I get far better. I’ve been writing a lot lately though passion’s not my deal. I like the warmth of it beside me maybe and I love to taste the idea. Drifting because I’m tired, I want more of your letters. Enough to fill a tub with arial point eight. Cascading to create a bath that sizzles against my flesh like the most delicious honey coated bee-stings.

Finally home after a ferret preamble. Simple groceries took three hours to fetch, leaving me feeling wasted. It’s midnight at eight:thirty at night. I’m glad to be at my computer. Enter this house or let me escape. Living in this room without a view, darkness taking away the buildings and trees to replace them with reflections thrown by the nicotine light of a low wattage lamp. My in-box welcoming in it’s lines of text. Show me places where I can forget my name. The city was quiet today somehow. Muted. Everything sounded far away while we were walking, the whitenoise of traffic loud in the hush. I felt somehow that every step I took should crush into inches of peppermint snow.

I’m picking apart a friend, they’re asking to be the center of attention. Ian’s to be writing me a treatise on how I’m terrible, but I’m certain I could never reach the purity of this person’s PMS bitchiness. Our conversation’s escalated into the grandest of all battles. I don’t having chiming laughter, but she’s surprising me. I love our most bitter recrimination, how it’s cheerful right now. It’s sad she’s so far away. I want to sing a song to her. Stand tall to belt out something horrible. Arms wide open, I would look up to her pretty blue eyes full of stars and lay it on as thick as humanly possible. A lovesong likely, just to piss her off. She’d be delighted. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to L.A.

Yesterday was nice in spite of work. Dominique spent the day with me and Alistair dropped by. The tedium banished utterly. The children not tearing me down to nothing. Sparks instead, flying up to flash like a metal grinder on steel.

Ethan’s party was also a nice bit of de-tox. Wandering around in purple lit darkness, shooting at people with light. How sci-fi in that teenage way that guns bestow. My dyed hair goes a peculiar flat colour apparently making me an easy target, though the only person to do worse than Robin was Kyle. On the second game I came in fifth. Back at his place, we watched something called The Last Supper. In theory it was a nice idea. A group of liberals having conservatives of the worst sort over for dinner simply to kill them if they can’t change their minds. In practice, it was less than thrilling, but still had moments.

I’m on-line with an old lover right now. My dark haired angel from Toronto. Hair that looked black flowing down to his waist until he stepped into sunlight and it flared the darkest red imaginable. We had the oddest relationship. Never left alone enough to consummate anything, but always together. It’s odd to talk to him as he’s not on-line very much, but we assume off the hop that we’re still as close friends. We used to have an arrangement, that if we were in the other’s town, our current relationship would be put on hold for a duration of the visit. A long time ago I think the deal slipped away. I carried him away with me when I went and I need no more. He might be coming out in January, staying for two weeks on vacation.

I met him only perhaps twelve hours before I took this picture, and there he is already wearing my clothes. This is early, before the fire was added to until it crackled with heat like the Metatron. Huge soaring rage, fifteen feet to a side. The bikers who ran the party fed it with broken picnic tables and empty industrial spools. This was the night of the Widow, the night I remembered I could live. There’s a better print of the picture somewhere. Flame rippling into a curl above him, like a frame with an elegant top crown.

I wonder if I’m taller than him now.

Robin, my little brother. I think this is almost the quintessal shot. When I speak of taking the Boy out, this is it. Wave hello Robin, you’re famous now. Hah.

I need to not listen to music that tells me that “daddy likes rubbing up against little boys on the bus” right before going to sleep. “Daddy likes ten dollar whores and that’s why mommy left us” Especially not as it’s a lullabye. Very quiet and slight and irish. I’d forgotten it was on my playlist and had to pull myself out of bed to make it stop. To replace it, I’ve put on what I have to say is possibly the perkiest jazz I may have ever heard. This jazz tweaks nipples and gets the tail waving. You know it’s good when you catch yourself typing to the snare.

I had someone ask me a few weeks ago why I liked jazz. It’s too weird, they said, no-one actually likes it. They only say that to look good, to seem sophisticated. What can you say to that? To me it’s thrilling. Play of piano against tick tick shuck of the drumkit. Unique arrangements complex and hideously catchy. Plink, bang, horn swell here. I admit, passion’s not my deal. None of it in me. I like the warmth of it beside me maybe and I love to taste the idea, but oh! Music. Layer it on. Ice the damned cake and savour every rich bite. Get the hips swaying in circles, get those hands up and moving. Your head will sway, keeping time if they get it right. Ever notice how different musicians have the different groove? DJ’s coming in low in the shoulders, guitar players anointing the notes with their chins. Might just be me, but I think it’s indicative to see how someone responds to music. That woman there, she taps only her toe, she’s been in classical before, but that fellow on the right? He plays bass. Jams with his buddies in the space beside the garage. It’s in the way he stands, do you see? Clear as spotting the dancers in the crowd, clear as crystal. As simple to see as this melody, bending in the middle to let the other section in. Punctuate. Every. Last. Bar. Twirling music, long skirted down the steps with a modern Astaire. This has mix to it, this has scratch. Sinuous, solid, set.

newsflash: panicky ferrets will calm down in the shower if put on a shelf made of breast. However, attempting to leave them there after the water has been turned off its a mistake. Give them their own towel and save yourself. {she says with a stinging chest}

The nighttime is too far away. I’m stuck here with this plastic box. It has no brain. Fortunately, some of the folk who people this surreal place do. I spent a good ten minutes sitting in awe at this piece of writing. Only three hours to go. I’m working, but feeling particularly without purpose. Can’t even concentrate on science today. This is the kind of mood where I suddenly want to be practicing dance lessons on a roof downtown with someone who’s just had a half bottle of wine or dressed up as a brightly swathed fortuneteller with so many bangles that I jingle when I read the palm of the hapless shills. Something! Anything! Let’s go throw bibles at children from horseback. Last night was Kol Nidre, maybe I can find some recordings of the prayers on-line to sing with. Fill my room with the click of the chat and the raised voices of those who believe in something bigger than themselves.

< rant >Thief in the night bloody hands time. I’ve done the unthinkable even and picked up the phone. Returned all the phonecalls I care to. The rest can wait. Maybe when I was fifteen I would have found them attractive. Now they’re only making me weary. The next person to suggest going back to their place is having their head chopped off with something blunt, like their intelligence. What on earth possesses people that they want me? It’s moronic. You want to get laid, that’s more than fine, but don’t expect my involvement. I will laugh at you with harsh acid. Don’t hang out with this girl with such motivations. You will be frustrated and annoyed. Slip away you horrid boys, ease yourselves out of my life and into somewhere you can date. < /rant >

Perhaps I could meet you at the airport. Too many hours sitting in canned air, stand a minute at the glass wall, watch the planes taxi in after landing. A purple head bent over a paperback book in the reception lounge where you can watch without my knowing. A split second certainty that you should just keep walking, but you say hello in spite of it. You come up beside me and I look up to meet your eyes. Silence. “Hello”, I say, with a slow, slow smile that spits feathers. Perhaps, instead, you arrive at my door. I’m still asleep but the roommate lets you in. The bedroom door closes behind you with enough click for me to start waking. I don’t flinch as you press into the mattress, but I open my eyes. In the soft light of morning, I think I’m dreaming until I reach out and take your solid arm. By then it’s too late. You’re here. Perhaps it’s somewhere else. Perhaps I’ve gone dancing and I see you in the club. I walk up to you, my mask hiding who I am. Walking up like I own you, I take your hands, lead you out into the black clad crowd. Leaning my body against yours in the thick heat quietly, “Like fire, remember?” before I make you kiss me. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong, maybe you call me and I meet you on the street. You give a little wave when you see me and all the sweetness in the world is in that gesture, fit to break my heart.

Later, I’ll arch into you. Later someone will be on top. Heavy and smooth. The sounds no-one hears lifting into you. The ones you ask for, the ones I never give. Maybe you’ll find the cigarette scar no other lover has noticed. I’ll let you guess where it is. Now is introduction. Now touches lightly until the heat is combustible. Stealing my thoughts. All of this for you, spilling like a wasted life onto the sheets.