Month: September 2004

It’s repeating, with more detail every time. Illumination from a barely open door doesn’t show me enough but to know my setting. Light glinting barely off the brass finish lamp on the side table. If I were to look at the stiff blanket, I would see that ubiquitous floral pattern that no-one has in their home but welcomes travellers into every hired lodging.

Holy hell. I can’t think straight now. Sex-drenched musky thoughts, dreaming of fingertips, teeth, and that damned hotel room. Waking to something worse, deeper. This is my bed, but I can’t lie in it. It’s empty. Trying to fall back into sleep was not working and oh terrible, as I write this the alarm just went off. I can’t stop my fingers from turning into claws, I can’t stop my involuntary curl into myself. Pulse. There’s a knot in my belly, a tender pain above my knees. Hell is made of wanting. Pooling like water, I wake when I get to the interesting parts. Desire freezing into the most painful hot fire. Perfect little dreams, the sort that seem to kill me. I’m not used to it. This is new. Open my eyes to pad barefoot and naked into the day. Insanity, these feelings. Does everyone get this? I can still feel you, in spite of the distance. Hands caught in my tangled hair even so far away. There’s cruelty here, of the most poignant sort. Poise an inch above me, waiting until I beg. I can see it. Yeah, you’ve got that soul. Don’t think for a minute I can’t do it too. Wait until I wake up, I’ll play right back.

I’ve just stumbled home from a sweet gathering up at Tara’s place. My SPANK BRIGADE sticker has been peeled off and stuck to the bookshelf. If I keep this up, I’m going to have quite the odd collection of little labels. Jen is leaving the country for her merry home Austrailia, so we got together to send her happily off. Elaine was there with Spike, and Ennis, a girl I know through Mike. Too tired to remember any more names now, though I’ve known some of them for years. Jen went for a walk and when she came back, about half of us had the stickers on. I somehow ended up being number counter for everyone. Sitting in the big round bamboo chair, my voice quietly counterpointing the resounding smacks that bounced off the walls. Crack. One. Crack. Two. Crack. Three. Maybe I should feel a little guilty as when it was my turn I broke the toy, a blue plastic shovel, but I don’t at all. The second toy to die. Elaine’s “Who’s Your Daddy’ paddle also snapped. It’s the little details that help me remember. How the little balls of chocolate crisps were greasy on my fingers and how the light shined off a silver ring shaped like a hand grasping that girls finger. I tried to trade the lube in my grab bag for candy when I left, but no takers. Candy I have a use for.

Earlier I went for dinner and a movie with Ray. He didn’t get the message that this evening was canceled, so we said to hell with it and went anyways. Zubees then Tinseltown. The restaurant was packed with film industry people. There’s a particular leather coat the men wear, I swear. I can pick them out of a crowd by that coat. We sat outside, sandwiched between conversations that had nothing to do with movies and everything to do with away from set gossip. I felt lucky we were off to Sky Captain. They sent us first to the wrong theater, so we missed the very beginning, but oh, it was beautiful. They even had dinosuars. I can’t think of one precious moment in pulp culture they left out. Even the plot was blatently foolish, yet still had that printed on cheap paper logic. I couldn’t stop smiling, not for a moment. Every few minutes one of us would punch the air in victory. “Yes! They did it!” Zepplins, towers, giant robots that didn’t look useless. Hugo Gernsback might have cried. Ray pointed out that the gun the hero first pulls out is the same make that Burroughs shot his wife with, and I wonder if they did it on purpose, it’s that well put together. It’s laid on thicker than blood. Don’t go expecting anything but raygun gothic with every stop pulled, but go. I’ll go with you. I want to see it again. Cocaine powder, right in the eyes.

Alright – I add my voice to those bitching about the new update page. An hour vanished when I hit post, with this text glaring at me in among the broken images.

Spell checked entry:
No spelling errors found

Oh yes, thank you. I feel oh so much better now. My mass compendium of links had no spelling erros. Yes, well – I knew that. Which is why I clicked on POST. This is annoying in ways that I have no words to properly express. If I were at the Studio, I would be preparing something to light on fire as you read this.

Ah well – for your edification, I re-attempt to share pictures… goofy people

Finally when I have reasons to go visit the Island, I can’t. Friday Daryl’s getting married and Saturday is Mishka’s birthday. I was just chatting with her on-line. We agree that it’s a very surreal thing, Darryl getting hitched. I remember when I met him, how he cried into his fluffy hair because I was involved with Lidd and not him. Why do boys always cry? We’re wondering if Lidd is in fact going to show up to the wedding. We’re wondering if he knows or if he’s alive. It seems no-one’s seen him since January or Febuary, and reports from then say he’d been turned onto meth in a bad way. Chemical addiction to add to his violent drunken rages. Such suffering in that one. I remember nights spent bruised. Sitting on the balcony, looking out over the city, I would realize my cheeks were wet. I assume the cat has died, and Sue the crazy neighbor still drinks too much tequila in front of her giant television that’s never turned off. That woman was a minor mystery, we could never figure out what it was that she did with her days. Always inside, except when she was breaking in to ply us with odd plates of snacks. We would wake up to the sound of her clearing space in our wretched kitchen. I suspect that at least once they slept together in drunken loneliness. There is no possible way they could have not. My mind can’t imagine a world that doesn’t supply the circumstances. I only hope it happened after we broke up. After I left him and the city and learned how to love.

Peekaboo was over today, looking over the apartment. That she’s also on Livejournal gave an odd perspective to it. I’ve seen her drunken pictures and she’s read my chicken scratchings. We didn’t have to sketch out some of the more basic aspects of ourselves. Some of the usual roomate interview was missing because, hey – this dyed hair stranger already knows. It’s a nice feeling. I can understand how religion must be a comforting glue. This person also. They write, they click the same buttons. I see what they do. Raise the chalice and drink my child. Not a secret society, but a community none the less. Welcome to my home.

My nails are growing longer, making typing a tiny bit more awkward. All the better to claw thin lines of red down your back. All the better to write desire. “Oh the way you make me crawl” Not, really, that I should be thinking of such things these days. Only result is keeping me from sleeping. Until circumstances make it happen. Then I roll on my tongue the secret names tattooed on my fancies. Taste in my mouth those fingertips that trace ice into flame.

Until then, architecture.

I’ve got too many windows open and it’s sucking my computer back into the bronze age. I’m just going to post the mess of them here.

I’s a sad thing, but happens to everyone. The guy behind uppity-negro has passed on. Every time I dropped in there, I’d learn something. I don’t know if the site’s going to be kept up or even if it could be properly with different brains behind it. Russ Meyer has also just died. The amusing twist of mind man behind Faster Pussycat Kill Kill.
We in Vancouver have a new overnight quest. One that will require a little prep, but will be worth it. We have to go here. We’ve an abandoned town within reasonable distance. A jaunt into a modern ghostown. As I already list trespassing and clambering as hobbies, this simply sounds nice.

IBM scientists have measured a fundamental magnetic property of a single atom — the energy required to flip its magnetic orientation. This is the first result by a promising new technique they developed to study the properties of nanometer-scale magnetic structures that are expected to revolutionize future information technologies. Technology makes me happy. Spreading information, go now, more. We the people, etcetera et al. It seems to be a theme in my reading. I suppose that’s what happens when I find something I believe in.  Which leads into this open letter from the computer industry to the music industry that is worth a laugh. This is also funny, though I admit,  in a less intelligent way. Maybe one with more insanity and less precision.

To go with the horses head, there’s these. Microbe stuffies. I can imagine a row of them on my windowsill next to Animal. Make my window perch comfier yet that much more surreal. Bad enough the x-rays apparently make me a “wacky neighbor” (thank you Rowan). I think I’m especially in love with ‘sleeping sickness’ Hypochondriacs beware. Not, of course, that we don’t seem to be finding ways to deal with fear. Of course, sometimes it’s good to be wary. There’s weapons out there now that I remember reading about as fiction in Mondo 2000 when I was a kid. In fact, if anyone has any issues kicking around, I would dearly appreciate them. I’ve lost most of mine traveling along the way from age six.

Bonus smile: Stephen Fry being interviewed by The Onion.

If I manage to laugh today off, I will be very surprised.
Unheard of possibility.

I did something once that I called Remembering How To Smile, though, in fact, I’d never known. Without knowing how I did it, there was no fear anymore. I got the Life, the Walk, the Everything. The butterfly emerged with knives out and glittering. This was Mine. Refreshed, I was part of myself for the first time in my life. It’s glorious, the strength of being self. I scared people for months afterwards, like to look into my eyes was to see fire.
It’s been faded for a long time, but I feel it returning. I can proclaim and I can fly.

I’m discovering people give me much credit I do not deserve. “Of course, you’re You! Why are you surprised?” I never knew. I am not as anything wise as I am accused of. Told that my actions and thought are admired, I am lost. I am not special. I am not unique. The Dance you so desire isn’t purposeful. It happens. That people say I should know better, that I should assume and expect a certain kind of chaos and joy, this is somehow a new thing. Information I was ignorant of yet tying into that feeling. That flood of being everything without thinking about it.

Part of it feels like acting. Partially it’s a widening of self. I don’t know if I can do it, but I do. I push and find no barrier. I create a space with my false confidence and eventually fill it on the assumption that I can. Bravado constantly cycling into the real.

I have been startled. I do not say Yes.

Tonight I had a fabulous dinner with Silva. Tomorrow I go to Seattle with Alistair.
How about you and me, reader, we go hold hands somewhere we can’t be laughed at?

Today I either want to be hurt or I want to be in love. I want emotion to sweep through me and lift me and tear and throw me down on the cement street to lie crumpled with my heart in my hands. For once it’s not raining. Forever this buries me, forever etching itself on my skin. It’s warm and quiet here, like a bath lit by candles at night. It’s not what I want. I want lightning and you taking my hands to dance. I think if I were to add your name to my list of phonenumbers, it would look like it had always been there. The ink would have just that tiniest smudge that says countless times a thumb has rested there. Give me a cruel wind today. Give me a letter the size of your fist. Give me the moment of rock crashing into water.

I’m waiting for Robin to arrive after school. Today is a day for the Boy. Teaching him culture and behaviour twice a week. I’m not worthy to be attempting to show such things to a developing mind. Usually I would take him to the poetry slam, but I haven’t been going the past couple of months. The room seems unwelcome somehow, with it’s crowded heat and whistling. I know I would enjoy my time, but there’s something grabbing my arm, keeping me back. It’s time to find a new thing again. My friend on stage, looking at me very carefully before launching into a love poem that wins him the evening. I don’t need that. Don’t you dare give me power. Don’t. You. Dare.

Starships should exist today. I should hear a rumble and look out my window to watch cloud white trail following a silver missile growling into the sky. I see now I ruined myself reading science fiction. I want my future and I suspect by the time it comes, I will be too old. Here’s looking at you kids, celebrate that you will know the moon as more than a mythology. I read recently that Buzz Aldrin decked someone that accused him of being part of a faked moonlanding conspiracy. He was weightless for the first time since the seventies just this week. What could that be like? Revisiting the future, the past. Every generation having a moment of “I know where I was when this happened”. Pity mine has to be the Towers. I want mine to be a colony. I want mine to be a shining spindle reflecting starlight. I want mine to be dirty and dangerous and strong.

I was up all night chatting with Jason. Interesting and good company so far. Always suspected as much, really. I had to stay up to babysit my downloader. I threw open almost my entire collection to be downloaded by the world for a fellow named Joey in North Carolina. The grinding from the tower was phenomenal. It seems that what I have is sorely collectable. It finally crashed at four in the morning. When I say crashed, I quite mean it. I had to re-install my downloader.

*blank* Just now I remember too late that the close of the Fringe Party was last night. Oh holy hell. Work really shut down the brain last night. I’ve been talking for about twelve hours with the internet and the only sound to escape me has been laughter. Now? Insert loud swearing. Extremly pissed off cursing with terms that would scorch earth in a more narrative driven universe. Take frustration and mix it with self idiocy and bake it until it is made of iron. Now drop it on your exposed brain. I can hear myself crying.

Mystery hatred in my own bloody mind. I think I just burned a hell damned bridge.