Month: September 2004

maybe I get what I need

There’s a hollow feeling that sits in behind your sternum when you’re left behind. Somehow an emptiness hangs inside where your ribs meet and fills with a cold heavy vacuum. Dinner was lovely, but afterwards I was ditched alone on a downtown corner, watching my friends walking away without looking back. Really, I know I am a fool. There was a game at my elementary school actually called “ditch Jhayne”. I should be glad I’ve reached Wednesday midnight without being stood up. This past month, it’s a record. The day I get used to it is the day I’m no longer a good friend to anyone.

Walking home I ran into Alicia, I showed her the ticker tape sticker on my stocking and she laughed. Made me smile. Enough so that I stood up straight again as I walked. There was a group of older gentleman farther up who stopped to look at me. A great seriousness in how they told me they liked how I dressed. “A good eye” I can only admire and love the gravity of their respect. One man, he bowed to me and another asked if I were an actress. Old world grace and silver hair who wanted me to know that I understood his appreciation of my head to toe plum. It occurred to me two steps too late to proclaim a time for coffee to the one who bowed with such civility. The moment would have been perfect. I should have called out a time and place. “Next Wednesday, Roma’s, three o’clock”. I would have gone too, brought dark chocolate for him. An afternoon of thank you. We would have sat together drinking bitter espresso in tiny cups, while surrounded by conversation in languages he would try to teach me a few words of. In the world where it happened, it was wonderful and I made a friend.

His secret was a coffin called DESIRE!

Drip, drop, the day’s showers done. Hot water with no-one to scrub my back, a sun to dry me of water. Who needs towels anyways? Nasty things made of coloured fluff. Leastwise I have somewhere to put them, hide them away. Mum and I moved a wonderful wooden chest of drawers from Silva’s last night and now I have clothes to put away. Silk and cotton have all but taken over the room. There have been some surprises in what would be considered a prosaic way to toodle through an afternoon. It seems that somewhere in the past few months I have collected more items of other people’s clothing than otherwise suspected. I’m used to knowing when chaps leave their things behind, so this is slightly strange. I’ve just discovered a gray waffle shirt, short sleeved with a V-cut neckline. I have never in my life seen it before. Could the owner of this unexpected item of clothing please step forward? I’m going take a big step and assume that it’s not the mystery lad who left behind the black long-sleeve, as that was size XXL and this one could conceivably fit me. As per usual, if I don’t discover the owner sometimes in the next two weeks, I’m keeping it. Finders keepers, it’s my bloody closet, what are you doing leaving clothes behind in the first place?

Sluts.

At any rate, I’ve caught up with my friends list to find out that other people have begun their Halloween planning. I can only suppose that September 7th is The International Day of Remembering That Halloween Is Coming. Indeterminable waiting comes next. My only planned event is at seven. Dinner at O’Doul’s tonight for Sophie’s unofficial birthday party. I’ve been told to “be swank” but I’m not very certain what that implies. I’ll likely end up going dressed as if for a job interview. Secretary office gray informal. It’s lush decor and rich food. Expensive and worth it. Above the diners is an intricate map of the world in muted colour, the style of ‘here by dragons’. Gorgeous, though my eyes don’t let me see the details. Sadly, no longer is it the place for Tiramisu. They used to create the most endearing confection possible. A plate would be brought with a chocolate tulip filled of heaven upon it. We would sit in leather seats in the lounge area, nibbling on the divine. It was a push of life, paying for a melting high.

I’m hoping Laurie is playing. I remember Tuesdays being her night to waft chic jazz through the room. It’s a long shot, rumour says after she got married she went touring the world. Ah sigh Laurie, we all were sad when you married. We wanted you ourselves. You and him. Bon Voyage you amazing woman, if you’re not there tonight, I’ll know you’re gone.

stop me now

I was discussing Halloween with Gavool last night while waiting for mummy dearest to arrive. It’s getting me depressed about the end of October already. My sincerely favorite day of year and I have yet to get to a good party. I find it’s a little like New Years. Somewhere in the city there must be some amazing parties, but I am caught in the party dregs. The last swill in the bottom of the champagne bottle parties. The one with back-wash from the drunken moron who just handed it to you, just about setting your silver painted hair on fire with his cigarette. He’s slobbering on a girl you came with, who’s been too blasted to be company for a good three hours. Putting the bottle down, you go stand outside to be alone because it’s better than this. You look back into the lit house and feel so alone that being at home watching television would be better. Bitter, I don’t even own a television. That party. Every damned year.

They make me want to steal a car and just drive at night. Keep going until I hit a city that isn’t this one. Drive until the sun comes up and find out where I am. I’m considering leaving the city for Halloween this year. If I can manage to swing another job into play, then I could save enough to find somewhere with people in it. I don’t think I could stand yet another painfully failed holiday. It’s the only one I ever pay attention to. I forgot christmas last year. Woke up to people calling me to wish my Merry X-mas and I couldn’t understand what they were going on about. “Isn’t that over already?” Like I would care. Give me a holiday that celebrates in the damned dark. No family dinner and a hellish load of candy. I want to carve pumpkins then make too much pie. Give me a day in costume and I am a gleeful girl. I twirl around and giggle. Don’t kill it this year world. Have some broken boned mercy.

next up: America for Americans

Quick newsflash. Italics mine.

Lott took the podium to blast Kerry, the senator from Massachusetts, and his running mate, Sen. John Edwards of North Carolina. Lott also told the crowd that America is fighting a war on terrorism, and “you don’t want to change horses in the middle of the stream.'”

From Salon.com.

No. Joke.

Can you believe the gall of these people?

Wag the damned Dog.

thanks to varsil

Dust, all my friendship is dust.

I love that my world changes. That things become other over time, the red shift happening here and now and open. Sometimes though… Occasionally I end up saddened slightly. I saw friends today at the Park Party that I haven’t seen in a very long time and I don’t know how to talk to them anymore. I stood lost for the thoughts, the words that I could use to communicate. I felt like I was fifteen and tagging along, not knowing how people moved yet. I wanted to hold my friends and kiss them for being so precious yet I could not find one word of connection. I was this close to them, that one I almost slept with. Twice. And yet, and yet, and so now what? How do I slip back into it? The psychedelic theorem of raver psyche. I’ve lost it. I need to follow the parties again. I need to be taken back into the circle and let the drums beat the vocabulary back into my brain. Dreadlocks and too wide pants and long hair and too much marijuana. The people I used to live with, work with. House of Slack. Living at Main & Hastings, our front door in the official scariest alley in Canada. Floor painted chroma key green and dancing to Rabbit spinning in the banksafe. The people I looked up to. We had movies and games ten feet high. There was family there this afternoon/evening. Grady gave me my first nickname. My first encounter with friends. I was the third member of Trypt on Media. The Ghoddess Canibisita. We would stay up lights out and talk until the stars drowned in morning. “I don’t know who I talked to before I met you” That bedroom in the basement under the banksafe, choking in the summertime. How have I lost his interaction number in my minds communication? I don’t know how to get it back. This is my family, and it has been taken from me. The neurons fire and fail. I feel mute.

My tongue has been stolen.

Save me world, from this crime of self.

sucking marrow

I’ve got my test, you can drink me, but don’t make me bitter. Don’t leave right after. I should be your heroin hit. These little claws should be your tether. Bring it on lovely, you’ll be my new toy. Be made of stone so I will not break you. Be made of silk so you are smooth. Be made of pliable substance, of life. It must have a heart that’s beating. It must know more than I. Taste this my lovely, let it fill your mouth. I’ve seen the girls, they don’t move like me. I could skin you partially with enough left over to lick. Dance awhile. Stay and I’ll talk like you. It’s been so long since I’ve tasted your tongue. Trace the teeth my love, send me the imprint in a piece of flesh. I stay waiting. It’s been so long since that little death. So long since I heard your sounds. Call to me, to the world. Tear into this chest, take my air, take and remove. Falling off the edge I’ll take you with me. The wind will whip. Snap.

You can drink me, they came back negative.

what awful things happen in the dark

I’ve decided Laurie Anderson is a cross between Peter Gabrial and Kate Bush. She is music for the complicated middle-aged. I’m worried that I’m listening to so much of it lately. I don’t know if I like it yet. I agree that language is a virus, but I can’t agree with three focus delay on someone’s voice for a full four minutes of song. It recently came to light that my landlord thought I was older than I am, I don’t know if I can afford more weighing down. “Don’t get me wrong, you look quite young for thirty”

I am too young

It gets harder to sign off. Tonight was difficult like it hasn’t been in awhile. He’s so very close and I can’t reach over to touch him. Fingernails would clink against the screen and I might cry. Salt tears to curse myself with. I’m already reaching the point where it’s uncomfortable to sleep in other peoples beds. My mattress is already off-limits. I will go sleepless to have his absence beside me. It’s physical, a pull of silence. I ran home over glass to get to him tonight. Put the ferret in the bag and flat out ran. The glitter on the street, it cut me in my carelessness. Stopping for traffic, I looked back over my shoulder to see that I had left footprints in the bloodiest cliche imaginable. He’s creating props for the Douglas Coupland show opening Tuesday. Up late painting and hoping I would appear on the screen. We haven’t getten to talk much lately. I caught him, but barely. My pathetic empty schedule is still varied enough to not synch up with the brief gaps in his full life. His internet connection is only from the studio halfway across town so to me his dedication is harder than mine, more effort. After all, I am more than used to saying No. Missing him though. It’s becoming too long. This is becoming a very personal knife I twist. The handle has been polished well by use and the inscriptions inlaid in the blade are all banal. We don’t have a pattern for comfort, we have scattered impressions and a strange interaction from five years ago. Memories of a whore and liar and the wrong street bus. That condo wasn’t empty – I lived there. Smoke and mirrors and things to live down, my darling. Things I hold over his head because I care and can. Because he lets me. I remember this feeling then. The worthiness lack. The not being as fascinating, as intelligent, as this person should have as company. It’s going to feel empty, my bravery. My assumption of tie and hold. I will be continually surprised when he smiles at me. Every last one undeserved. I’m slipping, the strength fading again. I need more to do. Another job to hold onto. My reasons for continuing are all parceled into waiting. End of September is closer than November, but pragmatic says November. Through a glass darkly maybe, but breath. Kindness, kindling, life right now is empty like an old warehouse building. I need a spark to flare into a waterfront disaster.

fireworks pictures

I’m almost finished reading Papillion. Gavool is planning on sending me another book, but I’m not to know what this time. He’s written a note in soft pencil on the title page. It’s a hard worn book. Tattered cover and broken spine. These pages have been halfway around the world and back in a well worn knapsack. It’s possible to tell by looking at it that it’s been tucked into the pocket of cut-off jean shorts for too long. Loved books are sweet to have. *chuckles* I’ve fallen asleep beside it more than I have with him.

Pictures: fireworks

could I get some light over here?

There were gunshots and fire outside the building painfully early this morning. My only complaint is at the time. My window was wide open and the sound filled my room. Crack. I jerked from dreams to see a hard flash on my wall. I remember that sound. Shotgun maybe, but the light? Too much light. I was up in less then a second, my hand automatically reaching for my glasses and slipping them on as I leaned to my window. There was a cloud of smoke drifting over from the park on the corner, but my modesty prevented me from sitting in the window alcove and perhaps seeing better. Time for a shirt. Slip it on over my head and toga the sheets. I can always put them back in the morning. Another hit and flash. I’m not about to go investigate at five:thirty in the morning. Someone running but away, no more information that that. I sat for five minutes more until the chill began to bite into me, then I fell back to bed.

My neighbourhood makes me happy. I only wished I’d been in the park.