Month: November 2004

Ripped from dreams by a nerve tearing alarm-clock wasn’t particularly nice, but shutting it off was. I was too tired to bother attempting to wake up. I was still too tired when it went off the second time. I knew I had a good hour and half before work, so again I shut it off and fell back into dreaming of streets and people. The third time, however, that I woke up, I looked at the clock and discovered it was exactly the time I need to sign into work. It wasn’t panic that set it, more of an “oh bloody hell” self irritation. Nothing spectacular. That bit came when I was rather forcefully reminded that I can’t actually put any weight on my left leg when I hurriedly tossed my covers off and attempted to bounce over to my computer. I will fully admit that it was a moment of unabashed stupidity. It was also a moment the dogs a block over could likely hear.

I am not going out tonight.

You have your caped crusaders with their epic wars and little guns, but this is my smoking weapon. There’s something in me that wants to write tonight. It could be that I’m stuck at home. I can’t walk right now, a cripple for a day or two because my dancing is hard on the body. I don’t know what the reason is, but there’s things inside my head buzzing. A thought about the girl you told her you loved her, but you didn’t. Was it lying if you thought it was the truth? We’re all lonely, you know. It’s my epiphany, knowing that. I’m in control now of all of you because I’m beautiful. Words and words and words, unconnected by maybe going somewhere. I don’t know what to do with them and I’m tired. Something’s melting in my head.

It feels like a resistance to something, something I don’t know if I can take. I need to be aware at all times of the reality of what’s going on. There is no slipping into reverie. I can’t let go, it’s wrong to. Pragmatic in all, I don’t get fantasies, I don’t picture scenes when I’m reading. I’m not sure why I’m writing this, but I’m dulled by pain and exhaustion. Defenses down and I never talk about it.

I’m terrified of losing control. I usually blame my father but it’s so much more. Every time I grab a lover by the wrist and pin their arm above their head I think how easy it would be to break their arm. Insanity runs in the family, it’s generations of seeing ghosts and demons. Our genetics sing violence. I want it to not be me, but what if it is? I should be fine for now, but what when I head into thirty? I need to be solid. We have a temper, we do. Thick and red, it acidly eats the hearts of our enemies, it stabs and kicks and scalps us of sanity. Mine is so far thrown down that I wonder if I can touch it anymore. I can’t be dangerous, I won’t let me.

Tomorrow I will read this and wonder why. Let me sleep.

‘Cross the street from your storefront cemetery.
Hear me hailing from inside and realize that

desperate youth, bloodthirty babes came with a bonus disk; New Health Rock. It’s a lush surprise. TV on the Radio covering Modern Romance makes me wonder if I should download some Yeah Yeah Yeah. I knew Benn would have a nice write-up of the concert, so I waited until I could link to it. Just a matter of time, like I know these people’s names? No. I just read their blog.

I am the conscience clear
in pain or ecstacy
and we were all weaned my dear
upon the same fatigue

Rumours are saying that there are less reasons to visit Vancouver now. I don’t know how to find a confirm for the information I want. It’s almost enough to worry me, but then I don’t. I’m not a worry sort of girl. Consumation reclamation, things happen when they want to.

we’re staring at the sun
oh my own voice cannot save me now
Standing in the sea it’s just
one more breath
and then
I’ll go down

Riotlounge says:
It is so odd talking to you over IM – you’re such an abstract concept on LJ sometimes
Riotlounge says:
I feel like I am talking to a book

“hippo-po-mon-stroses-quipped-alio-phobia”

She turned and looked up to the ceiling. “Sometimes work just never ends”, she thought to herself. One last drawing and then she could justify nipping out for a slice of banana bread with coffee. The sound of rain on the windows has been lulling her to daydreams since the early morning. She shook off the water off her coat and sat down fully intending to get work done today but the window has been continually catching her eyes. Absently she makes patterns out of the the sluicing waterfalls, drips connecting to make lines that form faces and dragons.

Shaking her head, she looks back to her page and focuses her eyes on a sheep doodle. “Another one?”, she thinks, “I have sheep on the brain. Should just go to Dover and get it done with.”

Six more days until vacation break. No more halogen lit hallways full of uninteresting gossip and too much paperwork. No more advertising blaring from her ceiling to wake her at obscene hours. Instead she’ll wake up as late as she likes. Slowly and luxuriously clamber out from under her feather duvet and splurge on some real maple syrup in the mornings maybe.

Alright – so the couple who had sex using me as a wall wasn’t so good, but the dancy man – he makes the world worth it. I’ve been downloading The Faint all day and flashing back to what the did with his feet. Pounding ankles, tight blue jeans leading straight curling crossed above the keyboard bowing. It’s making my day better. I woke up too early for my box of oranges. I look at the clock today and it’s always only (insert time here). It feels like more time has passed, it should be nearing darkness. City with it’s head under the covers, reading life with a sodium flashlight. Time falling into shadowy butterfly kisses of sneaking out before bedtime.

I miss my lad today. Not enough distraction. Blankly staring at a chatroom screen. The kids say my name over and over. I answered to Foxtongue on the street the other day. Add it to the list of my names. Lady Porphyre Jhayne, sweet Foxtongue Dreampepper. The ice-princess of memory lane, soda pop nostalgia bottled to go but bitter.

I’ve been spending a bit of time with someone lately. Another far off land, lucky as I can’t cut out their tongue. Another angelic epiphany bird, another dawn light symphony of this again. I worry when I like someone and they tell me I’m pretty. Preference states judging on merit, not genetic shuffle handout.

I went for TV On the Radio. There could only have been twenty of us there who knew who they were. As I said to Ben, I have never been in a room with so many people with bad hair. I was sneered at in the hipster crowd for moving to the music. It was slightly fuzzy, vocals not high enough in the mix, but still enchanting. The thing I will remember long past this, though, is something entirely different.

The keyboardist for The Faint can Dance.

I stood pushed against the stage not feet from him, the man there in the middle. Holding my place stubbornly with my elbows, even the couple having sex up against me was worthwhile to watch him. So utterly captivating I couldn’t looked away. I had to remember to breathe. I didn’t know people could move like that. I want footage. I want an hour of this man moving to music with nothing else in the way. Google says his name is Jacob Thiele.

I’d never heard of them before, but now I’m hooked. Ferociously fun distinguishing synth drenched rock with the settled hungry grooves of people who know how to make music. Tasty notes to throw your body around. Falling into that dancing because no-one should be able to twist like that. Balls of the feet twirling around, thrumming with it. I’m enthralled.

Beep Beep didn’t make it past the border.

I’ve got a half nekkidy boy in my bed. I’ve insisted, he’s soaked. A friend of Lief’s I met at the concert. It’s pouring rain outside and I can’t justify sending anything out there nor anyone shivering in wet clothes in my house. He’s under the blanket now, toasting up. It’s a good thing to help out sometimes, however unexpected. Tea’s ready.

I apologize in advance, but this is simply hilarious. I’m frankly quite in love, though I’m not certain it’s actually meant as comedy. Of course, I also can’t stop laughing during Sympathy For Mr. Vengeance so perhaps I’m not exactly a stable judge. Side note:  I also find the Care Bear Sacrifice sincerly amusing.

We’re Sorry is also sweet. Reminds me of the DPHumans Viewer, but sort of tastier to see.

Bones along her body show
Art is never far below,
reasons offers equal space
bones that glimmer in her face;
art is never far from where
reason offers up its chair –
art is never far way.

Phones ring out in open air,
ears deduce a message there,
noises fall into place,
tones that need no special grace;
letting half her reason go,
art is never far from so,
never far when she will play
dancing bones on reason’s day.

~~~~~~~~ Bones Along Her Body by George Bowering {canada’s poet laureate}

It’s been a time of poetry lately. I’ve been pulling it from my tongue like a magician with coloured scarf notes. Alastair wants me to write some of it down, so I will. Some of it, what I can remember past our taxi ride this morning when silences were filled by the driver’s Rod Stewart radio. Oh rhythm of my heart is beating like a drum with the words “I love you” rolling off my tongue tends to block anything made of water. Liquid words dry when you realize that however truth ridden you might be, you know the words to this horrid song. Somewhere in the background of your mind you can taste the lyrics threading along with the pastel drum machine music and it’s terrible. I was blessed with company that laughed when I suddenly looked pained. Understanding immediate without a word. Underneath it all Wolf Parade has been steadily playing. you know it’s the easiest way a godsend rescue.

So I go.

I bought a keychain and dark chocolates on my way out from the airport. I find something soothing in taking a physical object with me when I go. Something denoting that I was there and left behind. Equilibrium balanced in the simplest forms. A vividly coloured beetle encased under glass in functional clear plastic. Gold and purple, royalty tinted with chitinous legs. It’s a beautiful creature, perhaps from the same country the cocoa is from that makes my chocolate so perfect. Heaven melted over spun sugar. It’s addictive, this heady love thing. I had to firmly push him, “Go now”. I leaned against a booth and watched him as he didn’t look back, not knowing my eyes were following his scribble of a body through the harsh white hallway. I walked away satisfied, I’d accomplished my day’s need. He didn’t leave alone, nor did he want to go. I am well. I made the call and sent him off. Let tears wait until later when the chemicals hit past my distractions. I don’t have any now.

I have a new song to sing

On the bus back I suddenly realized I wished Larry was here. I’ve never met him, but I was flooded with the feeling that he’d let me rest my head on his shoulder and talk. Babble on about my boys while we sat in the back, rocking a little as the bus crested the bridge into the city. Gavin losing the studio and Alastair’s leaving, how I miss them, how they make me feel maybe that I could make something one day. Listen to him tell me about his sweet La Sherazade. I only noticed as it struck me as odd that I haven’t anyone to talk to in the city I live in. Instead I have this and here. Welcome home, me, I’m writing. Hope you don’t mind.

i’m so tired of being punished for wanting anything….