Month: November 2004

:one:
for my desire.

Dark breath caught, need separated by together move now secrets and here like this please. Give.

:two:
for my body

The strings that hold heart in, the Word. Pale earth moving skin senses stance mine, thick inside with stars. Taut soft breaking, a country, I shut my gates now it’s cold.

:three:
for you

You taste like a cathedral. Soaring woodwarm centered on a man tied to two sticks. Laced to the cross for three days, the guard wept as he plunged his desire in. Three times the sun rose and three times it set and on the third day the guard wept as he thrust his desire into the wasted body

I don’t expect a phonecall, all I know is that you’re not with me. It’s blinding, I couldn’t see to walk home. It’s cold here. If there is a chase, then I have lost. Reciprocation, I should have no reason to leave. You look at me and I don’t know what you see. I don’t know why you stood there, I don’t know why it was okay the first time. Why in our littlest beginning we were even and now it’s not allowed. There was nothing but caramel honey melted and wanting to. Now there’s pressure and only leather lock snaps. It’s a pathetic broken song, this sitting alone again.

I can’t live scared of blood. This is my medium, my glory that lifts me from everyday in into time. I count by blood as if every month were written on a wall with my careful bodypainted fingertip.

I can live with enough. It is not nice and I will not claim it to be satisfying, but it is survival. To expect more is simple bitter idiocy. There is no way for me to fairly claim more. I don’t deserve it, there’s no reason for me to ask it. To want more is always there, ignored. What I need is to be addressed, not what I want. It always seems the simplest way. It doesn’t have to be happy if it works.

Then comes my chemical nightmare. My onetime connection with myself. I would love it if I were allowed to. I was a painful fool tonight. It’s not my place to expect. It’s not my place to assume. I expected when I asked to be granted a little more to match my enough. To taste for a moment the lucky half of the deal. I’m sitting here in the dark cursing myself. There is no justification for expecting anything other than rejection when it’s all I receive. I’m going to head out soon, go home to my personless room. Needing and having nothing when I’m alone is expected. It’s the closest I have to normal. I can’t stay. Being thrown away three times will be too much.

Tomorrow he leaves.

Her hands are covered in little cuts. She smashed a glass washing dishes, not noticing until she found the counter flecked with red. Her eyes swept over to the broken pieces of clear glass, catching on the shard with a single drip of rust. She picked it up, “isn’t this pretty?”

I’ve discovered something interesting under my friends elbow. It’s a document, practically illegible under years of grime. Registration instructions from twenty years ago, grubbily taped to the counter. I’m sure it was once possible to read words around the middle before someone cut a ragged hole through the desk. No longer, so now it’s an artifact. I took a pen from his distracted hand and wrote I APPRECIATE YOUR PROFESSIONAL ATMOSPHERE in dark blue ink along the left edge. He was busy discussing air freight charges with the man behind the counter. Walking away, I looked to the walls for something to examine. I always do in such places, but never find them. In among the ubiquitous framed prints of generic art, and certificates claiming their legal business, one sign claimed “If transporting live tropical fish, the customer is responsible for the oxygenation of the live freight”

He came to her over wires spun of thinnest information. His voice swept into her from small speakers she suddenly hated for distorting this precious thing. “Love me”, he said, and she did. “Touch me” he said, and she wanted to. Aching to trace fingers against warm flesh, she twisted, willing herself where she wasn’t. Something inside cried for release, though she didn’t know how. Her hands are useless, her mouth unable to shape the words to free her bindings. Pressing her lips to the inside of her wrist, it happened. Something shifted and with a snap, she moved. Electricity screaming free, complicated molecules shining into the purest desire, the body dissolved into an amalgam of sound. “I never knew this to be easy. This is never what I read about” Another letter arrived on screen. “I want you”, he said. “It’s time,” she thinks, then goes.

There is something both satisfying and not about wearing thigh high fishnets around the house. Tie ups with PVC trim, they’re certainly fun. It’s secretive, having them on underneath a long skirt that sways to the ground. Secretive is somewhat sexy, a little self-alluring. The idea is to let the other person find out, to let them discover and then want. It’s all rather useless if there’s no pique of interest. Thence the Not. I suppose it’s the moon of month to feel under appreciated. Too much need.

It’s time to take things out airport for shipping. Time to slip on my matching gloves and slide out of the house. Sit in a car feeling not quite enough. Tomorrow I’m at the airport – very first thing in the morning. Hang out in the blue seat area until it’s time to die a little. Another I Could Go With but Am Not. Another waving them goodbye and damning my eyes because I can’t watch them walk away. They blur into nothingness, blends of colour with no meaning attached.

One day I’ll see my lovers, until then, I hope they send more pictures.

I have been reminded yet again that not everyone knows of the handy websites I use every day.

http://s3.yousendit.com/ – allows you to send large files. I use it mainly to share music and shorter videos.

http://del.icio.us/foxtongue – stores bookmarks on-line, accessable from anywhere. I’m newer to this and so I forget it, but I’m finding myself growing to like it very much.

http://flickr.com/people/foxtongue/ – exceptional linked photo space for sharing, blogging, more useful as anything yet made

http://www.mperia.com/ – a bitpass place for indies. A wide range of tasty music, all listenable without payment.

At any given instant
All solids dissolve, no wheels revolve,
And facts have no endurance—
And who knows if it is by design or pure inadvertence
That the Present destroys it’s inherited self-importance?

—W.H. Auden (1944)

What happens when we have no more heroes? It’s like our biggest secret. What happens when what we worship becomes human, when we realize what we idolize is just like us.

I don’t think we need religion, but we need heroes. Blazing tales of creation we’ve carried from the campfire to a modern landscape of silver screen stars. It’s not about gods, it’s about the way we’re wired. A heart to heart with heaven, “You’re one of the lucky”, it matters what I do with this. We are sad little ghosts, creating special people, celebrity trails of undiluted glory and light.

But they’re not. I had breakfast with someone who spoke in awe about my friends and friends of friends. Envy dripping to his plate yellow as the yolk of the egg I swiped up with my brown bread toast. He didn’t know the compartmentalizations inside my brain. The way my neural network touches these people. I didn’t have to care, but I did. I’ve seduced my heroes, shattered my poets. I’m Penny Lane to the world I want. Techno tart perfect, I don’t need this.

I am potent, I can conquer.

To my American friends, I say this, as a Canadian, I can offer you a little bit of freedom.
To those of you trapped, I can offer my hand in marriage.
There’s nothing that doesn’t say we can’t lie about consummation.

I still want Cascadia to happen.

On a similar note – does anyone know if I can British Citizenship through a grandmother? I loathe this place. It’s too new, there’s no history here, no stones to walk on. Trapped by it’s mountains and the small townies who think they’re in a city now. It’s terrible. If not, does anyone over there want me?

Is there a local Guy Fawks? Effigy burning might be a nice thing to do this week.

I woke this morning in the friendly room. Non-euclidean until I focused-put-on-my my eyes, the master bedroom is nicely lit by sun in spite of being in the basement. I could like it here, comfortable is cluttered with AV gear sure, but not for long. Don’t ask me to live here. November light is somehow more diffuse than October’s. Fill me with something other than this chocolate cookie and passionfruit juice breakfast. Bitter stale chips of political revelation don’t count. I don’t remember feeling so empty over a swan song vote.

Tonight is the house-warming/goodbye.

Sweet world, with it’s inconsistencies between reality and observation – I love thee like a classical quintet at a birthday party. Like the dark kitchen lit by the cake, full to the wooden rafters with humming people. Like they all love you, that’s why they’re here. Let them sing the song and be filled to the brim with their silly off-key trilling music. Someone will always be attempting to harmonize, maybe this time they’ll succeed.

This time, the cupboards are painted dark blue with white handles.

Standing in line at the grocery store with Alastair seems unreal somehow. My mind is so used to having Mine away that when they’re here, it’s like an artificially constructed ghost. I’m certain if I touch him, my hand will pass right through him without any resistance. Leaving ripples across his face or not even that. Like he wouldn’t even notice. My mental hard-drive is going to run out of time here, by the time I’ve encompassed what’s truth, he’ll be gone.

Tonight we’re spending at his place. The yuppie picket fence condo across from the park. The view from the upstairs window is like a tourist postcard named “trees aflame”. I’m sure by the time he’s done with it, there will be at least one framed poster on the wall and a black piece of furniture. One day he’ll come home to find I’ve done his fridge in some horrible fun fur fabric. I expect to be a slightly less generic influence. Young Man With Tech Gear Like Turntables plus Oddball Girlchild With Strange Aesthetic should be a good mix.

Off to movies, champagne, cheesecake, and Dominique.

Today my boy gets the keys to his place. There may be some cleaning involved, but his box he bought is now His. Today he’ll be moving things from storage likely all day. It’s only my dues to help. I don’t have to care about the weight of boxes, I only have to haul. Lift like this, nothing can keep me away.

The landlord came far too early this morning, softly knocking. The professionally polite knock knock flashing me back a moment to living in hotels. How hotel time never changes. No matter where you are in the world, there is always that brass lamp on the side table and the feeling that you’re only there in stasis. Spooling until the next location event collision – a reason to leave. Fluctuations are the bathroom amenities, what comes free in the minifridge. Check the lock before you go to bed, turn the knob, depress the buttons. Don’t get trapped out shuffling for ice in the middle of your foreign TV movie of the week. Something haunted in the always empty hallways, corridors with soulless carpet and little signs gleaming in yellow lamp light. Your room is numbered like everyone else’s. Even inside you can feel it. Anonymous places always and forever. You may try to scatter your things around: laptop on the table by the window, a towel thrown over the back of a chair. It never works. You fall again into the everyroom void, conquered by the carefully chosen plants, the gideon bible in the drawer you would never have at home. A space too obviously designed by someone in a brown power suit.

Yesterday the stones finally rained on the the studio from heaven. Icarus falling. They have been given their three month notice. I’ve never been in a more beautiful place, perhaps, then standing in the burned out half of that old building in the mellow light of an oncoming electrical storm. It’s been hit by lightning so many times you can taste it over the blasted pigeons. The feathered corpses were everywhere. They flew in circling flocks as we stood inside, shush shush shush. Hundreds of them, framing us among the blackened wood beams that no-one has dared to walk across and the once dripping twisted metal. A tree grew from the basement to brush the sky slightly above the remains of the second floor. Rusty orange razorwire, rooms that looked untouched. I kissed my lover for the second time there, open to the sky, to the flashing crackle of the storm. The whole world encased in gorgeous decay.

Wolf Parade is bloody well LOCAL! And they JUST HAD A GIG. My melody cravings require all of their work. I’m irritated that I missed out. It would have been a transcendal discovery in time for Hallowe’en.
figuring the lyrics