Day: March 2, 2005

Rowan‘s latest post was a gift. He’s written where to find two happiness treats I thought were unattainable in Vancouver, flaming coffee and maple fondue. Flaming coffee has rather a lot of liqueur in it, (Kahlua, Grand Marnier and Brandy), so it’s not something I would normally touch, but it’s worth it for the blue flame pouring against gravity from the cup. Maple Fondue is just that, and not for insulin addicts. A sweet tooth is required. The first is to be found only, (he says), at Poncho’s Mexican Restaurant, 827 Denman Street, (I’ve never been), and fondue at La Zizanie in Kits.

More things to put on my list of ‘things to drag people to’, obviously. To confuse matters, R.C. tells of a Masquerade party this Saturday, put on my the Work Less Party, so now I’ve no clue what I’m doing this weekend. Saturday has too many pretty options. The one with costumes might easily win though, in spite of the kissing booth. I’m rather addicted to dressing up.

On a more commercial vein, word say that due to a massive rent increase, several of the shops in the 800 block of Granville Street are moving or closing their doors. This means that Cheap Thrills is closing shop, gone at the end of the month. I would presume this to mean that they’re having a bit of a sale, so I would recommend hopping down and nabbing that must have gothy trinket that you’ve been eyeing before it’s too late.

As something not quite so local, David Gough is offering prints for $8.49, which is just obscene. I’m tempted to start up at paypal again simply to get one. I’m not a fan of fantasy, but his urban fae serious is addictive. He did a picture of Springheel Jack this winter for which I would have sold a childhood memory.

Also, ana is doing a bit of a clean. She’s offering these for $60 american. Seemed the sort of thing my f-list would be interested in. Just as this is. Motivational posters using comicbook characters. It sounds worse than it is. They’re honestly adorable in a vaguely dark manner. Nothing that will leave a scar, though it might burn a little.

Ironic that now that I’ve left California, I am continually finding events there I would dearly love to go to. TIM BURTON’S GARAGE SALE (!!!) being one of them.

Friday, March 11, Saturday, March 12 and Sunday, March 13, 2005
207 North Aspan Avenue Azusa, CA 91702
9:00am – 4:00pm
(Absolutely No Early Previews or Early Sales)

Previously owned items by director Tim Burton and his former girlfriend Lisa Marie. Designer furniture (Herman Miller, Noguchi, Knoll, Ashland & Hill), clothing (Gucci, Prada, Louis Vuitton, YSL), lamps, ceramic kiln, fine crystal, make-up, electronics, Tiffany & Co. Sterling Silver, movie memorabilia, props from movie sets and tons more. This sale will be held in a warehouse in Azusa, CA, a 45 minute drive from Studio City.

Goths Playing Poker and Kinksters Bowling should both be black velvet paintings. I’ve been talking with Brian for the past few hours. We’re discussing polyamory and the integrity inherent in honour. It’s still decided that I’m not poly, which amuses me because damned well everyone else is. Sometimes I feel like a bastion of olde world sensibility dancing to a tune no one’s heard of. It’s thought that sensibility will see me through, as apparently I’m intelligent enough to be trustworthy? It’s a good afternoon conversation, if we were talking in person, we would be lounging together somewhere with hot chocolate. He’s thin, but wonderful to lean into. I’m suspicious of compliments, I tell him, and he laughs. I’m brave, he tells me, I walk into death without noticing. I don’t believe it because it’s built in. That he can give me examples makes my denial twitch. I’m a cat trying to brush something off my fur. Living anarchy streets with no wrong turns. It’s something new to integrate into my self view. I’m stuck against the wall, pinned by someone smarter than me. Actually, cancel that. I don’t need the image of being pinned against a wall by Brian. He’s slightly too svelte for that and my mind far too amused.

This is for mckenzee who has broken his arm at the elbow and has to take time off from being a photographer cable guy.

She took the shiny tab of the zipper and pulled it all the way up. My flesh went taut and to distract myself I studied the way her painted nails glittered sharp and tear shaped against her faux leather pants. “What were you expecting?” she asked, “Surgery is over. That was it.” Her hands had trespassed, forcing skin open, cutting with a scalpel the skin of my chest. I found something erotic in the way she sang with the knife. I imagined taking it and making her cry, but instead I only held myself still as she broke me open. I was scared, trembling, though yesterday I was calm, dreaming quietly of blue steel teeth. There will never be a chance of infection. Yesterday is far away now, this procedure is irrevocable, the flesh won’t knit back. I wanted to be perfect. I wanted to be accessible. She looks bored as she helps me sit up. I adore her, I worship her. Now, finally, my lovers can touch my heart.

It occurred to me today that I would like very much to set fire to a house. Create a conflagration for the for the beauty of heat red and gold. Flames licking out windows as if the building were cleaning its mouth of human inhabitants. It would have been a home once, it might have been where someone grew up. In my mind I am removing it from history in beauty, in sparks showering the sky with new stars which wink out as they fall back to earth. Bathed in gold, we could stand there, you and I and I, holding hands, the light reflecting off my glasses, shimmering inside your eyes.

I’ve never seen a real building burn down.

I want it to have an attic. I want it to have peeling wall paper and wooden floors with crooked nails. There should be a space where the bath-tub used to be before it was ripped out. I want scuff marks, crayon on a wall, the parts and pieces of absence. For the night to be perfect? Musicians sitting in full rental gear, black tie. Four of them sawing bows across strings in long languid strokes and a piano to counterpoint the cello, the dan bou, the two viola players.

This house never had a white picket fence. Instead it stands behind a low stone wall, shoring up the elevation of ground upon which it was laid. In a movie, there would be helicopters and spotlights shining, piercing the dark to kill us with night blindness. In real life, the girl never twists her ankle, never falls when she’s running in sensible shoes. Instead she flies on legs like wind, on pistoning feet while she laughs, but there would be no reason to run. No reason to leave the flame. We’ll sit in the street eventually and crane out necks back to look at our pet sun.

my music and something webby found by andrew *pun*