Day: March 12, 2005

I don’t know who you are, but I want you to leave.

Darren scribbled on one of my pictures today and I am beyond honoured. It’s just a little five minute mess-about, but I think he’s made something pretty out of something which was only the barest seed of expression. It’s now like soot was blown over something frivolous to bring out the lines of a story. Part of me admits to wanting to adore this man, he’s enchanting in every conversation we’ve had. Even on-line, Darren makes me dance with smiles on my face. Here’s his portfolio. I highly recommend giving it a look. These are what he takes time on and they are like flowers on a vine, swaying in sunlight, caught in the corner of your eye.

Welcome to the new people, again, by the way. I looked at my user info today and found the numbers had changed. I hope to eventually catch up and find out who everyone is, but feel free to introduce yourself. I love that there’s people here, sharing days from all over the world. It warms me to imagine the network we must create, that our section of internet is inescapably made of people, of voices, words and pictures. I want the world to be a little smaller every day. I want to be able to look out and see every continent we have available to explore, every view of life with a window attached to a person.

Here, have some music.

Plans for world domination were sidetracked by Christy’s birthday. You are all very lucky, I would have forced you all to become pleasure slaves in my palace.

She’s dreaming of green, waving like water in wind. Long sad drawn out sighs of filmy material, and it’s clinging to her. The colour is hard to concentrate on, it shifts from lime to something almost black. There’s something alive in the cloth, the way it molds itself to her is comforting and quiet, like she was made to wear this as a second skin, as if she was emitting it herself like a radio wave. In her heart she can feel her chest as a cavity, the ribs a blind cage holding nothing.

Michel has created the first page of our odd little child, Jesus Monkey Pants in Space. I’m intimidated, but my role so far merely seems to be splattering him with shreds of story seed inspiration. He’s given me the basic beginning, the first three pages which are to be sketched next. In it, there was the phrase ‘Satellite Angel’. It’s exploded in my head into a fractured image of the glory at the end of a cable. Vast strata wings of intricate girders and wire tatted together into a filigree infection crawling up the glowing flesh into a crown of thorns and interference aura. The eyes are signal snow and the hands are tipped with welcoming metal claws. I imagine suddenly feathers of shining crystal, a voice like a sub-machine gun, sinews like Botticelli painted old train engines instead of women emerging from mythical oceans. Glass skin contagious to touch, glass skin luminous as cream in evening. The mouth smoothly opens and the sound of electricity pours forth, filling the heart with joy. Singing wires, tonal emotion.