Day: March 30, 2005

I posted an article off citynoise about Justo Gallego’s “Self-Built Cathedral” fairly recently and I’ve found out today that additional photos of the project/site/builder have just been posted.

I’ve been spending all night up with Myke, (who is apparently damned attractive, no really. I have pictures to prove it. His hair is worse than mine. I love it. We could destroy entire shops of brushes with our hair; with the right kind of weather, cities would fall under our combined static.) He’s half convincing me to come down to Ohio for a visit. Yes, a little voice inside my head says, that sounds exactly like something you should do.

At one point we were picturing how I would explain such a conversation to my mother:
“I met this nifty fellow on-line. He’s an artist, yes, you like that sort of thing. Yes. No, he’s trying to talk me into staying with him in Ohio.”
*holds phone away from ear for five minutes*
“No mum, he thinks I’m neat, apparently. Yes, he’s older than me. Of course he is. Everyone is, mum.”
*five minutes*
“Mum, I’ve been following his journal, of course he’s not a predator.”
*now ten minutes*
“No, there would be things to do in Ohio. He’s got a friend with a sideshow I could pester until they let me join. (Lemme send you a link, they’re all blockheads. No, that’s actually a term, mum). They’d love me – I have those pyrotechnics tickets which let me buy explosives, and you know I could make my own glittery out-fit. I think it could be a good idea.”
*this is where her head might actually implode a bit*

People I don’t know answered my poll with things like phone numbers. I am almost curious enough to call, but I think I would prefer to talk to them here first before doing anything as rash as showing up on a caller ID. The other thing I learned was that I should likely get this AIM thing. Speaking on anonymous oddities, however, who has been sending me the random Depeche Mode? I appreciate the thought, but I really don’t need anymore. Honestly. I don’t think I can take it. Bad enough that Daleks are attacking British Parliament.

The sun is blinding hungry today. I turned my lamps off an hour ago and the light only became more apparent. The brighter is gets, the more it hurts. The glare from across the street is already too much to look at. It will be a good day in spite of it, I suspect, if only because we can start a Jerry Falwell VS the Pope Deathpool and kids have actually started killing each other over video-games, so both the left and right get to cry verification today.

Things Not Saxophone

Tequila!

I’m desiring your company, I’m desiring the ability to stroke the vessels which carry your blood and pluck from them all wounds and harmful mannerisms. I want to press my lips to your flesh and suck out your pain like marrow from the bone. On my eyes are the memory of you curled on my bed undressed. Hands to head, I ran my fingers through your hair and cried. Everything is coming apart, tiny skeins of skin, water salt running down to wet your face. If I could see you as glass, look through your flesh like water, I could do it. If I could taste your heartache like colour. This is a strange little solo, drama of the saddest sort, my mouth pressing out breath after breath that I would give to you if only I could convince you to take it.

I want to hold your ruby pulse in my hand and feel it flutter like a caged bird and take the thorn from its paw. A want to scrawl a map of creation on every inch of your body, use the holiness of truth to protect you from nature’s most subtle fury.

Then I stumble again, the block that kills me, makes me hide and quiver and die inside.

I can’t tell if you’re lying, you’re so good at not telling me anything. I cannot claim that your love is not important, that it does not drive me to getting up some mornings, but every badly written word stabs me to my quick. Indiscretion is a hateful gift. It lets me know that you’re hiding still behind convictions that I’m not allowed to see. You can’t take this away from me. It’s mine now, a gift you gave to unwittingly, like your devotion.

Now my heart is being broken too. I can’t do this anymore. My soul machine is spreading too thin. The skin’s going to break and let everything in.
Spikes, darling, fucking spikes of pain.