Month: March 2005

what is love?


TEEN MATYR SUPERSTARS!

Among the lovely things I’ve discovered today whilst wandering the net, I stumbled across the fact that Mt. Kilimanjaro has lost it’s snow. Take that global-warming-is-a-myth-ers!

I’m up late in spite of the fact that I told myself I would go to bed when It occured to me. James put on Wasabi though, “Quite Possibly The Greatest French-Language, English-Subtitled, Japanese Action-Comedy Of All Time.”. It’s Luc Besson, which is a bit hit or miss, but as he’s partially to blame for Ong Bak, I’m sort of willing to let The Messenger slide under the carpet and give the floor entirely to his more scintillating moments of cinematography, like having Jean Reno as a sexy french ninja take on the Yakuza with a golf club overtop a stylish soundtrack. Having him play DDR is rather charming as well.

I am thrilllingly in love with Moloko

I like the way your body slumps against your will at the end of it, when you cry out like your heart is breaking in a very quiet powerful way. I like the salty water we swim in, the bold crashing waves of here touch here and then now just a little yes. My indigo hair against your darker skin than my pale white. Just a little sad shoe shuffle, one foot moving after the other, both of us cheek to cheek. We’re dancing like the filler background to an old black and white movie. We’re not the heroes anymore, they’re over in the spotlight and we’re laughing too softly. The music would be something jazz, sweet and quiet and slightly tired. This is the recovering afterburn, coming down from fire setting stone earlier. Earlier was heat in the belly, hands tangled in hair, tangled in rythms pressed from hot bodies. Slipping flesh into empathy, slippery silks like folds slick. Shallows of lust on the tongue, vibrations in the blood – it’s old fashioned magnetic resonance. Picture this, this girl, how when she sleeps her fingers curl to cut the palms of her hands as she tries to pull your ghost inside of her.

to match with this

an essential boil down sentence

I feel almost well today but for the thick woolen pad of idiocy muffling my thoughts and the thick black-brown underneath my fingernails. I close my eyes and no longer feel dizzy. I’m winning out against this and it cheers me. I talked to Brian for a few hours last night, his recommendation was to wallow in it. Embrace my sickness and give it everything it asks for. We were discussing the judgments that spring up in relationships, how it’s always a choice to pay for things with emotion. “Don’t do it. It’s never worth it.” Right before he hung up, he said, “I want things to be easy for you.” which is one of those statements which cuts through anything I might be thinking about. It’s one of the sincere expressions of care. I said thank you, and thank you, and thought to myself, “how is it that such people care for me so much? what is it that I’m doing so right?” I slipped into sleep wondering and happy, buoyed up by that one little sentence, then the phone rang. It was a blank sky morning and Jenn was calling, confirming my coming over. I’m going to help clean a bit before her wedding. There is a party at her house Thursday night which is being partially usurped as Ray‘s birthday, (which is really today).

Happy Birthday Lovely Ray!

It’s not overcast, it’s more than that, gray with no fluctuation as far as the eye can grasp. I think, dress warmly kitten, this day wants to bite your ankles, and I imagine snow, how I miss snow, how much fun it would be to leave the house and have white ground crunch beneath my feet. I suppose I woke today thinking Toronto thoughts, thinking of orange vans and motorcycles, of lightning storms and five in the morning chinese food, of coffeehouse murals and dancing on the streets barefoot in the middle of the day. It’s the gray sky today, because in the summer there the sun creates fog from the lake, a roiling cloud to splinter the light into a million muggy rainbows. It creates a pale sky over downtown that you can see by the perspiration slick on your skin, by the way your hair doesn’t quite dry from the shower for another three hours.

wonders ceasing tied up like a little girl in pyjamas in her blanket

Last night I felt like my mind was dying. Hallucinations kicked in and made for little sleep. I felt my skin was too small and that the raw blue bones in my fingers were protruding. Every time my fingernails tapped against something, it was the bone clicking, sending waves of terrible sensation up into my arms and tongue. When Matthew came over today, we curled up into each other like withered burning leaves and slept.

Today I found out something new about my building. (The cliches keep piling up). I finally confirmed that the one armed man across the hall from the hookers downstairs who stole our corkscrew is a war vet. However, he’s german, a WWII veteran, and he wasn’t on the side of the Allies. I’m not sure how I feel about this, past my relief that such ideals are not automatically contagious. My personal aesthetic says that if naught else, it’s simply another reason to like living here. I think all young people should live in such buildings at some point. The wildlife is colourful and appropriate for late night foreign films.

(It’s atrocious, but I would like to think that sometimes he gets the black uniform out and cries over little eagle shaped medals and a picture of a french girl in the blue light of his telly at three in the morning. You know, just to keep cultural form.)

memery in the pursuit of understanding this audience thing

cuff off


Nicole
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

I like that I can take decent pictures with no warning whatsoever. I like that I’ve now proven to myself that I can rig myself a decent fake studio with my table lamps and some mirrors. Nothing as special or nice as The Thought Project, but it’s enough for me. Nicole was talking about how for a period of three years, she had no pictures of herself, and I agreed that it’s a shame. I think it’s a gift to see the changes, to chart the evolution of our outsides. I sent these to her tonight, the whole set. There weren’t very many, as my camera was running out of batteries, but a handful were enough for us. This family takes a picture of themselves every year.

I have jazz playing now and I’m wondering what’s wrong with my messenger and my mail and the ferret is gamboling all over my bed in joy. (I gave him some raspberry gelati). All today I’ve been hunting through my cupboards, trying to find him something to eat, as I’m out of ferret food, and due to the rather staggered nature of guests arriving, I didn’t have an hour to drag him to the shop for his regular pellets. Tomorrow the little creature is the first thing priority. He deserves a walk outside finally, his first in months, and a visit to the park. Winter is over here, the sun shines in the day and the rains have melted away into trees of flower blossom.

I’m a student, I suppose

I captain a ship which is letting water from holes left after a storm. The wind stress blew through me and it’s made my hard bones brittle. Now it’s hard to breathe in spite of the blue skies shouting calm into my brain. The tip of my tongue carries bitterness with the taste of love, it’s like passionfruit raw from the peel. I’m not used to this sort of pressure, this depth of feeling. I wonder if there’s something wrong with me that I make myself sick when there’s something wrong. I used to bottle things up to toss in the ocean, spinning messages to arc over my head until it hit the waves. I watched the problems float through water until they’re out of sight, and it’s like that every day. The more dolorous moments simply don’t stay, I smile instead. I catch amusement like a disease. This was different, this time it kept itself inside me even though I tried to talk about it. My throat is raw from calling out to nothing, echoes blasting my ears into the silence of alone in the house, alone in the world. This may be some days recovering. It’s begun. I’ve started coughing up thick poison.

Would the females present would please step forward and let me know if it is usual to kick off a period when under stress? There’s been blood, just enough for me to know I’m bleeding, but it’s an entire week early, when my last was a full week late. I’m not used to stress so I don’t know what to expect. So far I’ve just become strangely ill. I tend to lead a mild and cheerful life. The little things get me sometime, like they do everyone, but they tend not to impact too deeply. This is a new experience, mind dulling and uncomfortable.

there’s something happening here

His words are repeating and repeating, found in the warp of everything like razorwire book binding. His skin cuts me, the breath burns. In the back of my throat is sandpaper, scraping free every word that leaves my mouth of care. I don’t know why this bothers me so deeply. My body rejects him and twists me away. This is being stricken, a word I thought existed merely on page. I met and liked an Angel, she carries aspects of kindness. For the chosen I carry only respect, but I was misinformed on some of the choosing, the choices, and I do not agree. I should rather live in a barrel then go with a lit lamp in darkness, looking for an honest man. I draw battle lines for equal treatment, whatever the saga of who is king of our painted hill. This other does not seem to carry qualities that I could hold dear, no, and this is a weight, pushing downward, the affect compacting. I can’t imagine conversation with these demonstrated traits, this is not what I signed on for. There is no regard. Late to the game, there is no negotiation, I know, I’m not a piece in place to do so, this travels beyond me. Strength of feeling kneecaps me, takes my pleasure from me and transmits pain. One paragraph makes me fall to my knees in the shower and die. Under water sounds, no one can hear me keen. I cried into the long hair of five friends on Saturday, they let me and never asked a question. There is a difference between trusting, opening self up to arrangement, then finding suddenly it was built on misunderstood information. The pistons misfire, the signal misdirects. My reflex hits, telling me away and not here, I am wrong to want this. Into my life has crept a thief.