Month: May 2005

Tilda Swindon is simply a startling streak of sex.

Yesterday I started to feel creepy continually saying, “Mommy’s not here, little girl”.

Today I went out with my mother after staying up the entire night with Andrew, Chris, and Dominique. It wasn’t likely the most clever thing I’ve ever done, but after I yanked her out of over-stressing over nothing we had a pleasant lunch at Wild Ginger and she sat and nodded a lot while I banged on about technology, education, and the future relating to the internet and the arts. Half-way through I caught the waiter eavesdropping and looking confused. It was a bit of a heads up that our conversation isn’t exactly the most commonplace. My mother used to be extremely cutting edge, she used to be very much the futurist, but somewhere along the line she had kids and they seemed to have drained her of everything that made her shine. Today that made me bang on the table.

“What have you been making lately?”
“I’ve been raising children.”
“Not good enough! Where’s your content? Why aren’t you on archive dot org? Websites won’t get hits unless they’re advertised.”

When I caught myself using words like paradigm, soliloquy, dichotomy, and interstitial in groups of three or four to build my sentences, I decided it was time to back off a bit.

“Do you mind that your daughter seems to have turned into an art-snob technocrati with a hard-on for science future?”
“Darling, you were born that way.”

After that was a daring foray into the mother-frightening world of shopping. (And the crowd gasps, I know). She hates it, but every year insists on trying to get something for me for my birthday. Apparently this year the quest is for shoes. This I don’t understand, as I’ve already found myself up with the most minimal shoes that money can buy and I’m happy in them. It’s like being barefoot without treading on glass directly. We, of course, returned to my home empty-handed after wandering blankly into and out of a few stores in a scuzzy area of town. Oddly, I found a black number I think I want to go back for in the hooker shop. My mother, she shook her head and said I looked like a go-go dancer from the 50’s. I don’t think I’ve ever had anything on so short in my entire life.

“The only people I know from Sweden are ABBA and Ace of Base. Ace of Base seems like the obvious choice for weapons inspection: they saw the sign.” – marseverlasting

If you thought my room was chaotic before, then you’ve never seen it during a baby storm. I’m surprised at how many basic coloured chunks of plastic it’s possible to find in my room. There’s building blocks, a lite-brite, and apparently a bazillion markers. My floor is a mine-field of markers, though for some reason she very carefully put every unused lite-brite peg back in the container and tightly closed the lid. It was mysterious. I feel my brain becoming as tangled as old christmas lights when I try to peer inside her brain. Somehow she’s not half as sweet to understand as Sam was in Toronto. I would have thought having a vocabulary, no matter how simple, would inbue the body with more personality, but I seem to be wrong. Naomi calls me mummy. It makes me uncomfortable. The thought of having one of these of my own sets my heart cold. I’m too young for this.

Seattle blanketed with wireless internet, thinks warm fuzzy thoughts.

New species of fox discovered in Borneo, furries rejoice.

8 year old girl tortured for being a witch, dispels myth of merry old england yet again.

food daleks.

shatner in the sky with diamonds

limerick dictionary

expressionless girl

There’s no playing little sister tomorrow. The woman across the hall has offered a trade, baby-sitting for food. Suckle these damned mouths for something for your own. I can do it. Right now it’s worth it and I don’t think it will interfere with any plans. I’m not due anywhere until 8pm as far as I can remember, though I have a bad habit of forgetting appointments unless I write them down. My life has reached a pretty point regarding that, however, one I’ve only recently re-coalesced properly. Not only are people realizing that unexpected drop-ins are welcome, they’re also keeping track of who has my time for me, as I currently lack a paper calender and sleep too little to hold any sort of memory inside of my head. I want Google in my brain, where I can get it always. My skull, the sieve.

My patterns of unconsciousness have been strange since returning from Toronto. Someone mentioned I’m on European time, eight and half hours out of synch with where I need to be. All I know is that I wake too early and dream too late. That love is absent and wondering what to do with itself.

I was broken once, I got better. I healed my broken psyche bones into an adequate formation and I found some peace and some comfort, but then I learned how to smile and I shamed it all with that. Smashed all the walls down and re-built them into colourful mosaics. Every single moment blew into oblivion because I liked who I grew to be in spite of it, maybe because of it. I may be a lot of things, but I’m hardly vacuous. The way I feel lately, I’m honestly wondering if I’ve just shifted everything again. Elaborate girderwork becoming more streamlined and less clumsy, as how the old rail bridges dropped in complexity as knowledge was added to newer engineering. My heart pounds randomly, skipping beats at the mere mention of what exactly? I don’t know what’s upstream inside of me, but I haven’t been crying lately. I miss Matthew, but I’m not scared of it. There’s no severe jabbing pain walking as my companion anymore. My loneliness is finally cradled in This Was the Right Thing To Do.

All these people drinking down the weight of desire, I look at them and picture myself baring my teeth like they do, sending my arms up to crush someone to me. It’s my birthday this month, a couple of melancholy smiling weeks away. Nicholas will be in town, which should involve, at some point, sitting around and cleaning our faces in sunshine with gelati dripping down our wrists like messy children. Michel is threatening me with tickets, a Damocles sword of Montreal and cats and finding out how his eyes must crinkle when he laughs.

Katie made something beautiful today.

When driving through Stanley Park yesterday with Brian, I caught sight of someone recording the passing ocean and mountains out their mini-van window with a hand held camcorder. It raised a prickle or irritation and I explained, suddenly, how I have very little respect for inert media. No, it’s fine if they’re going to go home, touch it up a bit and then put it into the media flow. If they upload it and let the off-chance occur that five generations from now, it will be accessible media. A “Hey wow, so that’s what it used to look like before the earthquake” sort of thing. Otherwise, what’s the point? They’ll maybe watch it once with some friends and then the tape will collect dust until somebody records over it or it gets thrown away. It’s waste somehow, there’s no recycle, there’s no use in it. I’m interested to know if this is a point of view shared by anyone else or if I’m merely whistling in some technocratic darkness.

Speaking of technology, Tristan left his phone behind at my party. He called it and a girl picked up. He thought it was me, but he was mistaken. They know who he is, but now the battery on the phone has died, he can’t call them anymore. Would the mystery female please step forward? It would be great if you would get ahold of him.

download: futureheads – hounds of love

I was a happy thief. I had the Futureheads playing and I’d eaten almost an entire bag of something called Milkfuls, which I picked up at the airport to stave off depression. I was dancing about, this close to picking up a hairbrush and singing into it, while drying off from my shower, (I’ve never actually tried the hairbrush thing, do people actually do that?), and collecting my bits and pieces for my nights costume. I’ll take my shoes off and throw them in the lake. Brian was on his way to collect me, there were only three kids in chat, and the sun was still shining.

Now I’m aching. It’s three a.m., there’s bruises beginning on my legs, I have the beginnings of a headache, and I look like a goth. I’m hoping things are better in the morning. Least now I’m home I can play good music. Somebody close to Isaac, smack him please. Thanks. It was fun, but not worth the price of ticket.

Elaine was there with Spike, who has thankfully extinguished her cancer. I was glad to see them, but I’m not sure it’s really the sort of venue we’re going to be comfortable together in. I’m too likely to end up wandering away when people are playing to hold a conversation properly. I didn’t like how sticky tacky the lilac vinyl sheets were on the beds, but I was keen to dance. Shake a little bit of tailfeather and all that. Regretfully, it didn’t seem to help dispel this black nasty frustration that I seem to have caught on the plane as if it were a cold. Next week’s SinCity will prove to be better. It’s a more welcoming atmosphere and a nicer crowd. Familiar faces will swarm abound next Saturday. If I can keep my friends from touching me this week, then it should be good. I should be able to endure cuddles without wanting to kill.

I could wrap myself up in acetate, preserve this like money under a mattress in an old folks home in brilliant cloth of jungle flower passion colours. I could keep on trying to run after the butterflies that chase through my stomach on my way to meet you, capture them in a net made from the hair on your head which has slipped away in my hands. I could dance in the rain on a sea-side promenade and laugh while I reach my hands to you under a dark awning lit by lightning under a fox marriage sky. There are many possibilities and they keep looking back to you and the pattern on the blankets of a bed that was bigger than where we lived once.

The internet never ceases to amaze, as proved well with this gem that Dominique sent me, Lion Mutilates 42 Midgets in Cambodian Ring-Fight.

It’s funny, people have come between Bill and I yet he remains My Ex. Like how the in between relationships haven’t impacted, never existed. He’s sound for The Center now, the largest theatre we have in town. I’m wary of spending time so soon into being single again, yet if we were even slightly more in touch, I would ask him to the fetish Masquerade tonight, Matthew having stood me up. It’s only a few blocks from my home, but I’m still feeling a little uncertain about going alone, more so because I was expecting company than for any more expected social fears.

As if to beat… nevermind. Nicholas found a marvelous, video on horse castration with black and decker drills, “Henderson Equine Castrating Instrument.”

Something is slipping away, it might be my smile, it might be feeling like I need to look after people who aren’t my family. I want to be able to talk to people, but their feelings have been getting in the way. It’s the season for splitting off alone again. Spring comes and everyone starts lying, pollen fills the air thick as wanting to get laid. My body’s remembered what it’s like to have a lover, but I don’t feel like giving it one. I’m sleeping alone, insisting on it, turning down offer after offer and making people sleep on the couch, which is weird for me. I feel sharp somehow, like I’m going to drop the mask at midnight and slice everyone to ribbons with the little knives that live on the tips of my fingers.

download: Emilie Simone – Flowers mp3

download: Emilie Simone – Flowers video

download: Kashmir – Rocket Brothers mp3

download: Kashmir – Rocket Brothers video

Well, that was a show. I’m not sure exactly of what, but the lap dancing was mighty skilled. The cowboy hat, which was a nice touch, is still in my room. Also, I’ve woken up with hooker red toe-nails. I just survived twenty-hour hours of straight consciousness fueled only by airline candy. That I went to bed at five and am already awake is a feat of youth only. Every moment of last night was nice, dedicated to good people. With giving only three hours warning, I am frankly intimidated by how many people arrived, even if to only casually lounge entangled on my bed. (I think the best we got was ten, though I might have been very briefly eleven).

thank you to ian and andrew and chris and nicole and ray and dominique and ian and ethan and patrick and navi and evan and melissa and beth and mike and brian and patti and matthew and tristan and karen and shane and angus and tyler and sophie and james

disclaimer: they may well have been more people