Month: March 2006

Once seen, perhaps never forgotten

May I present to you, a “Monument to Pro-Life: The Birth of Sean Preston“:

A nude Britney Spears on a bearskin rug while giving birth to her firstborn marks a ‘first’ for Pro-Life. Pop-star Britney Spears is the “ideal” model for Pro-Life and the subject of a dedication at Capla Kesting Fine Art in Brooklyn’s Williamsburg gallery district, in what is proclaimed the first Pro-Life monument to birth, in April.

Dedication of the life-sized statue celebrates the recent birth of Spears’ baby boy, Sean, and applauds her decision of placing family before career. “A superstar at Britney’s young age having a child is rare in today’s celebrity culture. This dedication honors Britney for the rarity of her choice and bravery of her decision,” said gallery co-director, Lincoln Capla. The dedication includes materials provided by Manhattan Right To Life Committee.

The monument also acknowledges the pop-diva’s pin-up past by showing Spears seductively posed on all fours atop a bearskin rug with back arched, pelvis thrust upward, as she clutches the bear’s ears with `water-retentive’ hands.

Capla Kesting denies the statue was developed from a rumored bootleg Britney Spears birth video. The artist admits to using references that include the wax figure of a pole-dancing Britney at Las Vegas’ Madame Tussauds and `Britney wigs’ characterizing various hairstyles of the pop-princess from a Los Angeles hairstylist. And according to gallery co-director, David Kesting, the artist studied a bearskin rug from Canada “to convey the commemoration of the traditional bearskin rug baby picture.”

hypatia shoes looking to act as a gallery

This is a call out to local artists, pass it on.

The shop I manage, Hypatia Shoes, is looking to act as a gallery for appropriately themed paintings and framed photography. The space available is approximately 3 feet by 10. It’s high on the walls, though space for small prints may be found. Commission rates start at 15% and pieces may be left up for a month of more, depending.

Images with gothic themes or alternative models are welcome, as are any with creative use of sexuality. We are looking for tasteful, subtle, more artistic, less pornographic, but some nudity is acceptable. Anything not pg-16 will be discounted.

We are also looking to sell clothing from local designers on a consignment basis.

If you’re interested, please either call or drop by the shop Monday to Friday, 11 a.m. to 6 p.m.
We’re located at 1340 Davie Street and our phone number is 604.688.4862.

oderint dum metuant (let them hate, provided that they fear)


anima/animus
Originally uploaded by sucitta.

Waving from the road to dreaming, I fell into bed and didn’t catch the last thing Brian said to me. I heard “the nightly practicing for death” but that couldn’t have been it. I think I was asleep before he left. Those words were just my own brain haranguing me.

video: emilie simon – flowers

Sleep felt suffocating but required. I haven’t been very good at it lately. Instead it’s middle of the night and I can’t sleep. I’ve signed off-line, I’ve curled in my bed under the covers, book in hand, but I can’t read. Instead I catch myself unable to focus, to concentrate. My eyes scan a page twice before I give up and finally lay it down. I get up, I stretch into a coat, leave my apartment for the hall, go up a floor, and climb the ladder upstairs, breaking the lock on the trapdoor if I have to. (I bring a knife for this in my pocket). I stand on the cold black gravel until my body protests, then I leave. I climb down the ladder, put the trapdoor in place, and go back to bed. It doesn’t help. I don’t know why I do it. There’s just an essential need for escape, for change.

video: emilie simon – live in concert

Middle of the night and there’s a man next to me, tangled around me long and warm. I pause, hold myself still while I try to conceive of who the hell that could be. Yesterday kicks in, leads me to understand it’s my friend, that my heart may beat again, that my nails may sheathe. Middle of the night and there’s no roof here, no grand cascade of jeweled pillows, no ferret curled up on the floor. Instead of dark, the sheets are white, they smell like home, like him. His hair tickles a little and I carefully brush it aside. I don’t want to wake him. I would not miss this for the world. In fact, I know that’s the sacrifice. Tomorrow will burn me, tomorrow real life will begin again. A door opens and six close, pulled so by the wake of wind that’s blowing through our actions as he moves in his sleep and pulls me close to him.

Today I received a warning letter from Flickr, informing me that my Flickr PRO account will expire on Tuesday, April 18.
I had to read it twice, because it pained me to think it was so soon spring again.

the party awaits our favour



Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

video: sexually threatening black-light weasels

She kissed him quickly like a thief. She kissed him and the warmth of his lips momentarily distracted her, the temptation to leave them there was like a red rose left on the grave of her previous relationship. Red like the torn velvet of her tongue, her threatening inclinations to bleed poetry and verse. She shrugged it off as the easy way out, as uninteresting and unfufilling. She was tricky in bed, he would probably flounder his way to uninteresting climax then fall asleep kissing her breasts as if she liked that sort of thing. Her knowledge was an armoured car following tracks laid down by years of Leda-and-the-swan Stockholm syndrome relationships. It was hard and brittle as glass. He was not enough to shatter it.

video: Super Furry Animals – It’s not the End of the World?

Party tonight and my apartment’s still a minor disaster. I set aside last night to clean up but someone came over a day early by accident and swallowed all my time. They left around midnight and my lack of proper feeding put me to bed too soon after to get anything done. There are dishes left, minimal, and a floor buried under a complicated multi-coloured cloth pile. A livingroom that needs a sweep or a vaccuum, and I need to take a shower. I was caught in a hurricane of dust in the back room earlier and my neck still itches. I invision myself answering the door still dripping from the shower, towel in one hand broom in the other. It could happen. I still have to pick up the cake and carry it safely home on transit.

“I will see you again”


a spur of the moment decision
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

video: Royksopp – What Else Is There?

He was a broken angel, a stunningly beautiful boy sitting on a saxophone case on the side of the road. Purple hat, bottle green pants, blue leather shoes. We nodded, one eccentric to the other, and he spoke to me in french. I remembered him, later, from so many years ago that I might have been a different height.

I stood on a table and shouted last week. “This is your only proven chance. The Right Thing is to be, not some societal structured decision on what’s polite.” I hadn’t felt anger like that in so long. I had forgotten. My voice, it snapped off the tips of the words. Hot words. “Do what you need to do now, there is no later.”

I think I’m going to bring him home with me. A bad idea, but a necessary one. When the chemical conversion has finished, I will either be snuffed out or unrequired, but this is the time I have. It’s rare to find people as scraped hollow as I am. He’s going to be a father in a few days to a child he didn’t want. Roe VS Wade for men.

He called me Pandora, the man I shouted at. I love him more than I should be allowed. Traditionally, Pandora was a poisoned gift for man, sent by the gods to punish the theft of fire. Beautiful, deft, clever, and with a talent for healing, still it was her blessing of mischievous curiosity that brought worry to the world, not her grace.

He is one of the people, precious and rare, who bring fire. I would hate to follow history, but I worry that I will. Last night as I walked home the nine o’clock gun sounded like storm heavy thunder. I had sat with the boy for two hours, his heart a black shuttered star, still guttering, else I would not have been there.

When I left, I poured barefoot into the night. When I left, he closed the door. When I left, I said “Good night, sweet prince, dream well. The world is still waiting for you.”

When I had dangerously opened my dowry, my carved box, I had tasted faith.

the day cain slew abel

There’s a graffiti sticker on the cross-walk button at Davie and Jervis that I press every morning on my way to work. It’s a small cartoon man with a hard on and a blank speech balloon. Every day while I’m waiting for the light, I write another message in the empty space. REMEMBER THAT SHE’S IN LOVE WITH YOU. And every day it’s erased by rain. I HAVE A SCHEDULE TO KEEP. Always in sharp blue ink. MEMORIZE HIS FACIAL FEATURES. I feel like maybe I’m waiting to find out which one’s the right answer. THERE MUST BE SOMETHING TERRIBLY WRONG WITH ME. So far, nothing. The next day, it’s wiped clean. PROMISE THE GIRL A GRAND ENTRANCE. I have to try again.

STOP ASSUMING IT’S THE WRONG DECISION.

These small moments, tied tight to sailing and dancing and metaphor, these miniature dramatic acts that crash down from the aether to remind us that we live, these in love and hating it, in pain and digesting the chest crushing constriction of too much stress, too much breathing, these times of end times, of just in time, of coming closer, of kissing bitterly or gently saying no moments, these glorious debilitating moments thrown to the bed, to the rain, to the romantics, I either need more of them or I need them to stop. The crashes afterward, it feels like that’s all my life is being constructed from. Alone on a street, I stop and I stare upwards and lose twenty minutes of my life. Again.

what is it you plan to do with your one
&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp wild and precious life? ~ mary oliver

Hush, the cars drive by. Shush, close your eyes. No more silence, this is the city. All of our eyes are on the clock, we’re giving it time. Schedules flying. I’m too tired. I haven’t been paying attention. A collection of solitary Man Ray photograph moments. Her tears are made of glass, her eyes are made of yesterday’s favourite songs. Hysteria seems like a waste of time – there will always be a fire in the forest. How else to clear out the undergrowth? Outside there is sunshine.

SHE WANTS TO MATTER. &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp

IT’S IMPORTANT TO BE HAPPY.

Ides of March, perfectly the day after Pi.

He sounds like a man who would nervously laugh when you turned him down.

Darling Thomas, I left you like bragging rights, like the falling end of winter. A tongue full of stars could not explain how kind your eyes were, how when you winked at me, I very suddenly understood exactly what you meant. Dried memories read from broken electric pages, light spilling in soft s-curves from your lips, the consonants ticking like rain on the window, that was my favourite. Lying in a transitional place scraped free of complications, your whispering to me felt akin to holding my hand over a precipice.


entry
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

She sounds like a girl who wouldn’t remember your name the week after.

We are a strange language, affectionate, improbable, and temporary, more a comprehension of melody than a general theme, bridging the artificial gap between where we are and where we’d rather be. Dreams of fractal social interaction, the idea that happiness is possible. Mathematics would deny our existence, stating us as too improbable according to our friends, (Aesop’s fables ignore us), but by candle-light, we carry the sun unmarked in our teeth. The lights off, it’s cats purring instructions on how to build the world a better and faster moon. Clear as a dancefloor, we are unexpected brass mirrors of old-fashioned magnetism, the current underneath the world that explains to blood which way to flow.

dum spiro, spero (while I breathe, I hope)

frank zappa masquerading the best mad captain ahab

!Fellow Enthusiasts!

Michael Green

of Calgary’s One Yellow Rabbit

performs his stupendously ridiculous

THE WHALER

featuring nudity, water, music, burlesque and probable carnage

one night only March 15 @ 10pm

Performance Works @ Granville Island

Part of HERE BE MONSTERS Carnival of the Arts

604-257-0366

feel free to circulate

This will be prefaced by a clever short by the puppetry masters of Fidel Castro’s Birthday Party at 8 PM and Lazy Susan at 8:30, a short play about accidental murders.

walking on my hands

Casting shadows and sepia rain like aspersions, the clouds can’t touch me today. I’ve got dinner and dancing with Michael Green, Brian Eno David Byrne added my MySpace, (which is screwy, but awesome), Joey Comeau‘s been slouching about here, and I’ve got a shout out from Warren for our new book.

It’s like I have officially won at the internets. Music‘s cranked up, threatening to destroy the pathetic work computer speakers and I’m dancing behind the counter, generally glad to be in out of the rain.

I think a party is in order. A proper housewarming and a celebration of just life in general.

Tuesday, March 21st, starting at 8 p.m. Ask for my address if you’ve never been there before. There will be I Never and The Game of 1000 Blank White Cards. Bring truth, beauty, and alcohol if you want some. Allergy to ferret not recommended.