Tag: andrew

singing you’re one of my only friends who knows my love

Good morning to the new lunar year. On the Chinese calendar it’s my year, the year of the Dog.

The roof of my mouth feels lightly of electricity. Yesterday was falling backward, a door opening accidently, opening onto a room full of people I never see and don’t think about often enough. I have a new ring, a silver thing like the branch of a mother of pearl tree. I have eyes too open to see sleep properly. The parade through China Town was extremely beautiful. Ray and I bought explosive paper twists, you throw them to the ground and they spark and bang. I fell in love all over again every time I dropped one to the pavement. I took a slew of incredibly colourful pictures, but I will upload them later, when I am not rushing against the time I need to be at work.

She retrieved a clove cigarette from her purse and put it to her lips. I hurriedly offered her a light with my lighter.

“I want to sleep with you,” she said.

So we slept together.

-Haruki Murakami

“This General Motors Futurliner was one of only 12 such vehicles ever built. They were introduced in 1940 as part of GM’s “Parade of Progress,” spun out of the 1933-34 World’s Fair, themed “A Century Of Progress.” There are nine known Futurliners that have survived. Three are in operating condition, including this 1950 model which sold at an auction last week for US$4,320,000.”

  • Vintage UK electronics ads.

    The day before yesterday, I felt like terrible company. Saturday night I simply crashed. Blearily I answered the phone a couple times, tried to wake up enough to get myself together enough to go to dinner with my friend, failed, and finally closed my eyes. There was a knock on the door a little past midnight, Andrew and Ian to pick up some electronics pieces, and a bit later, Matthew to tuck me in, but no one stayed and I fell back into uncomplicated darkness, tangling my ferret in my hair and forgetting to dream.

    • I’m bleeding dye

  • British woman weds dolphin.

    Something about me wants to learn how to sing soul music, that drum machine spoken word that focuses on notes like inspiration and cleverly explains every bar-tab feeling that love ever wracks up inside our hearts. These words aren’t enough some days. I desire chords. I keep being put on the spot next to pianos and feeling entirely inadequate as my tongue searches for something I know all the lyrics to. I’ve lost all my known songs, all I’ve got left are children’s tunes and the thin skin of pop songs that don’t stand up to scrutiny. A man suddenly startles from a couch. “You’re not a musician are you? That would be a shame.” “No, I’m not. Really I’m not. Why would that be so bad?” “I would haff to stop what I’m doing right now if you are.” “What?” “I don’t let myself ever do this with musicians.” Understanding glitters in her mind and her lips quirk. They laugh while the others look on uncomprehendingly. He leans back, settles his head back on the pillow, and she continues to be pleased. I wanted to sing. I swear. Please believe me. I would give up every ounce of hesitation I showed so that you could have had me sing for you. Hands on the keys and I felt like magic was real. I felt like I remembered, the first time I left for the city, the first time I met you. I will never stop wishing you’d called. The phone silent in my pocket felt like a John Cage piece. Four hours and thirty three seconds before I step on a plane marked only by the absence of vibration, of tone, of hello where do we meet. Those hands, so slight, pulling rabbits from my jaded hat. Sound.

  • Second chord sounds in world’s longest lasting concert.

    Does anyone have a scanner? I have a lovely Polaroid of Andrew, Mike and myself that I insisted be taken by an unkempt vagrant downtown who was wandering around asking tourists to pose for a fee. We’re standing in the middle of Grandville street at night looking like nothing better than drunk kids. I would like to have a digital copy of before anything strange happens to it. I’ve never had a Polaroid before and I’m pretty sure I’ve never looked like a yuppie’s girlfriend before either. The novelty is slightly addictive. I want to wear it in my hat like an antique PRESS pass and ignore people who stare at me on the metro.

  • John McDaid’s brilliant sci-fi story Keyboard Practice is now free online.

    Larry called on Friday while he was driving down the highway home. We fell immediately into comfortable conversation. I was glad, still am. I’ve been feeling him as living farther away lately, no matter that Missouri’s a hell of a lot closer than Paris, because the frequency of his posts dropped lately and there’s been less content. My distances are measured in information, not geography. Every letter typed is a drop in a river. I don’t have to close my eyes at night to see it. I can be walking barefoot through cold mud, whirling glittering scarves over my head, and think, ah, so-and-so would like to do this with me. I can tell. They write that way. As I was discussing with Rick, on the bus Sunday, grammar and punctuation can mean so much on-line. The entire language changes to make up for body-language, for visual cues. Sentence structure is suddenly crucial in a way that doesn’t effect speech. Typing the word “like” or “um” every three words is unacceptable, though I’m sure we say them more often than we’d like to admit. Spelling takes on the measure of your education, typos of your intelligence. Code overshadows everything read, as LOL translates to “well that was enough to make me smile”. It makes me wonder how well I transliterate to page. I’m told that I smile more in person than on-line, but that my typos are less. What about you?

  • India is missing about 10 million daughters since the widespread use of ultrasound, estimates a new study.

    • Any time it snows, parts of my brain shunt into being six years old. This can be rather embarrassing, like when you’re about to turn on someone and be upset for them unclipping your bra when you told them not to but your eyes have caught sight of magical fluffy little frozen clumps of white falling from the sky, so instead your lips blossom into a smile and the smallest little happy voice spills forth with, “Ooooooh…” and you forget to dish out what’s coming to them until it’s way too late and rather pointless anyway.

    Blixa Bargeld, lead singer of the German industrial band Einstürzende Neubauten, does commercials for Hornbach, a home improvement superstore. Here they are: Mosquito killer, Paving stones, a Power Drill, and Paint.

    Brian collected me from work Saturday like an exhausted figurine. After dinner, I crumpled in the car on the way to a birthday party, a tired pile of black fishnets, velvet, and feathers, the air escaping my deflation taking the shape of an hour’s worth of clarifying how sick I am of me and mine meaning more to me than I do to them. He’s very good for me to talk with, he’s too soothing to get bitter at. Always he drowns me in affection. After the first unsteady hour, where my independence wants to lash out and kill him, I begin to relax. The next little while, all my carefully locked away pains want to leak out, but that too goes away. They grow tired of fighting with me and go back to hide again where I’ve put them to stay. It’s a trick I’ve learned to have. Hurray for trained repression. One day I should count how many people there are who are allowed to embrace me, allowed to find out what I’m really saying inside my head. I suspect the figure could be counted on one hand.

    TUESDAY, (not tonight, my mistake, verysorry hope this catches you in time, etc), at 9:30, there’s will be a group of us at Tinseltown go seeing what they’ve done to Aeon Flux. You should take part, yes yes. Strengthen our community through entanglement of social possibility

    Thank you to the lovely people who came over last night after Graham and I cleaned up. Andrew, Nick, Ian and Ethan – your dishes are a sweet testament to your arrival. I’m sorry I fell asleep during disc three of Aeon Flux. It’s been so long seeing some of them that I’m not even sure which episodes I missed. I don’t even know what time I fell asleep, the only time I looked at the clock was at six:thirty when I noticed it was light out and the ferret needed into the hall.

    This is for Ray:


    “Doomed love! Pharmacology! Futility! Insane machines!
    Unholy creatures! Dismemberment! Infection! Body modification!”
    The Not-So-Secret History of ‘Aeon Flux’

    Today is my last day at work.

    there are more photos to work into later conversation

    Andrew

    Truth or Dare. The things I’ve written are not spells and remedies. I want you to give me the illusion that I am caged by your arms. I am willing to find a poison toad, if you require it, and pry the gem from inside the skull to feed you in payment for this simple service.

    Yesterday was my first graciously busy day in what might be a long time. Ray and Sophie came out for breakfast, a group of us helped Andrew move, (the boy in the picture), Nicole and I bought Ray new glasses frames, and after I went for dinner and studio photography with Nick. Right now it feels unreal, as if yesterday was some term of time too far away to see minutely. Admittedly, I am suffering that strange lightness of balance that only a scaldingly hot shower after a long day of no food can give a body, so perhaps tomorrow I will have a more lucid understanding of nonspatial continuum, but it’s now that I have a moment to sit and type blankly into the computer screen, so it’s now that you’re going to read, not an enchanted later.

  • Neuroscientists at Washington University can use a brain scan to predict if a subject will succeed or fail at a simple videogame.

    Someone tagged me with the 5 Things About Myself meme that’s been cluttering up my friendspage with admissions like I had a crush on my neighbor, but never told her. Now she’s married to my ex-boyfriend and doesn’t look the same, so I don’t fantasize about her anymore. Well, okay, no. I made that one up, but I’ll assume it’s simple to understand how banal repeated running of this meme can read without going through the hassle of finding an actual entry with it in.

    Here’s the only thing I could think of:

    You sent away to the postal gods when you were little. Did you get everything you asked for? In classes we practiced our writing in overly looped lines of Dear I Want Please Thank You This Thing How Are The Reindeer? The only holiday more foreign was Fathers Day. Every year the teacher would reprimand me for telling them that I didn’t have anyone to make a card for. Some years I would be brought into the principals office. “This girl is being very unco-operative. She says she doesn’t have a father.”

    And instead of answering that meme with four more uninteresting tid-bits, instead I will theft this one:

    If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, (even if we don’t speak often) please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL memory of you and me. It can be anything you want – good or bad – BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE.

    • That and he’s beautiful like a jade fire.


    Yelena Yemchuk
    Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

    A pleased yet raffish smile deepened the perfectly etched lines around his face, around his closed eyelids. A sigh, and he looked up into my eyes. His own were very light, a sensuous honey infused with the essence of dead cities, empty of orthodox sins, and extremely open in a sense that has nothing to do with age, but with the eternal youth of ancient things. I thought of gods, the old greek imaginings that drove women to madness. I thought of braille and souls.

    I could describe him more, but I don’t know if you would recognize him walking down the street. He wears t-shirts and black pants just like everyone else. If he wore his hair unbound, then I might have a chance to let you stop, say hello, and examine him, see him for how beautiful he is under the poorly worn cover of being unexceptional. His hair is an inky explosion caught by a very clever illustrator, someone who fell in love with myths at an early age and let it reflect in every halo they ever drew. It’s exceptional. When his hair is wet, it catches in my throat and fills my lungs with the need to say that I am drowning. Maybe if you saw him in rain, drops caught like cliché jewels in his lashes, there might be a flash of recognition, a glimpse of how divine.

    I feel so antique, describing a lover in terms of looks, but I am always transposing feelings, depths of emotion or dialogue, and yet so few ever know who I’m revealing, even when it’s myself. Earlier in the car, when I tugged on Andrew‘s hand and said, “Oh! I have news! Persepolis has fallen.”, he understood what I meant, but Tyler did not. “We talk in shorthand.”, Andrew explained, and it occurred to me that here I write in it. A code of association so baroque that only by reading for any length of time will meaning emerge from the tangle of references. Truthfully, I find myself most comfortable with people who can follow abstract trains of thought without effort, but I’m beginning to question if it’s fair. I’m wondering how often my privacy is misread. (Graham got the impression somehow, in spite of my practically rabid monogamy in the face of people like Dominique and Christopher, that I was promiscuous.) At times, it’s been psychotically useful, but part of why I continue to update almost daily is that I want to explain to my friends and family my keystone ties and transformations.

    Matthew hated when I wrote about him but he would never tell me a decisive why. He would spin gluey reasons that would change, but always, (no matter how mutable), they were negative. I think, now, especially near the end, that he was trying to hide his whereabouts and actions from people who might possibly read this. After he came back, he attempted to expressly forbid me from mentioning that I stayed the night, and was upset when I ignored his injunction. (I still don’t know who wasn’t supposed to know this time. Last time it was Sarah. I know his wife used to drop by occasionally to catch up on things, her best friend tried to step in and defend him once from one of his first terrible injunctions against my decency before she understood what my complaint was, and there are other people. Friends, family maybe. I don’t know, they just show up on my counter and leave rare anonymous comments from IP addresses located in Perth or Sydney.) My next closest relationship, they were always delighted when they could find reference to themselves in my entries. It filled their heart, they said. Made them feel exponentially appreciated, like every letter added to their worth. My friend Wilhelm, he complains that he never appears here, that I only write about people I can hyperlink to, but I know that I put his little misdemeanors of complexity here quite often, so how else can I reply except by becoming, if only briefly, a more concise exhibitor?

    We used to talk until the sun came up, a confused tangle of how a head will fit into an arm, how the angle of a bent leg will comfortably into the slant of another leg of a different shape. His bed was small enough for both of us, and it was going to eventually be summer. Visits were too rare, for they were addictively pleasant, and I fell very into liking him. His casual strength of thought, his delightful leaps of imagination. Ostensibly, I was living in another part of town, staying on charity at a friends apartment, but as it gradually becoming more intensely uncomfortable to stay there, this small room full with its tiny bed became my home. I would always feel welcome, but an imposition. When I visited, I would stand silent in the street with my terrified heart, trying to collect courage with the pebbles I would find to throw at his window in lieu of a doorbell. Once Loki the cat found me and sat purring at my ankle, almost causing me to cry. I wanted to feel safe, and it was ten feet away, and I couldn’t move. My housemate had pulled a dirty conversation on me earlier, full of tense demands, and I was so nervous of the world that just this little cat being kind to me was enough to unbalance me. When I crept in, quiet as to not wake the baby, I hoped he wouldn’t see my hands shaking.

    Loki is gone now, replaced by two cats. One black and one white. The baby is gone and my lover’s switched rooms. His window is an undeniable bitch to hit with a pebble now. I tried the other night, failing, as it turned out, not because of my aim, but because we wasn’t home yet, and I worried with every stone about hitting the neighbors house on the rebound. It didn’t help that my hands were shaking again, my adrenaline screaming at me that I was being an idiot. Years pass and yet I stay the same. He claims it’s brave of me. To do something I’m scared to do because I know it’s the right action, but I’m not so sure. I’m expecting to have to apologise with impeccable courtesy for merely arriving while my heart is craving vindication, some forgiveness for the hour. If I’m scared, then I’m not being brave, am I? Being brave might be writing this down, not knowing what side of the disclosure line he stands on.

    reminder: KEEP JHAYNE FROM JHAYLE -a party of proportion- #340 – 440 west hastings, Friday, November 25th, 9:00 – onward

    new icons when I wrote my newest resume

    I barely know me. I stand in doorways, unblinking, standing and speaking words of conflict. I collapse on the sidewalk in heavy rain and half an hour goes missing. I hold him warmly close to me with a smile in my mind. I put my head to the side and try not to cry. Inside of me, things are changing. I remember compromise. You say this wasn’t your intention, I say that’s okay. You say and I say then they stood up and had too many words to say. Remember, this is what a little bit of love looks like.

    I don’t like that I carry this so she won’t have to.

    Every part disparate. I’m still unbalanced, so much is broken. I’m tidying now, brushing the pieces into a pile for later sorting. Which loss caused this jagged edge, which loss caused that. This year was many. I could make t-shirts. Arrested, Fired, He Lied, They Died. My humour’s the right sort. On the back would be a list like tour dates.

    Which reminds me: support my Jesus Monkey Pants. I have this one. It makes me sexy like Snakes on a Plane would, which is something I meant to mention weeks ago. I have an excuse, I’ve been eating multitudes of candy bars. They’re not very healthy, really, and they’re making my thoughts shake. They popped into existence to fill the space left by the cessation of hallowe’en proceedings and they’re cadbury tasty, which is to say, not as good as pumpkin pie. I miss my pies. I didn’t carve a pumpkin this year, so I didn’t bake. Ah well, the Lesson is Learned but the Damage is Irreversible. (Also an ancient thing, I know, but it fit. You want something new, go find out about the underground city in Briton that’s now up for sale. Then buy it for me. I will send you nekkid pictures. Lolz. Now bugger off.)

    I really should be in bed by now, but I’m waiting for dye to set in my hair. My hands are flecked with purple, a nice reminder of what the bathroom will look like in about twenty minutes. I’m being patient, though I don’t feel like it right now. The bed’s empty, it’s all cold tumbled gold pillows and scarlet bands of silk and I feel like the faster I fall into it, the quicker I can pretend it’s morning. Red shift myself into a different day, one where I might be sleeping next to someone. Alone is not terrific for me now, but I can deal with it. Alone without promise of company, however, is bad.

    Nicholas will be here tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it. He and Esme are coming in from Victoria for a concert and dinner at Andrew‘s with me and Ray. He asked for Chris too, but I don’t know if that’s going to happen. I deked out of rehearsal today before I could ask. There were issues with my roommate James that needed sorting, and tonight was really the best time to get it done with.

    p.s. world, send new Explosions In The Sky, Porcupine Tree and Bethurum. thank you.

    munching on things that maul children carries a certain satisfaction. CLICK ON THE PICTURE.


    Make way jungle, we want oil!
    Originally uploaded by Nick Lyon.

    So it’s not tonsillitis after all. Apparently it’s strep throat.

    This week has been red lights and green. Wolf Parade was exquisite. A hipster sardine packed illicit space with ghetto lighting and terrifying wiring for the stage, I led Ryan and Andrew successfully to the very front. I leaned against the monitors and tried to dance crammed next to a short asian student of cultural ethnicity with my shirt off and tucked into my bag. I suspect her disapproving looks did wonders for my mood. The opening band was fun, stealing back everything from music that Weezer made suck, and when Wolf Parade came on, we offered them James‘ place in Montreal as a crash pad. (You should toss them an e-mail, lovely. See how serious they were, win some points with all those pretty girls with asymmetrical haircuts). Opening with Sons and Daughters of Hungry Ghosts* set the tone well, though they could have been a bit louder with the vocals. You Are A Runner And I Am My Fathers Son is quite the experience live. The lead singer is a lean wrung out guy who froths at the mouth and screams with musical fury through a cigarette that he barely holds onto in a Keith Richard pout, and the keyboardist glares with such concentration it was surprising his intrument didn’t melt. His grandfather was in the audience somewhere, though I would imagine he would have been hiding in the back next to the hole-in-the-wall bar. I was situated a foot in front of the man playing theramin and he was just as impressive, holding his little electric keyboard above him as if that would bring is closer to some holy god, his eyes rolling trance-like into back into his head. The room was dripping wet, sodden with brilliantly sweaty notes that just didn’t translate well onto the album. (Though one must be mad to not to appreciate I’ll Believe In Anything.) In summary, the heat was unbelievable and the music just as hot. The concert next month, with Wolf Parade opening for The Arcade Fire is my next most anticipated thing. Everyone capable should go. *both albums for download with this link

    The Fetish Masque afterward wasn’t half as fun, nor was the burlesque show. Andrew went home and Ryan and I stopped to dress properly for the occasion, gothing to the nines with feathers in my hair and running gold powder down my face. When we arrived, we let someone take us from the burlesque line-up to the fetish one around the side and downstairs, therefore missing the show entirely through a mismanage of poor timing. Aaron was there, and Brian and Kevin, but Herminia stole us away upstairs before I could properly find them. Tristan was upstairs, and a friend of ours was attempting to MC, poor thing, on no warning whatsoever. The show was apparently terribly last minute, so disorganized that it only took me a moment to infiltrate the blueroom and begin ordering people around. “Who’s in the band, you’re up next. This fruit is to go out to the table. You, cut it up with me?” Ten minutes later I was curling someone’s hair in the backstage bathroom and trying to think of ways to get away while the organizer thanked me. I don’t know how to curl hair. I escaped by carrying a plate of peanut butter chocolates out to the covered pool-table and re-collected Ryan. It was getting to be close to shut-down then, so after a bit of dallying, I smuggled us into the freezer and we stole out with some strawberries that no one was going to miss and a pineapple in my skirts. When we came back is when we found Kevin finally. His hair had gone from white to an attractive jewel-tone blue, and I’m remembering now as I write this that I really should drop him a ring. I hope e-mail will do, this not having a voice could make things difficult.

    Kokoro tomorrow instead


    masque
    Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

    We missed Butoh today. However, after an aborted Dominique-Jhayne&Chris are-going-to-steal-Reine-for-breakfast, Chris and I are venturing out to find him a new digital camera. For this we employ our secret spy, our in on the man, Mr. Ferguson.

    My throat is still torn from howling at the women on stage last night. Called Stilettos and Strap-ons, Sylvia‘s group is new and rule-breaking. I entirely approve. As a segue into Rocky Horror, it was fabulous. A family reunion of utterly strange proportion. (No one knew I could femme quite like that, not even me.) We dragged my friend Amber from one event to the next, and I think she had a really good time. An unexpected meshing of social groups, but one I think I’m going to enjoy.

    Is there anything going on tonight?

    There is a saint created in lonely iron.

    I undid the top buttons of my shirt to let him press his hand against my heartbeat. The heat of him held me down, we were like statues in the midst of madness, the only still people on Heroin Row. Crackton’s the one place in town that I won’t take my shoes off. We were an island, addiction beating as waves, as sound around us. Singing and screaming, people yelling and scanning the sidewalk for dropped rock or cigarette butts. There’s no darkness to hide in that doesn’t already have its own slurred speech. It comes at you from all directions, the pleading of the needy.

    I used to live there, right behind the Carnegie, in a strange space in the basement of what used to be a vintage bank, all grand ceilings and open floor. The shambling creatures that used to be humans are familiar, the hounds that chase them nothing new. Once I woke up there and opened my eyes to daylight and the sight through a crack between the curtains of a prostitute shooting a syringe into the base of a mans penis that she was firmly working in her mouth. He screamed, but I suspect he liked it.

    Nocholas is coming to town today, an impromptu plan. Plans for today are somewhat fuzzy, but I don’t think we need any. He’s going to call when he gets into town. If anyone’s interested in meeting up, give me a call as well. He’s got some phone numbers but not many.

    Which reminds me, Andrew‘s lent me a hand held PDA thing to keep phone numbers and writing in. I’m trying to get rid of my phone avoidance and actually call people. Part of this will be having phone numbers on me rather than in a single, mostly old, list on my computer. Part of my problem is that when I meet people, I tend to collect their numbers on little scraps of paper which soon get lost or on my hands which end up being washed before I write the digits down. This PDA idea, I am finding it exceedingly useful.