Tag: chris murdoch

I want Edward Teach panties, so I can have pirate booty

The BodyWorlds Exhibit opens today at Scienceworld! (His website’s been updated, it’s nice now. Really).

I went with Alastair to see it when we were down in L.A. It’s beautiful and liberating in a way that’s difficult to describe. I wanted to cradle every body, kiss thier eyes and know thier names. I stared and I stared, I crept as close as they’ll let you to try and memorize every exquisite detail. The exhibition is full of moments of deep, abiding, and very surprising glory, where you find yourself suddenly enraptured with unexpected appreciation for things you’d never think you might see. The volunteer application sheets they have on-line require that all applicants have “Solid comprehension of moral issues regarding death and the displaying of human bodies.” I suspect I would fail the test, if there is one. I am brimming with admiration for what Von Hagen has done, I am delighted in respectful awe, but I doubt I have any idea what other people’s moral issues might be. Mine are unperturbed, only upset that there are not more of these shows, that it is not at least mandatory for school-children at the age of nine or ten.

Censearchip: exploring search engine result differences returned by different countries’ versions of the major search engines. (The Web and image search functions of four national versions of Google and Yahoo!: the United States, China, France, and Germany.)

Summer is over and I’m not sleeping well, though I should be alright. My Oliver-inspired Pirate day is getting posted around as it should be, {it’s come around back to me from three different sources today}, and people are saying they’ll come. (My man Crow: “I was almost an innocent man!”). Last night I was ship building. Stephen supplied all the construction materials, minus silly string and blue glitter, I made the body of the big one, then Michael came over and made me a mermaid and an anchor, and Ed helped make some brackets for the ropes. Cardboard boats with broomstick masts, it looks like the big one will fit three to five people and the little one will fit two or three. That way we’ll have a main ship and an attacker. I plan on simply chucking them off the balcony instead of wrestling them down the stairs when Tuesday comes. Should be fun.

Bush ‘Slush Fund’ possibly courtesy of the Canadian softwood lumber industry. (hell.)

I brought Sam two baby frogs in a fishbowl and a green mint cupcake for his birthday Monday and we curled up in a chair together and talked. It’s comforting to have him back in town, extra special to feel safe and warm while being given small stories from Burning Man. I’m glad he went. He said he didn’t miss me because I was everywhere he looked there. Funny how the man keeps me sane, like he’s a shadowy mirror of a relationship or a wish I made as a child on the dried out fluff of a dandelion.

barbarian girl, still with wrecked ankle


Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

This link has everything needed to tell a story and I like it. (and this explains where it came from. thank you Duncan.)

I feel like dancing. I’ve got new super-perfect music playing, the Kaya Project, (yes, go get some), that’s erasing the unfortunate substance of yesterday’s job hunting. It was a slow Monday, the whole day drifting like early morning. It was taking forever to accomplish anything, the thick simple gravity of the world was holding time down. Clear but molasses. I was tooling away at my computer, able to judge for how long, aware of tasks finishing, but unable to grasp how many were left or still needed to be done. My heart felt too light, my head too hollow, like cases made of calcium and ivory, places for quiet telepaths to live in who didn’t need me to be complete.

Vancouver Zombiewalk 2006 CBC Footage.

When my eyes refuse to read advertisements anymore, I’ve been watching video I took of Chris Murdoch doing contact juggling and falling in love all over again with the wonder and awe that he engenders so easily in me. I need to rotate some the video and lighten it before I can share it. Fool with the gamma a little, tweak the curves. It’s magical and a little too dark. My camera can do a lot, but I expect miracles and lately the poor thing’s been flatscreen crashing.

Oh deary me, the things you find on Craiglist…

I shan’t admit


091705-021
Originally uploaded by aeillill.

My suppositions were correct, the power supply had popped, and now we’ve got my machine plugged into Andrew‘s. We’re crowded on his bed, clearing big chunks of tasty media off my hard-drive onto various sized discs. When James left me his machine, he left it filled to the brink with wonderful films and brilliant programs. There is almost nothing it isn’t capable of, if I had the skills to take advantage of it or or if it had a damned power supply. Ah well. Tomorrow such problems will be fixed. I have breakfast in the morning with Matthew, which will lead into our mutual appointment with Sarah and drop me off at the lunch reservations I made for my mother‘s birthday.

He tells me he loves me when I say goodbye on the phone. There has never been a voice so sad as mine in my heart when I cradle the reciever back in its plastic bed. I don’t say it back, what need? I am branching, my arms boughs, my fingers as twigs. Someone has offered to teach me to float glass like air in my palms, like dreams. I want to. These lips are remembering his eyes and hair. I feel my Saturday as a wondrous thing. The Party Not Starring Peter Sellers was exquisite. The bit with Chris, at least, he is magic incarnate, and Crystal does things with two sets of tassels that defy the imagination. I won a dance contest while in a corset, though I will never attempt such a thing again. I felt like dying for fifteen minutes after. The rest of it was fairly basic, but enjoyable nonetheless. I reacquainted myself with lost theatre people, Terry, Jacques, darling Chris, and I finally met Bill’s wife ma’am. I touched her stomach where his child is brewing. I saw how he looked at her, I’d forgotten. I can feel his face in my expressions again. When he swung down from his perch, I had to squash my urges to go and hug him, instead I left my smile intact and tried to not crowd him. When I was downstairs in the hall, a staff member asked what I came for. I joked, “To see the show, of course, and to discomfit my ex.”

We laughed, but I’m so sorry to say that it’s what happened. I miss his muppet gestures. In my recent cleaning of my room, I found a picture of him from one of our earlier anniversaries. There’s flowers in his hair and ‘I love you‘ written in chocolate on his chest. The rest of it, I dare not say in public, but needless to say, it was rather touching. I’d put up blue lights on the wall over the bed in the shape of a giant heart. It stayed up for months, though every time we had sex, we would tear part of it down.

I found Vancouver’s secret burlesque bar, Saturday. It’s a room fifteen feet wide, and as long as the block is wide. The second floor is a golden balcony overlooking the dancefloor, and instead of a disco ball, there’s a silver merry-go-round horse studded with mirrors. I fell instantly in love. Terry and Ryan and I arrived just as the very last of the burlesque ended, (two minutes of shadows having sex), and soon set up camp upstairs. Terry is especially brilliant, as he is one of those most precious people who continues to be astutely brilliant when proceeding to be drunk. We leaned over the balustrade and shouted communist political slogans at appropriate moments in between dancing ironically and splashing the people below with ice-water and gin and tonic. Within half an hours, I collected an entire stag party, (with phone-numbers), and commandeered a few of them into affixing a fan to a table for me to have a private dance-floor on the balcony. I felt, finally, like I was having the sort of evening that silver_notebook regularly inspires my jealousy with.