Tag: flickr

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.

bustedwonder made a sketch of one of my favourite photographs


she knows what kissing’s like
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

Mice infected with the Bubonic Plague are missing.

Sitting on the floor felt like a miniature picnic. Instead of a blanket, I had a book. Instead of a park, I had a closet-room full of costumes. Raising my eyes from the page to fetch my grapes, my head brushed the petticoats of a dozen frnech maids waiting on hangers, my hand grazed the hems of a dozen schoolgirl outfits. Next to me was a box of ballgags and next to that was one of garterbelts. My back leaned against a cheap plastic mirror and I faced a drawerchest full of stockings in crunchy plastic packages. It’s quiet there, the soppy unimaginative music can’t find me in among the skimpy pieces of cheap fabric. I didn’t think it was possible to suck the soul from a Phil Collings song. Work had been dragging, the clock, I swear, occasionally ticking backward. Customers were few and young and silly, boys laughing nervously and winding up the annoying hopping penis with feet.

Light bulb malfunction at school sends 18 to hospital with radiation burns.

Later was better, the day got it’s feet under it and began to stride. I had a pleasant interlude with a friend of mine from SFU, teaching him how to use a paddle in such a way to leave marks before he remembered who I was, and Aiden snuck in breifly to ask me to dinner while my manager was vaccuming the back. I learned how to properly mark costumes down as restocked, something that had been baffling me, as every employee possible had told me to do it differently, a practice rumoured to be common in retail that I had never encountered before and hope to avoid in future. I’m trying to grasp the essentials of shop-front politics, but so far I have only, “Don’t volunteer any information that doesn’t sell something.” which doesn’t seem incredibly helpful.

A blind man is accused of raping his own guide dog.

As if counterpoint to the early afternoon, dinner was splendid. I let myself out at nine to find Ryan and Aiden waiting out front looking incongruous, like a foppish rentboy and his thug pimp or rough and tumble boyfriend, and we walked up Davie to Denman with intent to go to Guu, a japanese pub known for it’s sincerely authentic food and drink. Our plans was thwarted, however, by my fish sensitivity, the air thick enough with it to set me leaning against the outside, choking to breathe, after only stepping foot in the door. It was a pity, the place looked interesting, the waiters shouting orders to the kitchen and the bar crowded by chattering people sipping odd looking beverages. However, we ended up at Moxies, who, before we left, allowed us to order a side dish of dry ice, so I suspect we had far more fun than anything that strange alcohol might have offered.

A Black Velvet Art Flickr Pool.

meme from riotlounge: If you have anything to say to the person who posts this, say it to them. If you love them, tell them. If you hate them, tell them. Whatever you have to say to this person, even if its something you’re having trouble saying, if the person posts this entry, say it to them. You may never get a chance to, so just do it. Warning: Do not post this in your journal unless you really want people to do it. I expect good things but I expect bad things as well, and that is something you have to take into consideration. Not all of what you hear will be good. Comments will be screened if I figure out how. All comments are screened.

My ferret tried to run away last night. We think he fell off the balcony.

There are days when I want red lipstick. Berry flavour Rita Hayworth silent sex star glimmering red. That perfect moue of a Casablanca kiss red, the disney approximation of vamp that haunts the dreams of old executives who remember the day the princess died. Marylin never wore this red, it’s simply not for blonde’s. This red is for the ghosts of famous prostitutes, it’s for the high heeled goddesses who walk the earth and knock over preconceived perceptions with a slight flick of their tongue. It’s for I’m Leaving You written on that one spectacular mirror that was such a find at the flea market, for that smudge on the collar that tells the other woman that you’re better than them. Deep passionate blood red. The red of fingernails in an 80’s movie, a mixture of the eyes wide shut blowjob of the pretty woman and the betrayal of modern culture burning bras.

Today isn’t one of those days, but yesterday might have been. I wanted to swim in eyes yesterday. Breathe in that comforting honey warmth that emanates from the sweetest of arsenic hearts and melts all my bones. Instead at home there’s cinnamon. A slender figure of awkward elegance, waiting to find my hand. I worry, but not very much. Lately I’ve been too tired, weary on a starvation level. Not enough calories to keep up with myself. My joints creak and snap when I move, and my head is in continual search for a pillow.

Sunday : working 2 – 5pm
Monday : working 5 – 8pm, Korean movie night
Tuesday :
Wednesday:
Thursday : working 2 – 9pm
Friday : working 3 – 9pm
Saturday : working 2 – 8pm

mocking my taste in music

As a pleasant lead up to our local production of Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead that Beth is organizing, I’ve found Hamlet as a text based adventure game:

It’s so unfair! You’re in trouble again, just because you called your uncle – or rather, your new stepfather, Claudius – a usurping git. It’s true, though. Your real dad was SO much better than that guy. Too bad he was found mysteriously dead in the orchard a couple of weeks back. Anyway, your mother (who was, incidentally, looking quite something today in a sparse leather number, er…) sent you to your room, and here you are.

Bedroom
You are in your luxurious palatial boudoir, all of ten feet square. There is a four-poster bed, and not much else. A portrait hangs on the wall. An exit leads north.

Also found on the internet today, Soviet space monkey pants for sale on eBay and a gallery of vintage toy rayguns, (I remember playing with number 70 once. The frontispiece was that strange dry metal that reminds me of badly melted tin.). The news is less futurist and more dystopian. In addition to the unrelenting Katrina clusterfuck, there’s loyalist riots in Belfast and Typhoon Khanun flattened 20,000 houses, and destroyed large swathes of crops, industrial units and infrastructure in Zhejiang province. This puts my wake-up “we’re going to cut off your electricity” phone-call in a bit of perspective. I may be too broke for reliable groceries, but at least I’m not swimming to the store.

However, if I had a dime to spare, I would support Planned Parenthood, Philadelphia, in a heartbeat. They’ve come up with a rather choice way to deal with protesters called Pledge-a-Picket. (Click on the link to take part.)

Every time protesters gather outside of our Locust Street health center, our patients face verbal attacks from them. They see graphic signs meant to confuse and intimidate. They are sometimes blocked from entering the building and occasionally they are videotaped. They are offered anti-choice propaganda and free rides to the closest “crisis pregnancy center.”

Staff and volunteers are also seen as targets. We are all called murderers, are lectured to about committing sins, and are told we will pay the “ultimate price” for our actions.

You can stand with others in the community against these acts of intimidation and harassment.

Here’s how it works: You decide on the amount you would like to pledge for each protester (minimum 10 cents). When protesters show up on our sidewalks, Planned Parenthood Southeastern Pennsylvania will count and record their number each day from October 1 through November 30, 2005. We will place a sign outside the health center that tracks pledges and makes protesters fully aware that their actions are benefiting PPSP. At the end of the two-month campaign, we will send you an update on protest activities and a pledge reminder.


does it start with a key?


Art Direction by Tom Hingston
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

There used to be a story. It was sweeping like the plains I used to drive across with my musician parents. My father would let me steer on the highway because it was so flat. The story was the road, that black line that pointed to a distance I’d never seen before. Yellow dots, cut here. Turn signals and red lights on the tail end of cars clicking their heels together three times. Windshield wipers in time with the rain. I read a lot of books, there in the back of the truck. There were never three seat-belts. When we were pulled over, I would hide. The police thought my mother was interesting for riding a motorcycle. They thought my father was charming and always looked tired. It was the driving. We were always driving.

Refrain, as a verb, asks for a pause, a holding back of intention. He was to call me today. I rang at one thirty, the day has filled up. Tomorrow, that little orange haired orphan doesn’t love you anymore. She grew up in the world of the sugar daddy. His milk is sweeter because he says he loves her and the diamonds on her wrist glitter to blind the eyes. This is the jazz refrain, that impulse to lie on top of the theme with improvisation. There used to be a story, the repetition inviolable. That’s what the word means. Hold one self back, don’t think impure thoughts. Tell the focus to go fuck itself, tell the world that everything is okay with a plastic smile glued to your lips. Learn. Rinse. Repeat.

The easy listening station at work is killing me. I find myself cringing inwardly, holding the product tags like talismans and thinking, “Anything can be endured for two hours. Anything.” Customers are a welcome distraction. They ask questions and I try my best to answer them. Try to be matter of fact about the word anal without the word retentive. My product knowledge is minimal. I don’t have any. When I listen to the other girls, that’s what everyone calls them, the other girls, no matter there’s only three of us who work in the shop and one of them’s the manager, I feel like I’m trying to learn something utterly foreign. The language they speak isn’t mine. This isn’t greek unless that’s what you’re into. The china brush is a desensitizing liquid one paints onto the underside of the head of the penis to sustain erection longer and preclude ejaculation and Leather Cleaner isn’t.

a cello sweep of not in my bed


That Swing Thing
Originally uploaded by Mute*.

I’m a velvet encased palace today. Bottle green pants, a black tank top, a pale pink tongue. The world is full of girls like me, I just haven’t met any yet. It’s such a shame. Kiss me sky, please kiss me. Tell me that I can learn not to be haunted by that devil smile, that ragtime pair of whispering lips. Desire has been lying to me, telling me that I’m beautiful and I don’t need that right now. This week is set aside for young reactions. The ember burning boy knows I’m the sea and stars, and the memory of that dizzying reaction shall be enough for me. My cup of human kindness was quietly laid to waste with my lover touching someone else’s skin, so now I need to find the will to make another. I’m getting better. It feels superficial, but I don’t know enough yet. I’m still learning. Maybe it will turn out to be easy to rebuild. I can feel focus accruing on me, meshing with my skin. It feels top-heavy, hollow, but I suspect that’s just who I’m going to be right now. A pop song princess, simple, lyrical and confident if shallow from the inside out.

  • women in corsets told to cover up
  • I am no longer infekted, boingyboingy.
  • Thai Artist Bakes Edible ‘Body Parts’.

    • how many downloads of IKEA porn would happen if I posted our video?


    Please, Ikea, hit me again!
    Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

    Ryan is ill. Last night I stared at the ceiling a moment and thought, “Well damn, there’s no hair to hold out of the way, what else is there to do?” I’ve been living with a different kind of boy all my life, this mild cat fur is out of my purview. Strange that there’s even sickness in my house. I’m rarely ill, and I haven’t had a cold since I was shorter than a coffee table. I brought him a towel, a housecoat, and a glass of water, and he came back to bed rather quickly, the dry heaves accomplishing nothing. I entirely blame Dragon*Con.

    Now I’m going with Ray, Sophie, and Ryan to brave The Brothers Grimm, having giggled appreciately a little at Warren‘s Engine troubles to off-set looking at New Orleans, (some brief examples: US disaster chief delayed for hours, Navy Pilots Who Rescued Victims Are Reprimanded, Instead of Rescue Work, Fire crews to hand out fliers for FEMA, New Orleans Mayor orders ‘forecful evacuation’ as contaminated waters threaten an environmental disaster, (again, here, with audio and slideshow), FEMA Blocks Photos of New Orleans Dead, and a collection of other stories on FEMA).
    edit: here’s the video.

    blessed, the way, it is


    for kentucky megachurch;)
    Originally uploaded by sucitta.

    “The U.S. government has chartered three luxury cruise liners for the next six months to provide temporary housing for victims of Hurricane Katrina, Carnival Cruise Lines said Saturday.”

    You are what I haven’t written about yet. Stability and comfort, two unexpected islands ringed by eye-liner, shored by language and anchored with glyphs in the middle of the night. That you’ve never seen me naked means something for once, like it did when I was younger, before I began to try and discard romance because everyone around me had grown out of it years before I was born. You are what I haven’t questioned, because it won’t matter, because what you are thinking is enough for me. I watch you and it’s like I can see a mist around you, an aura of intelligence that I can walk into and feel safe. It should be uncomfortable, but instead I feel like I could fit like a smaller matryoshka. Nest inside, curled like fingers over the keys of an ivory piano, and sing with you, creating chords with the words you haven’t learned to say yet and yours that I never thought to know. You are slender fingers poised artfully and laughter longer than your hair. You are interesting in a new way and I’m hoping you come home to me. I like your smile. By the end I’ll owe you so much time, I’ll owe you so much effort and attention and missing you more that I worry a little at the deficit I might be wracking up this month in my time of tasting peculiar dust. You don’t see how strange this might be from my eyes. This city’s been a bloody cage, bars of people and relegation, since I walked out into the desert, saw visions, and never found my way back. My house has been cursed this last while and my luck brought out from under me to be thrown on a pyre of miniature disaster – who are you to stand by my side? You’re the closest thing to freedom that I’ve held by me in quite some time. That you’re mild, it’s fresh spring water. Something clear, something to carry in my cells after standing dry so long. I’m hoping somehow that it doesn’t matter that I’m hanging by threads, that the ink used to write on my heart was just bitterly burned, a frostbite scorch needing too long to heal, and threatening to scar in complicated knots. I won’t claim you’re the only person on my mind, but you’re patient. Like stones in fairy-tales I said, and it’s true. It will be enough.

    New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin speaks openly and candidly about the current situation in New Orleans. Transcript here.

    From unquietmind, “One of my jobs in monitoring the Associated Press photo wire. I see hundreds of images that will never be published, but I think these photos are worth sharing with you. Even though some of these images are sad and harrowing, I take comfort in them. They remind me that people are inherently compassionate and caring. I hope you draw strength from them, too. All images by The Associated Press in New Orleans, Biloxi and the rural Gulf Coast.“

    Topography of the flood

    When you speak, even silence listens.


    Sun Wheel Reflection
    Originally uploaded by Sylys Sable.

    Shane stayed over last night, the way his head rested on my body made me aware of my collarbones. We have a strange friendship, he and I. When we are together in a room, we pair off, we pool our attentions. I am continually The One Who Got Away While Standing in The Same Room and he is That Man Who Speaks Like a God Creating but Likes Me Anyway. Dawn painted light onto my ceiling and I watched it, the sun sparking off the gold sequins attached to the cloth that hangs over my bed bright enough for my blind eyes to see, and considered why I didn’t blush when I finally read to him his poem. He’s just back from the Edinburgh book festival, where he was on a panel with John Saul, Salman Rushdie and Margaret Atwood, (his book’s been released already in the UK), and here I am, a girl in a bar with funny hair and a lopsided smile, for a moment attempting to be literary, reading to him, the man who won the world slam three years running, about how I don’t love him as much as he loves me. If it were two years ago, I would have laughed at my inestimable gall, but now, somehow, it’s alright. In my own way, I’m on par.

    A little bit that’s scary.

    Broken Flowers was artfully ingenious, by the way, before I forget to say ecetera. Jim Jarmusch catching intelligently how lonely our memories are, and ending it with such implied emotion that it went past being clever and landed squarely in the masterful category. Bill Murray plays a similar role to the one he did with Lost In Translation, but twists it slightly, resulting in a more black and white character, one more inclined to allowing for dry assumptions. I really liked it, the humour was provocative and cheerfully nasty, as it tends to be with Jim Jarmusch, but I don’t know if it’s going to catch on the way Coffee & Cigarettes did. One can hope, certainly.

    Today the majority are over at Playland, shouting on rides and watching animals snuffle about in pens. I’m caught still clinging to the internet petticoats, wandering the flooding catacomb of New Orleans and am wondering if I’ll make it out at all. Ray should be calling, confirming if we’re going to go rollercoaster or not. I hope he does it soon, as Reine called recently and I’m feeling bad that I haven’t been able to ring her back yet.