Tag: flickr

I find this photo hilarious


looking into the future
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

I didn’t get home until four in the morning, but I finally got to sleep at my own house for the first time in something like twelve days. I woke fully dressed, pigtails still in, one forlorn glowstick still clasped around my left arm, remembering only at first that Antonio has pictures of me that will further guarantee – “no career in politics”. I think I was on a table or maybe in a cage. Either way, I look like I’m a lot of fun.

Now to go drag Breakfast out of bed. Alastair, Duncan, Andrew, and Dani. Yes. We’ll be there for awhile, different people at different times. You’re invited too.

Metal Walls.

You know the way.

work, dressew, dance center, call the man, groceries, sleep/die, tomorrow

My clothes all smell like clever musician. I’m almost too tired to be writing.

Albino Moose in Norway is under threat.


Lillian Bassman
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

Running late today, trying to figure out what I’m doing this week. I suppose today I’ll try to buy fabric for my All Hallow’s costume, as Wednesday I’m going over to Jenn’s to try and make it. Can’t forget Thursday dance class. There’s a chance I might be pulled out of town for a few days instead, but I don’t know when. The phonecall hasn’t come in yet. There’s a chance I might work tonight or tomorrow night at the Dance Center, but I have to hear back from Jay. Everything’s on hiatus until I hear from other people. Damned are we whose pleasures depend on other people, because the chocolate cake breakfast was probably a mistake. Grocery shopping, need to get around to that, find time. Make time. Create, from thinnest air, the illusion of minutes to give to the store.

A coroner has recorded a verdict of unlawful killing on ITN reporter Terry Lloyd, who was shot dead by US forces in southern Iraq in March 2003.

Barely a sky today, except for the fig tree outside the window. Barely an straight thought in my head. We’re waking up slowly, drifting up out of the covers like bubbles through water. The shrill alarm is terrible. I need to get home, check messages, take my daily little pink pill. Walk past Oliver’s house and refuse to look. I need to get home, change clothes, pick up music, write down instructions, measurements, phone numbers. The last time I checked the clock was when I took my glasses off. Five in the morning. I’m not going to have a chance to call that dancing man from the Portuguese Club. Too busy, too bad. Bloody Monday, nothing graceful about these except our crawl from the house. I think this could become a weekly thing, though, something I could prepare for with more than the perpetual toothbrush in my bag. I haven’t forgotten the tricks of urban traveling.

“Under the Cherry Tree,” a new music cut-out-CG video conceived and directed by Dael Oates, (Animal Logic), for Telemetry Orchestra.

it seemed like a good idea at the time


Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

David Bloom cheers me up.

D: Who was it?
J: An accordion playing morris dancer.
D: You should have known better than to sleep with a morris dancer.
J: What? Why’s that? How do you know?
D: I just know. Something about the little bells.

So does Michael Green.

M: Too different? That’s like saying a diamond is too shiny, that it’s too precious, too rare. Wait, they’re not rare. They’re terrible. Forget everything I said. Except the good bits. You’re not blood money. Are you sure you don’t want a drink?

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…

the last link in this post is one of my universal favourites


Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

Lung is picking me up this afternoon, a break in my transcription work, to visit the Fox Adult Theater. He’s always wanted to go, but no one was ever willing to go with him. Spur of the moment planning, we’re going to dress up in evening wear and take lots of pictures. I have to remember to dig out my bow-tie for him before I settle too deeply into my work and lose track of time.

Superflat Monogram, an ad campaign for LOUIS VUITTON by Mamoru Hosoda.
Music by Fantastic Plastic Machine.

I search the tangled mess of my room for traces of you as if I might unearth a shrunken head. Somewhere here is a silver hair, a pack of guitar strings, an earthquake. It’s true though I’ve said it before and not to you, I want the taste of your fingers trapped in my hair. Between my sheets I find your fingerprints. I think I see you creeping past my door in the corner of my eye like a pet that only pretends to be kept as it hides some sticky dead thing under the table in half a tin can. I know better than to look.

There are frozen images of you trapped on my computer, pixilated views into memories that don’t whisper for more than a few seconds long. I long to tap on the glass and hear it crack. It feels like your ghost is flying to me as if it lies on the wind as a bed and the wind obeys my needs.

I trust you. In times of disaster, you would let me climb the burning buildings.

let me just photoshop you into my schedule


Originally uploaded by y0nderboy.

Thanks to Warren, I’ve been in the number ten slot on BlogPulse, (an automated blog trend discovery system), for two days in a row now and I’m listed as the 34th most popular blog.

If I were the sort of person to use exclamation points, that would be a few of them right there.

I’m doing civil war themed pin-up photography with Spider Robinson’s photographer before the garden party today. I’m not sure how that sentence came into reality, but I blame living on Commercial Drive. He’s making me breakfast, then we’re going to figure out how to fake vintage lingerie.

Montreal team announces advance in HIV research.

Oliver and I have found ourselves a month together held in our hands like sticky string, (fun, wonderful, but what the hell is it?). We’re still being late to everything because of the trouble we have dragging our bodies from one another. I should have left the house already, but the chance at internet is too good to pass up. My evening house, my fairy-tale, it has a computer but no connection. I am cut off when the sun sets. I am directionless, trapped in warmth and white sheets, unable to find purchase in the ether. My fingers tap away on count-tops and tables, asking for information, trying to morse code the air itself. Late at night, I look down into my unemployment and try to wonder what’s going to happen.

I never heard back from the people who asked me to be their company blogger, Telus didn’t hire me, though the interview seemed almost perfunctory, but I have extra work again on Monday, a paid focus group on Tuesday evening, and a freelance odd-job coming from RipTown Media. The longest I’ve been without gainful employment, but somehow I’m keeping it all together. The utility companies are going to threaten me again soon, but I’m hoping that I can cover that by taking Robin out and about the town for a little Social Therapy.

To the people who bought mp3’s off me. Yes, they are coming, and I am most dreadfully sorry it has been taking this long. My microphone died, leaving me with little equipment options. I have been using my mother’s home-studio, but it’s all the way across town, which can be literally hours away by bus, and I’ve been scrabbling so much that I haven’t had a day to devote. (Some of the work has been finished, but I thought it would only be fair that everyone have to wait together. Think ‘according to the principles of Mercerism.’). I’m planning on going over to her house early Wednesday and not leaving until everything is finished or the busses stop running, whichever comes first.

Apple said it will pay $100 million for a license to use Creative’s patented technology in its iPod music player, settling all legal disputes between the two companies.

based on a brick of a pillow and a plank of what it used to be like to be me

She looked all curves and shiny eyes. Posed as woman as a simple cure-all, her body a pill, the waiting chemistry of the word Yes. One word untying every victim of life from the railway tracks. New blood, brooding on the futility of sexual capacity. Those bastards draped in honey-suckle, in ample feeling. Hands with too much strength trapped inside. Drunk on missing lovers, driving to the homes of people they all used to know together, they never had each other biblically, except in her city-block verses and tired dreaming. So she hotly looked at him and thought, I could leave right now. I could walk out that door saying, hey, just don’t call me for awhile, okay?

Shuddering into a more sober awareness, the touch of grass beneath her reminds her of fiction. Stains of umbilical fantasy grabbing at her memories, images of kissing, of improbable situations where she gets to be impressive. Doctors saying, we don’t know how long until she’s leaving, but out of everyone, she’s asking for you. The scream of anniversary panic, not in this life, she thought of carrying him through passageways, his body light as music, until she comes to a door with a red exit light and puts him down as if that was the plan all along. Running from wolves, pulling him from fires. Solid threats she could rescue him from. Gratitude dripping from his smiles, another day blocking the doorway with her body.

She can put an edge on any word, turning it on the lathe of her tongue to remind him of all the things that he hasn’t given her, treating him like a sarcastic stranger. The verdict, hell to pay. Incredibly, they kept going. Independence a death in the family. It was like the stop-gap job she took in college, steady, with no real reason to leave. It had never been meant to last so long, but it paid the bills, and she kept hoarding his voice in her fantasies. She began to smile as if goodbye was one last joke between them, and she saw instantly how easily he could defeat her. All he would have to do is laugh. Laugh and turn to her and all her certainty would vanish, replaced by his universe. How can you leave someone who implies that black velvet threats are the smallest plant in an undistinguished windowsill garden?

This was all part of his plan, a map of telling secrets in her dancing. He knew how to pull her hair, how to find her fingertip sounds. Her limited view gave her this, like dust that persists, in spite of the fact that he’d never touched her. It was a game as sharp as the rays of daylight that sent her to sleep on winter mornings. Tall, she thinks, staring fixedly at the ceiling as if there were nothing blocking her gaze from the mirror of the sky. Did I used to like them tall? She thinks she’s stupid and immature, only able to think in boy with girl relationships, unable to conceive of a place where she understands only friends. Fifty ways to leave your lover – by keeping her adoration a secret, by winking uncertainly at a taxi-driver and paying him all the money she could find, by suddenly playing aloof like she was on t.v. Running out of fingers, counting issues instead, so much baggage it’s a matched set.

Here’s some fine examples of where I’ve been wasting my time on-line

I am wretchedly tired. Come to my party tomorrow. Instead of writing, you’re getting a tab-dump. (Has anyone formalized that term yet? We should get on that.)

blue
  • Fairwood Press currently publishes Talebones, a magazine that has been publishing science fiction and fantasy short stories for eleven years. Yesterday they sent out a plea for subscriptions, saying that they are in financial distress and without new subscriptions, they’ll have to quit putting the magazine out. Click here to see what you can do.
  • European Honeybees commonly imported to Japan fall prey to the Japanese giant hornet. The local bees do not, instead they have evolved a fascinating and wierdly wonderful defense. National Geographic News has a video.
  • An audio recording made on November 18, 1978, at the Peoples Temple compound in Jonestown, immediately preceding and during the mass suicide and/or murder of over 900 members of the cult, has been put on-line by someone who got the audio tape in 1979. This means that for your auditory indulgence, an alarming bit of educational history is vicerally available.
  • The Steam Powered Internet Machine, by Turner-prizewinning artist Jeremy Deller and his collaborator Alan Kane, links a steam engine to a computer, allowing visitors to surf the net, powered by one of the driving forces of the Industrial Age. Although mischieviously impractical, (click to see the picture, it’s neat), the machine does work.
  • Gez Fry decided in 2002, without any experience whatsoever, that he wanted to make a living out of Japanese style illustration. After studying artists like Masamune Shirow, he emerged with an astonishing enough portfolio to break into the big market, in only two years. Pingmag has an essential interview that follows why he decided on his excellent life-changing decision and how he went about it.

    • the girl from labrynth is the girl from requiem for a dream


    Psychedelic Fur
    Originally uploaded by Airchinapilot.

    Fashionably Late Birthday Party, Saturday, July 15th, Cotton & Second, just off Commercial, BYOB, friends, instruments, sweets, savouries, BBQ-ables, drinks, bubbles, whatever-you-like, appropriately pass it on.

    Mike‘s so cutting edge.

    The silence was deafening, heavy with threats. To break the quiet, my friend asked, “Alright, what’s the average penis length?” I asked, “Average average or average that I’ve encountered?” “Both,” she said. I did a quick calculation using the wrist of my right hand, quickly marking off lengths from the tips of my fingers. She spit laughter, “Did I actually just see you do that?”

    Vladimir Putin kissed a boy ‘like a kitten’.

    There was a behalf-of-someone-else marriage proposal in the comments section of my poll post. I don’t know either of the men involved, but it made me smile through my ridiculous sun-burn. Not sure if I’m really marriage material right now, poorly tanned red leather for skin, hobbling around everywhere on my cane and wincing. If I move the wrong way right now, I’m liable to crumple like a burning photograph, clutching at my ruined shoulder or irritable wrist. On the up side, I came home to an answering machine message dismantled into merely someone scatting with the word ‘beep’. I can’t even tell what gender the person is, let alone figure out who I’m to call back. Congratulations mystery caller, you win the Interesting Yet Disadvantageous Communication award. Tonight, it’s a paperback copy of The Fall by Albert Camus. Only trick is, you have to call back and actually leave contact information to get it.

    R.I.P. Syd Barret

    I pulled out a cheap pink striped restaurant mint. “Wait, no. I have better ones.” My hand dug into my pocket again and emerged with an ouzo ball. “I’m useless for this right now,” she said. I looked at her face, fixed behind the shield of her helmet, looking like a sixties movie astronaut, then at her gloved hands resting on the arms of the motorcycle. “You’re right.” I crumpled the blue foil wrapper off with my fingers, reached up under the plastic screen and placed the candy into her mouth. “Drive safely.”

    Vote for the Clowngod.
    Then vote for me.