Tag: friends

sky question observe place fact


silo tall cherry lake
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

My sleep is crumbling, indifference mixing with a dying anticipation. I expect a signal interrupt. I wake on the hour, mental suitcase in my hand. That phone is going to ring. It makes me nervous, every sound carving the quiet of my room. My body is weary unto bones, aches and heart rate jouncing at the slightest provocation. I stretch and it feels like I’m under water, I have to push against air to move. At my desk is not so bad. I sit, I type.

Chris slept over twice this week to help me sleep, to offer what comfort he can. Exhaustion’s been claiming me in waves, foam flecked gravity sinking my head to the mattress, but I recoil from company now while at the same time require it. A body gives me an anchor, reminds me that unconsciousness is a gift, not only a tiresome chore. There’s no one else I can ask to stay. Chris is getting better. A fragility still underlies everything, but his heart has weathered what it needed to. It is a weight lifted and, underneath my fatigue collapse, I am glad for it. Part of me considers his fever broken.

I’m hoping for a teacher soon, a new skill to capture my attention away from myself and my silences. I’ve been catching myself crying, strange moments when I put my hand to my face and discover my cheek is wet. I want someone to talk to who has the background to understand, who can coax from me what I need to say. I think I may have found one but she’s far away. I’ve been left alone so long I’m not certain of words in person anymore. Alastair helps. We’ve closed our eyes, taken each others hands, and walked through the crusting scabs of break-up to a place where he can talk to me now. I miss him.

another day of making busy

Habit carries with it consistancy, a reliable fall back of behaviour traits, how like all my friends have begun using pet names without even considering it. Darling and Dear falling from lips in accordance to our norm but not the public. Honey, meaningless without the bee-sting of kisses. When such mouths touch, there should be pull from the centre of being. Should the habit. Black robes and white wimples, it’s a thought, an outward exclamation point of my personal state.

Andrew and Navi are making together a very sweet couple. I’m glad they’ve found each other in the myriad crowding of our friends. I wonder who’s next sometimes, as if my parties are the bouquet thrown by a bride. The upcoming omen of somebody getting laid a bit more regularly. Relationships are topical, a point form reference that I’m beginning to pay attention less to. Stop dominating the conversation. I want to remember that there’s a world out there. That as I sit at my desk, a million people are laughing.

London had another day of Pfft Terror. The best news quote yet has been, “It was a minor explosion but enough to blow open his rucksack. … The man who was holding the rucksack looked extremely dismayed.” Somehow that sums it up nicely. (Thank you smogo for finding that one).

In other news, the FDA has approved placing shock treatment implants into peoples brains to combat depression. A generator the size of a pocket watch is implanted into the chest. Wires snake up the neck to the vagus nerve, delivering tiny electric shocks through that nerve and into a region of the brain thought to play a role in mood. I particularly like the last bit, “Deaths have been reported among some epilepsy patients who have a VNS implant, but Schultz said there was no sign of increased deaths in the depression study.”

because I forgot to say yesterday

The always brilliant tikiking has started a new arty comic blog called my_ugly_truth:


It’s really quite entertaining. As an aside, his stunningly adorable daughter has the same birthday as the my friend Larry does.

For those not in the know, Larry’s the brain behind Sinister Bedfellows:



Go give them both a one day belated happy birthday.

If anyone has information for the few who missed being on this list, it would be appreciated.


entry
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

Get-Together at my place tomorrow evening.

Because We Can and because James is Going Away To Parts Far Off.

Partial Roll call of Korean Movie Monday:

Christopher: kurrs, Flickr: Kurrs,
Patrick: Flickr: flybaby,
Ryan: Flickr: Ru’ian,
Sophie: elsabet Flickr: elsabet,
Jeanette: cantstoptharock
Tim: niko84, Flickr: nomoon,
Amanda: xxangelmeatxx, Flickr: seejackrun,
Karen: kickasskaren, Flickr: kickasskaren,
Tyler: legacyofty,
Dominique: bloodykitty, Flickr: bloodyninjakitty,
Reine: absinthe_sleep,
Angus: tao_of_quinton, Flickr: the dread pirate quinton
James: onik, Flickr: JamesEverett,
Andrew F: inri33, Flickr: cabbit,
Andrew G: frector,
Robin: givemesodapop,
Mike: kindelingboy,
Beth: algea_al_fresco, Flickr: stonelucifer,
Meghan: brunisols,
Andre: arrogant_gamer,
Ashley: aria_moonstar,
Peter: anarchocyclist, Flickr: doreinde.

(Angus, go to your flickr home, select MY ACCOUNT, and down in the right hand corner there will be an option to make yourself a page.)

Five hours sleep since friday morning. I wanted to steal some ephedrin but forgot.


san clemente
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

Friday I was told a horrific story at a birthday party by a woman who’s using me as the main feature in her thesis on the Death Of Culture about having a fisting accident where he punched into her uterus and was caught there by her shocked body for thirty-five awkward minutes. Added bonus, apparently she has three ovaries because in the womb she absorbed a twin. He hit one.

Our weather has been restless, torrential bi-polar syndromes daily, swinging back and forth between rain and thirty degrees in the shade. The only reason I know it’s summer has been the time the sun goes down. There’s light in the sky at nine o’clock at night. Today, however, there was sun. Hard shearing light, painful on the eyes when it reflected off the ocean. Dominique and Amanda and I went to Wreck Beach, the nudist beach, where I found Brian and let him curl up to me like a cat, like a little child, thirty years older than me, but four feet tall. All of the sudden, he reminded me of Chris. They’re skinny thin in the same ways, like the bones have been hung primarily to show off something pretty.

Quickie Culture Night on Saturday went well, I think. It bled well into Sunday morning and I suspect that everyone present saw something new. James showed me a piece of film that left me without speech or coherent thought. I was hideously impressed. Prey Alone, it was called, and it was serrated green filter chocolate sex wrapped with an enviable plot, even better than the startlingly brilliant BMW films. Though, I must say, those were a damned treat. The one with James Brown blistered my eyes with how clever it was. You should come to our next one. I don’t care who you are or what city. If it’s possible to do, I would like to find a way to host our itinerary for people who live too far away or in inaccessible countries.

I should like tigers, not ponies.

A group of Social Elite out for a rousing spot of entertainment at The Banshee, Cedar Estates, Smegma-Upon-The-Rise, England

(L, Red) Sir Geoffrey Dupont-Beevers, OBE: A part-time druid and ex-Dundee callboy, Sir Dupont-Beevers received his OBE from Her Majesty in 1995 after successfully buggering a sasquatch. Now has plans to go in search of the Loch Ness monster with a specially outfitted rowboat. Much loved by the Welsh People.

(L, in Gray) Amorus Pye: American born and bred; educated at Eton, expelled for an unfortunate misunderstanding about the concept of ‘fagging.’ Now runs a highly successful chain of bordellos in Prague. Goes through fifteen polo ponies a month as a result of his rampant taste for virgin horseflesh. Thankfully Single.

(L, Back, Hiding) Adm. Gregory Japiro (retd): Achieved high honours in Her Majesty’s Navy of Sodomy; has retired from public service due to painful canker sores and burn marks on scrotum. Now spends his days hiding in bathing houses at Bexhill-Upon-Sea and groping eighty year old pensioners in striped bathing suits.

(Center, blonde hair, holding Mallet) Lord Ffredricton Ghastly-Finch: The only person in this group who is listed in DeBrett’s Peerage, Lord Ghastly-Finch is the current owner of the Banshee, Cedar Estates, and is the only person in the history of the United Kingdom to be expelled from a seating of the House of Lords for performing Unseemly Acts while the House was in session. Currently married to Lady Ghastly-Finch (nee Twatillary), Lord Ghastly-Finch has also been linked romantically with everybody else in the picture.

Lord Ghastly-Finch is seen here with his famous mallet, Gooley-Swatter. Normally kept under glass in Bath, the mallet is not in fact used for playing croquet, but rather is designed for Impacting against the Butler’s Testicles.

(Center, back, hiding, wearing spectacles) Lord Ghastly-Finch’s manservant, Armadillo. Amongst the many, various and depraved services that he performs for his lordship, Armadillo is charged with breaking up the pustules on his lordship’s buttocks with a small hammer every evening after dinner.

(right, black hat) Lady Ghastly-Finch: prior to marriage to his Lordship, Lady Ghastly-Finch was primarily known for eating an Australian opera singer. When interviewed by the press, she said that she found him fatty and unpleasant, and that in any case she didn’t think that she could finish a full one again. Her current project is said to involve hunting down, killing, and then smoking, Mick Jagger.

(right, red hair, fan): Ms. Serpentia Hackorypunk: in close competition with J. K. Rowling as Britain’s best-selling author after her debut novel, “Buttocks In Flames”, won ninety-five literary awards, sold over 5.9 million copies, and was heralded by The Guardian as “… a sick, degraded, wretched horror of a novel, and besides which, most of the things the people do in this book are impossible anyway.”

Likes ponies. Really likes ponies. Recently broke up with Seamus O’Seamus, her lover of five years and the man voted as Ireland’s least eligible bachelor, after he complained to the press that she had broken his anal sphincter into at least three pieces.

(far right, dreadlocks): Clarisse (nee Claude) Dubois, Britain’s best loved transsexual singer. Following a successful gender reassignment surgery, Clarisse launched a multi-platinum record career after achieving media fame for ripping out Victoria Beckham’s uterus and forcing her to eat her now disused genitals at a nightclub in Soho. In this picture, Ms. Dubois is wearing a pair of stockings dating back to at least 1440, and reportedly ejaculated into by a pubescent Charles II during the reign of James I. Reportedly dating Boy George.

(bottom) Sir Tyler Reginald-Mountsworthy: tonight’s entertainment. But he doesn’t know it yet.

— excerpt from “Who’s Who in Amoral Perversion”, 2005 Edition

copyright Nicholas mad_and_crazy

Dreadlock models wanted by the hair salon at First and Commercial in El Mercato.

Yesterday there was rain. Thrumming fat drops that sliced through the sunshine and soaked me as thoroughly as a shower. It was delightful and I held my head up to see. The light was ethereal, sunshine rainbows shattering up from the pavement, it was that hard. It came from a little bit of nowhere and left just the same. Twenty minutes of glory. I wanted there to be someone with me so I could take pictures. It was like the world had turned up the saturation.

Cross processing the streets ahead of time.

Vancouver as been keeping me busy lately, a nice change I approve of. Today there’s two fancy dress events, Meghan’s birthday croquet in a Rose Garden and a rather darker themed High Tea. The disphoria between the two vastly different social circles will be a welcome exercise in mercurial adaptation, something I’ve been missing lately. I have a habit of forgetting to contact other people when I’ve fallen in with a particular social group, but I’m beginning to successfully tear myself out of that cocoon a little. Last night I was handed a furtive slip of paper, BY INVITATION ONLY, twice.

starlight on fire

Running underneath every train of thought are rails spun entirely from unknown quantifiers. Perceptions as metal shining blind to the horizon. I find there’s an imaginary border between hypothesis and knowing, one I don’t know how to measure. My mind takes the substance there and fashions it into flowers that drop from my lips, the blessing curse of the youngest daughter, and I hold them up to light, examine the colours for clues, but I’m not always satisfied. I want to plunge my finger into the center of them and taste the idea pollen living there. It’s intimidating, this habit, like living with angels aiding my foot-step tongue or pre-determination haranguing me daily to hang in there when events turn too stressful. Occasionally, I am appalled by how much I take for granted, how much understanding of the world I assume. I used to be uncomfortable with the entire concept, that the unconscious flow moments of big-picture recognition that are sublimated inside me somewhere represent an axiomatic system of balance. Every day I expected to realize that the patterns were only hyperbole moments of tying moments together conveniently enough for belief to kick in, (there’s a word for it that William Gibson is fond of, but it escapes me at the moment), but every year has been proving me wrong. Over and over again I’ve been justified in my unwritten understanding of the underlying motivations in various aspects of inter-person relationships. It’s almost tiring.

Certainly, it’s also been occurring to me that if a person walks around with enough self-confidence, people become willing to bend around them and so the same effect is achieved though through a different channel. This is, however, too irritating to consider. I tend to discount anything that regards my social circles in such low esteem however ego filled such a statement must seem. It’s sort of an automatic assumption that in spite of the fact that most of us are odd in some way, we have ourselves sorted to a healthy point, a mind-set place where outside requirements are nothing more than they should be and that validation comes as much from within as without.