Tag: that mike

“thanks, I’ve been working out”

365 days seventy-four: getting better

From where I sit at my computer, I can lift my left arm up to point at the sky and directly impale the moon.

I came out of Seattle on the wings of swords, dizzy from lack of blood, thin with anemia, in love with long hair and laughter at three in the morning. How is it that we slept so little and said so much? Sheets stained, a hallway, dancing in the main room, ghosted in, refusing to exist for three days running, the colour of his hands in the sink. Revitalized, starving, everything blurring into a week of living out of town, trying to learn where all the streets joyfully go and how they knit together. Red like bricks, white like sheets, windows running, the darkness of a night-club, an arcade of easy decisions lain out to take, simply, delightfully, right.

Monday I arrived and Monday I left, a line on the calendar, traditional and far away, a sweet stretch of time, between an inhale of wind and exhale of sunshine, just long enough to remember what I want and how much of it I can create.

Back in September, the Brickhouse was crowded with loud, unexpected, off-season patrons, drinking while on their way to a club. The bartender glared at them as I took Mike past the main area, the 70’s upholstered couches cluttered with shaggy pillows, a short row of inaccurate pool tables, to the close seats lining the back where our group generally collects. There’s a Ms. Pacman there and murky fishtanks in-set into the wall full of dubious looking fish we always feel mutely sorry for.

!!!!!!

I could see the taxis had been quicker, already our friends were there, a pitcher of dark beer resting on every table. Our evening, as the only people who didn’t smoke, the two playing accordion with language, slid from them into late dinner at a Pho place that played porn on a small television in the back next to a table of beat-boxing Korean boys. Laughter, neon, mirrors along every wall. With dawn threatening, the clock reading older: “Where are you staying?” “Nowhere yet.” “So what you mean to say is that you’re staying with me.” Four hours in a bed together before working up to the common revelation we call a kiss. He looked at me like a child who’s seen something truly marvelous, like the astonishing miracle of a talking sock. I felt like a gift, a treasure worth having, a lesson learned well enough to speak a new language, which was an old language, which was exactly a story waiting to bend itself to fit the confines of my personal mythology as well as my bed.

Seattle, where we met-went next, as architecture, as a patch-work of memories I am beginning to sew from day to day. This is where I took a picture of a walk/don’t walk sign, next to where someone grinned and played the rake, taller, thin, dry, not as everything as I knew before, but better, improved. This is where I stood for the bus that took me to Ballard, where the streets are paved in brick, Norwegian History, a story of a dead son, an Italian dinner, and the sound of back-stage banter at the Tractor, “give me your hand”, climbing the fence and staring down at Nicole as she argued with the buttons of my camera, as I wore Mike’s hat and smiled as if the expression were newly minted just for me. How everywhere is named the spot or the dot or the spatter, from sex clubs to breakfast places to all night diners, dark, noisy, crowded, and low. Dancing all night, walking past another day, sitting on the floor of the beating heart of the downtown library, knowing which bus route will take me back up the hill. Refusing to use anything but his full name, two syllables, originating in Hebrew, meaning “he will add”.

365 days seventy-eight: what happens at half ten?

Who was that naked in the fountain? It’s doubtful we’ll ever know, but it is a friend os the family who lives in the pink house basement a block away from the full force impact of forgetting how beautiful his eyes can be, I’ve never seen him need such a shave, December could never be so far away as this moment here, again recognizing my lover and finally feeling my heart breathe.

I am meshing with the city, overlaying memory with memory – a hotel, how strange, sleepless long nights, better than last time, the changes in my life forcing me into a little more. This time with friends, watching my ties as they grow, thrusting roots into the unknown pattern of streets. Eyes stinging from the water as the stars walk by, lights I can’t even pretend to see. Blind. Sitting in a car in a parking lot, realizing that I’m apparently talking to a Jewish martial arts expert composer who runs a store where everything sold is purple and thinking that’s entirely normal and more than a little bit okay. Obviously. Evident like walking through snow, the shape of movement imprinting in the weather. Fire in a room, the shivering unlikely, improbable, and unexpectedly matched up like polarized film. Collected moments accruing into a future avalanche, an altar to where we’re all be next year.

It was nice to meet you, I hope to see you again. With love, and everything else the heart needs around. Knee deep.

THEY HAVE SUNLIGHT!!!

I made it to Seattle. Someone even paid for my ticket on the promise that I go to some masquerade party with them and their ridiculously hot girlfriend on Friday. Somehow, just somehow, I couldn’t say no. Oddly.

I’m staying downtown, within a block of the Space Needle. I really like it here. There’s clothes to return this week, a corsetiere acquaintance to visit, and friends and extended chosen-family to have tea with. Joseph and I went to a park earlier up on Capital Hill with some fruit cobble and there were pretty naked people laughing and splashing in the water fountain, drunk from St. Paddy’s day, and delightedly giggling like they had just invented joy. (Once I’m done this, we’re going to watch American Astronaut).

Tomorrow is Mike’s gig with Buckethead, which should prove to be wicked and by wicked, I mean delightful.

” I don’t want you to be disappointed”


66-year-old pianist Yosuke Yamashita, via Japan Today

A letter marked in chalk, the name dusty from neglect, the sound of sheets wrinkled September in my bed. The words are statements, the antithesis of lyrics. The paper is silent, lifeless except in memories that supply the absent voice. Well, I suppose that’s it then. Every time the phone rang, I almost wondered, but I couldn’t live like that – hopes hovering pointlessly over the receiver as my hand grasped and woke up my voice from where it had been hiding in the time it takes to light one cigarette, the time it takes to say hello.

One signal, a thread of blueprint, I wanted a reprieve, but that’s not what I received.

Rechargable Biologically Based Battery

It was meant to be Ray’s Mariachi Madness birthday party tonight, except that he came down sick. Some of us went through with the plans anyway, as they were a little too weird to casually pass up. The venue, up on third, proved to be a hole-in-the-wall school of some sort, split between Spanish and music classes, decorated in what I can only label Tijuana Church Basement flea market.

It was a one room affair, similar to a community theater show you might find in a film, complete with low, vaguely unflattering lighting, walls awkwardly studded with various traditional decorations, and streamers that may have been left over from someone’s Mexicana wedding. The stage was a raised area with banisters, like an ornamental bridge over a very tiny stream, but instead of a stream, there was a row of potted plants. Most of the attendees spoke rapid Spanish, as did the host of the evening, leaving our friend Mishka, the violinist, looking like a deer in the headlights. A deer in a jacket three sizes too big and a ridiculous hat, mind, but a deer nonetheless.

Not that we were doing much better. At one point, I turned to Wayne and mouthed, “what have we gotten ourselves into?” He replied, “hell if I know, but it’s awesome.” Not only was there Mariachioake, which is exactly what it sounds like, there was also a Mariachi Idol contest that involved volunteers from the audience getting up and howling, and, for one song, the band was led by a five year old boy who sang at the top of his lungs at the prompting of his pregnant mother in the back who guided him through the lyrics with hand signals.

It was like culture shock, but in our own back-yard. If the backwards dancing midget from Twin Peaks had stepped from the audience and taken the mic at any point, I would not even blinked. Staying until the end of the show already felt like suspension of disbelief.

I highly recommend giving it a try. If nothing else, the food is delicious and the beer very, very cheap. Friday nights at 150 e3rd ave, just off Main st. Music starts at 9 o’clock, goes until approximately midnight.

fired up and burned out

Eric Freitas: Reanimating the mechanical heart, elaborately sculptural steam-punk clocks.

Karen, my roommate, gave me a message saying that a Michael called while I was in Kamloops. They left no last name and no clues, except to mention that they had been out of touch for a couple of months. This gives me two salient options, or rather, two people I would like it to be, as there are many Michaels in my life, but only two I can think of who have been silent who I dearly wish to speak to. Curious, these men. Singular, peculiar, and loved.

Desiree Palmen: photos of camouflaged people.

Uncomfortable that they have the same name, I called the less long-distance Michael as soon as I found out, the one who uses Michael, not Mike, left a message, and have not heard back since. The other I have been remiss about trying. I have been shy and timid and my heart has been fluttering afraid. It has been too long since I have heard his voice. Tomorrow, I have decided, i will call. Tonight, instead, I will send him this picture with the subject line, "welcome back to this side of the water" and hope it hits home.

The Eternal Children: a 2006 documentary by David Kleijwegt about the contemporary freak folk scene.

I’m waiting for my man

Twenty-six dollars in my hand

Took pictures of a doctor today, got off the phone with a photographer friend, made plans with a painter for later, going to a gallery tomorrow, giving spare keys to somewhere else, promised to wear a kimono, promised to find a home for a house-pet. A mask waiting in a box on my bed. Cats asleep. Words glistening like the fruit juice at my wrist as the sun falls down behind clouds, too far to warm my city, to light my room more than this screen might. Double exposure, the different brands of cigarette collected in a tiny bottle on my windowsill I do not empty, a model museum of names who’ve stayed the night. The times I’ve closed my bedroom door.

Feel sick and dirty, more dead than alive

I have a cough for the first time in years. Walked home in the cold on Sunday night, upset, throat tight, by the time I arrived my clothes had frozen in patches where the sweat from my skin had wet my shirts. When I was done, after I had peeled off the cracking frost of frigid threads, I sat curled in front of a heater and sent a letter trying to explain why, what had been decided. Hat off as fire licked me. Silent. Too close. My body cracked open, left without a voice.

Oh pardon me sir, it’s the furthest from my mind

Daily photos continue, more than a month now, though always in stolen moments, never more than five minutes. Trying to stay alive has been fighting, trying to catch up from where I have been behind. All of my books have been read as my writing is put aside. My back arches, hanging from one ankle, I’m relearning, examining where I put my punctuation as I redesign where I keep my bones. New skills tying into old ones, applying left onto right. Cloth flaring from my shoulders as the fever breaks. Ink and memory soaked into silk, the shape of this fall the same as my pen. Someone shouting at me about Kafka as I remember to point my toes.

Here he comes, he’s all dressed in black

I keep hoping to hear from certain voices, dark haired creatures I’ve tied to the surface of my heart. Jumping in with both feet solidly planted on water, the waves of our phone numbers, the little cards I buy at the corner store late at night, embossed with maple flags, red and white, all the better when we flip through the books together, contrasting prices against countries, microscopic lists, the ritual of me and the girl behind the desk. She smiles like the taste of someone’s home rests behind her teeth, waiting to get out. Scratch off the possibly carcinogenic silver with a coin, enter the pin number digits, type the long distance, make a song of it, and wait for it to ring. Terrible, the wait for it to ring.

He’s never early, he’s always late

There was a promise of shirts off, standing where I asked, the placement of a camera, the fixing of a light. No time, in the end, as expected, suspected, being justified is never any fun with the things I believe of people. It’s not being negative if it’s realistic, however precious hope can be. Another time, some future we don’t know enough to plan, season shift, other cities, the places we choose to live, the furniture we fill them in with. Conventional wisdom. Dark lines drawn under every eye, cuffs and collar matched, like these are checkpoints to cross the same way I insist I buy flowers for men.

First thing you learn is you always gotta wait

If there’s one thing to learn, as much as anything, I need affectionate goodbyes.

Until tomorrow, but that’s just some other time

the things I want to see for myself

The silence is suffocating, I can hear not only my heartbeat but the quiet susurration of my blood. The cats are both asleep, two soft weights draped over my hips. I can’t hold them close, they’ll wake and wander away in search of a late night snack or some invisible ghost to chase. I wonder, briefly, if it’s possible to dream while so awake, at least rest the brain, but discard the thought, preferring to try and imagine where the people I love are right now. Various time-zones away, some of them aren’t all that far.

South three hours by plane, he’ll be asleep, strewn like an elegant game of pick-up sticks in his bed, lying feral on his left side, pillow loosely clutched to his head, hair caught in his fingers, cute in a way that tugs at my lungs, steals my breath, inspires me to slowly cut away his invariable black t-shirt with a pair of silver scissors and wake him with my tongue whispering poetry to his closed eyes. Stories of drinking in Vegas, Passover, his panic at the word marriage, how we laughed into every single night. Somewhere there will be a red curtains, a disco ball, a potted palm tree, and a video game console.

Another mind-set, seven hours hard drive in the direction of the impossible dawn, someone older, obsessive, more emotional than I could ever learn to be. Skin a different texture than mine, our hands exactly the same size. A half-fictional time-line, we’ve only spent time in hotels, I don’t even know what colour his sheets might be. The only picture I have is comfort, taking second place, offering a place of safety to someone falling apart. When we were together, there were no camp ground rules, if he fell down, he would try to take me with him, though accidentally. Eventually I cut the tether. Life got better. Now we could stand on a roof and scream at the stars together, if we were so inclined. Which we’re not. So don’t ask me to.

One day ahead and five hours behind, another sweet Jewish boy, like a new melodic theme, currently so far away the seasons have flipped, but not so far that we don’t have darkness at similar times. It’s not late enough for him to tucked into bed with the rest of us, however, so I lose my thread, can’t kiss him awake, begin mentally scanning pictures I’ve seen of the general antipode of the North Atlantic Ocean. Lush beaches, insanely colourful coral reefs, endless summer, dry dusty wastes, and ridiculous movies I love dearly. Lethal wild-life, big bouncing rat-things with gigantic feet. Some big rock right in the middle. Nowhere I can clearly place him. I’m bad at this game. Instead, I can picture him playing, his incredible, wry smile drenched in sweat, the effort of his music literally dripping off in waves. I can picture a stage, something festival, hemp clothing, om beaded necklaces, something wide and tent-like, people dancing, and the perpetual threat of rain. Completely and utterly wrong. He’s probably at dinner, I should go to bed. This is presumably the sort of thing that drives little girls mad in Victorian novels. Oh Herr Frankstein, only speak when you’re spoken to. Don’t use the wrong cutlery. Remember to sleep.

Seattle: March 18th.

my heart will do the rest, tasting a name as something sacred, it all comes out in the wash


The storm’s knocked out lights in the city tonight, so many it’s possible to see stars. I felt a flutter of silent excitement when I found out, but I live too far away from the dark zones to prowl through like I want to.

Late, drizzling black, cold through the curtains, the cats have gone to bed without me. I’m resolved to get through at least ten more photos from my trip to Alberta, sort through, pick out the clear ones, fix the colour, try to resist the urge to pick up the phone and call long-distance. He’s got time off, the most since I’ve met him, and somehow this makes the silence unbearable in a way that it wasn’t before. Thoughts unworthy of living inside of my skull, walking down back alleys, scrawling poetry on the walls. Conversations flit through, scattering sentences, accuracy slithering away like a harshly edited student film. Jumpy, erratic, stretches of time where I can’t make out the words for the mumbling colours that are freezing the frame. Last week I had it, the week before that it was verbatim.

The pictures help, they soothe the feeling of thinning memory, of intimacy and time stretched too dim. As always, I wish I had taken more, captured us at the Greek restaurant, how he made me laugh so hard I thought I might die, or during the ride from Calgary to Edmonton, his brown eyes lightening with confessions, delicious history spun into a rope to tie us together, handcuffs made of the darkness of the classroom where he put his head on the desk and passed out as a child. I smile just to think of it, grin madly when no one is looking. Stories, the oldest magic, scratched out of experience, perfect, solid, swallowed and digested whole. The terrible things offered for sale in a truck stop bath-room as we travelled North, anticipating how we might be late. On the phone with the manager, writing directions down on the inside flap of a travel book map. Why we didn’t order chicken feet, the immortality of sharks, wondering if the police should be called if I went missing. How he laughs. The bare outlines of history filling in with names, anecdotes, similar feelings from disparate narratives. What it felt like to be one day closer or to kiss him.

It makes me wish I were a visual artist, so I could draw the moments I missed with my camera, illustrate the wonder of my heart as it sang with the vibration of his blinding, sweet consideration. I am starved for these images, worried I will not write them down in time, will not examine them with a heavy enough contemplation to lock them into place for later, to turn in my head like a crystal splashing pure white light into colour.

I had him stop the van in the middle of a street next to the river in Edmonton, just to look at the moon.

cue the strings

COILHOUSE wants your mix-tapes.

Going over the chocolate curls of his hair, pixel by pixel, checking for colour errors, it brings me back to his voice, to the way he looked at me, what we were talking about in that moment. Frozen forever in a smile, frozen forever fiddling with his hat, we are frozen together forever, as long as the magnetic media holds. Trapping these things is important to me, and after, I always wish I had taken more. A man standing, looking to me, bashful, gentle, as violently whip crack clever as a black angel’s heart. Overhead, we are trapped by the sky. There, I point my lens, where a line of dark humour finds the curve of his eyes, meets the curve of the sea that’s soon to separate our quiet promises, empty my bed, leave my sheets and blankets cold to my tired fingers, slice my mind from my heart.

I think about how precise the winter felt, the taste of the temperature, of the season. My indoor shoes had soles too thin for the frosted sidewalks, my hands not enough blood for the frost. I liked how he fretted, didn’t want me carrying things, but gave in against my steady wave of obstinance. I carried on, glad, as careful as possible, as velvet certain as only the oldest child of too many siblings can be. Raised to do this, navigating heavy black boxes over frozen sidewalks from the van to the stage, considering that all doors should always be about two inches wider the same way platform wheels never seem to point in the same direction.

The staff talked as if I were one of them. Casual, off-hand, slightly derisive of the people drinking at the bar. It was appreciated, it reminded me of the bigger picture, told me I belonged where I had escaped. I watched the stage, obscurely proud, taking notes on set-up for later. My perpetual need to be useful. When I ran out of things to do, I went across the foodcourt to the bathroom and yanked my hair into a knot in the bathroom, pinning it up with a pen, to came back ready to make other men jealous. Soundcheck. Percussion. Sound filling the room. Howls. When they were gone, it was sudden, it felt like the room had lost a front tooth in a playground brawl.

Samorost’s artist made a music video.

why do you turn and shield your eyes?

December 3oth, Nicole and I stayed up all night, painting my apartment. Plastering the walls, sanding, priming, coating the baseboards with chocolate coloured latex, re-lining my terribly beige bay windows with white. The plan was to spend all night painting and have dusty magenta up on the longest wall by dawn, but we didn’t quite make it. The crooked walls of my apartment require a lot of patience and an awake, steady hand. We started in the evening, light-checking while there was still the barest edge of sunset in the sky, and packed it in around five, thinking it was better to quit before the sun came back. We only took one break, around three in the morning, to deke out and fetch some food. (On-line, Alastair stayed up too, the dear creature, at his apartment, working the muppet-coat New Year’s card until the music looped properly and we had a working load screen.) There was a lot of laughter, a lot of talking about boys and travel. Plans we’d like to have, places we’d like to see. It was really nice, the best way I’ve ever wrapped up a year.

I had reason to be extra glad how late we stayed up. December 30th here is December 31st in Australia, which means that Mike is five hours behind, but a day ahead. Long-distance, sure, but that’s why calling cards are made. “Happy New Year’s! We’re painting my apartment fuchsia!” It went straight to machine, and I was so tired I couldn’t have told you what message I left, but it made me happy to make the gesture, and that’s really all I need. I went to sleep around seven, smiling, the day already well begun.