With apologies to Max Ehrmann as initially I was only trying to remember the Desiderata

I don’t know you, but we refuse to go placidly amid the noise, which is good. For once, the haste is ours. I warn you, however, this is familiar; how I bring joy. You’ve crawled into my life smiling with a whimper and the promise of bang, both unexpected, and I find myself bound to your responsibilities because I like you in spite of them. Unexpected is understatement. You steal what I steal and replace it with truth spoken quietly with affection. We avoid the loud and the aggressive, and violence escapes us, vexations to the spirit, except in our hands clutching at each others hair. That knowledge is comforting to me. If you don’t look to force your religious opinions or your political surfeits upon others, than I will keep respect in my heart warm and welcoming and stand with you as far as possible without surrender. As long as those traps remain empty, it is not my business how you continue your life apart from me. As long as there is love there, I need not concern myself. If you choose to adopt a child and raise it, you have my utmost respect. My concerns will remain with myself and I will offer as placid a pool as possible and attempt to rinse myself of my frustrations. If you choose to raise that child into a specific lifestyle, that’s fine, as long as religion is not an excuse for intolerance. You are already braver than I. (When half a million people led by their religious leaders gather in a 21st century city to protest a law that gives opportunity for two people who love each other to raise a child, it gives me pause as to whether this is a world that I would ever want to introduce a child to.)

I am usually complicit in the world, not comparing myself to others, for there are always be greater persons than myself in my estimation, and I make every effort to know as diverse a group of people as I possibly can. Diversity brings the new, insights and experiences that I would never have discovered had I remained wrapped in my own existence. But fundamentally, I don’t know why you like me. My mien’s been trampled, there are only a fistful of similarities left; we are on good terms with most people, we find good humour in the world, we listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story. My skeleton is not made of such fine stuff as yours, it was spun messily and without comfort. I feel outdistanced.

My employment leaves much to be desired, but I do my best when I am present, however much I would wish to be elsewhere. When I leave, I wish to leave a positive impression and a place where I remain accepted. The world is a frequently hostile place, I want to have as little negative impact as possible. If I am to raise my voice, it should be to combat intolerance and promote distinctiveness. It is my own blindness to virtue that gives me discomfort where I’m positioned, not a lack in the striving industry of local friends. I want that as clear as the happiness in your eyes when you see me smiling back at you, granting without cynicism that you are not enough for me to stay as much as I am not enough for you to leave. In my adoration is hard knowledge sharpened on ‘I should have known better’ that states with great clarity that there can always be another human being to capture me, that there are enough souls alive to capture you as well, that we can’t find ourselves alone unless we choose to be, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass. I was not raised to be a child, though I had a right to be, instead I was raised to be strong in spirit. It may yet save me, but not from you. You are a piece of the universe unfolding the same way I am. It would be a gift to let go of everything I hold so tightly, but I don’t know how.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

your basement’s on fire would make a delightful in store euphimsim


ScanImage171
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

There is something startling about the first kiss. It’s always a surprise, even if you’ve known for a year that it was coming.

I wore a police cap in the store today. It kept falling forward onto my eyes, resting on my glasses and obscuring my vision. Someone said it looked too appropriate to be sexy and I laughed. My sleeves are pink silk today, and everything else is covered in wine velvet. I look as if I dressed to span three centuries and I forgot to brush my hair. It floated in a tousled corona of cloud around my head until I went out into the rain to fetch us tea from the Starbucks on the corner. I stood a minute outside the shop while my hands were slowly scorched by the cups of hot water and looked up into the sky, fascinated by the feeling of light wind and water falling out of the heavens, feeling a moment like I was alive instead of pretending to be infatuated by a little grinding retail life. It soaked me enough that I could tie my hair in a passable knot and be done with it. I’m fairly certain my manager didn’t notice the delay. She stands outside intermittently and smokes.

Every time I approach the red velvet curtain that separates the store proper from the storage area haphazardly filled with sex toys, I face a a row of unpleasantly shiny vaginas in clear cases winking at eye level and inwardly wince. It’s a vision of cheaply kept entertainment, our back area. The door to our bathroom has broken off its hinges. To the left plastic bins messily marked ANAL (small) and HARD DILDOES in block letters with black permanent marker are stacked on cheaply made metal shelves, to the right is a wall plastered in tiny crabby notes on how to properly run the store written by people who aren’t familiar with what needs to be done. I am continually impressed at how difficult it is to find anything in a place where black marker writing is on everything. LIGHTSWITCH, ALLURE, NIPPLE CLIPS, ALL CROTCHLESS PANTIES, POCKET ROCKETS, REMEMBER TO TURN OFF THE LIGHTS, SOFT VIBRATORS, ANKLE CUFFS, MENS, ALL GARTER BELTS, PLEASE REMEMBER TO REMOVE BATTERIES FROM TOYS BEFORE PUTTING THEM BACK ON THE WALL, BEADS, BOOTY SHORTS. It just goes on, and yet everything is moved every day. It would be an adventure if the prizes were anything I wanted to find.

oops, wrong speed on that one

Peel’s comparing debut on Top Of The Pops: “In case you’re wondering who this funny old bloke is, I’m the one who comes on Radio 1 late at night and plays records made by sulky Belgian art students in basements dying of TB.”

What sound does not create the grandest of consequence? This October 13th was the one year anniversary of the very last session played by the late John Peel. For you in the Americas, John Peel was the man whose tastes dictated law in the land of new music. Your media failed you if you didn’t know this already. He died of a heart attack last October while on vacation with his family in Peru, a tragedy. The BBC has been putting together tribute concerts for him all week.

Here are some of Peel’s stories, collected from a series of interviews with Simon Garfield.

Here is a collection of legally free downloads of music that he’s played, as well as a toss of links relating to other pages of Peel and information.

Here is his list of twenty favourite albums, with a bit of Peel information on each. There is a BBC list of links at the bottom of the page that are well worth going through.

Speech-only MP3s of Peel standing in for Mark Radclffe in October 1996, with guests Lee & Herring and Stuart Maconie. Nearly all the music has been edited out (bar a Swedish Elvis impersonator), leaving 50 minutes’ worth of deadly genius. All reports agree that Peel’s contributions on the second MP3 are particularly fine.

A comprehensive list of his Festive 50’s, a yearly listener’s poll of favourite records.

“I know that I’m going to die trying to read the name of some band in the headlights of a car behind me, and then drive into a truck in front. People will say, ‘Oh, this is the way he would have wanted to go.'”

cross your fingers and make a wish

A quarter to having to go to work and I’m still being kept up at night. Left over hey you, I don’t think so, let’s not talk. It feels like sitting at a crowded bar alone. It’s too bad I don’t drink. In these shoes, it’s not like I could spin on my heel. One by one, these secrets come in and roost. Little feathered weights that never fly away. Rocks to throw into the ocean that crawl home to sleep in the lungs at night. I want another trip to Seattle, another shot at visiting the Roq La Rue gallery, another day with my hands on brushed steel, but most importantly, six hours trapped in a car with someone I could talk to. Victoria’s a chance too, closer and with places to stay overnight. There are beds there that would welcome me and whomever I brought with me. I float in an interesting sea. Mishka’s birthday was recently, I should bring her something. Nicholas had his heart trapped, I should shake her hand. There are reasons, social outings, let’s sit on this tiny piece of seawall and look at the water, just like everywhere else with a shore. I’m carrying polished stones, let me carve my name upon them. Let me pretend I can believe in my silent stories.

Speaking feels like thorns pricking my tongue. It’s dizzying. I can’t focus on anything important to me. There are skeins of words waiting for me, but I can’t untangle my fingers from the knots I made when I spun basic dried straw into gold. Desire’s a powerful thing, I’d like to let some out to play, but first I have to collect it like dew in a leaf before dawn, else the charm won’t charm, the curiosity will prove itself to be a wretched liar.

From thenowhere:

Calling all everyones out there.
I’m going to turn off IP logging.
Then I’m gonna turn on screening.

You know what your part is?

Anonymously Comment. That way the world can read your secret with me. I don’t want to share something with everyone if you thought you were only sharing it with me.

Tell me a secret. A nasty, awful, atrocious secret. And it really ought to be yours, though since things will be anonymous, eh, who can tell? Name no names, simply because if your secret involves anyone else, it’s not just your secret to tell. I’m going to screen the replies to this one, only because I don’t wanna see a flame war about someone going ‘ZOMFG U R TEH SICKOO!!!!1’

You have a hundred thousand chances in a lifetime to confess your fears and your weaknesses, but you rarely see them. So I’m pointing one out, right here, right now.

Tell the whole world that secret. Let it out.

anonymous commenting fixed.

today someone called me by my middle name


Alto Firenze!
Originally uploaded by Iv0/0vi.

Traffic at this time of the morning is mostly trains. Heavy rumbles of solid metal thunder grumbling too far away to hear properly, fog horns mournful through the record scratch sound of violent heavy rain. If I were to speak, my voice would be a surprising sound, something too big for the space of my hearing to encompass without setting off a quickened heartbeat.

Even my music is off.

Ryan is asleep and recovering from being mildly ill. This was ostensibly to be his last day at work, but they decided to have him on a couple more days before his contract with them runs out. Hours are welcome, he says, and I believe him. We are young and finances not bright. The jobs we have are tenuous, the jobs we have [are/our] small grinding wheels. I don’t have the skills to find myself something better and currently it seems he doesn’t have the will.

  • Red blood cells fitted with artificial tails.
    (quicktime here).

    Respirocytes – Designing an Artificial Red Cell.

    Concern is dawning.

  • I refuse consequence.

    Sunday : working 2 – 5pm ->> 5:30 Lori, broadway stn.
    Monday : working 5 – 8pm, Korean movie night
    Tuesday :
    Wednesday: cowboy bebop 12 – 5pm, rehearsal 6:30
    Thursday : working 2 – 9pm
    Friday : working 3 – 9pm
    Saturday : working 2 – 8pm

    “The morning mists had risen long ago, so the evening mists were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of tranquil light they showed to me, I saw no shadow of another parting me.”

    The body as a home. Every nail, chewed maybe, I do not know, is still a protection, a fine metaphor for weapon tipped fingers. Promises about an intent to future. We are our own checks and balances, our own inner ear and voice. Time will burn ripe without my having to think about it. This is a call to soft arms. My wrists, they crack under the weight of history, one hand a bracelet around bones, crack. This is a slight battle with having to go home. The foundations are iron but rusty. My attic is crawling with what nice people do and the traps I’ve laid down for them. One trick is to turn around in time to see the other person walk away without being caught. Otherwise sadness closes in, reminiscent of airports and long drawn out sighs on the street, as if everything should have changed while you were away for that last ten minutes. The best part is that trick is a lie, but an accepted one, like going home to comfort and safety. Stability deters the basic creature from improvisation, from evolving. Looking back only leaves part of your gaze behind you to drag like a sucking wake behind the sails of your coat and breaks the illusion of independence that pacing away like duelists kindly offers.

    I want to visit Iceland. It appears to me as beautiful beyond measure, as if the music born there were merely a representation of the stones and soil.

    A little present for a dear friend, who I know has forgotten these.

    This day last year, at almost this exact time, my friend Jenn came over and visited. I took some pictures and promised to send them to her. I did that, but today I’ve uploaded them. She’s married now. I was a bridesmaid a her quirky wedding. At the time these were taken, she was just barely Steve‘s fiance and I hadn’t punished myself yet for being in love with someone. I like the last one best. We’re both smiling for people particular.

    241 242 243

    I wonder if we can still get away with calling her a girl. I vote yes.

    Damn I miss my purple hair.

    empty time today



    Originally uploaded by Boytoy.

    I’m vacillating between listening purely to The Arcade Fire and what new music I’ve found this week. It’s a difficult decision, Funeral being a powerfully difficult album to put down.

    The lighthouse is fractured, a flash of light explaining very strange pieces of personal mythology. blink The first time I was seduced by a woman. blink Going there with the band the next day. blink Balancing rocks with my missing lover, my best friend, the only person who’d met him last time. My eyes cannot be covered by my hands to shut it out. blink I don’t want to. blink It’s a strange place to think about only because I’m not used to it. I forget it exists. blink A picnic, they talked about making a music video on a sailboat for a song about whales. blink A different lover, but the same best friend. Fire. blink oh Nikki’s hair blink oh how he used to have a temper blink the painter blink the violent drinker blink different people, the time I almost threw myself in. GLITTER WARNING FLASH. One of the only lights you can accurately see across the inlet. The memories creeping into the fabric of the trees and cliffs and water. FLASH. It’s Vancouver, this particular quality of light remembering. The sign on the road. The parking lot hemmed by forest. Running the path. Running the cliff. The water looks like expensive gun-metal silk shimmering in a radio play. Everyone sits and raises the children of conversation in front of the ocean. It’s only human, but how I wish I could swim.

    `Wearing an aura of rugged-intellectual charm like a plastic raincoat …’ — Sam Merwin Jr.

    Fantasy spark: water warmer than this, with you.

    tag “john peel” should make this easier

    Mark on the calendar, October 13th 2005 is the date of the first John Peel Day. Later I hope to have time enough and the inclination of the awake to collect together as much John Peel as I can to share with you all. audiography has dedicated this week to him and has already been posting some very choice music. However, my main contribution to the discovery of new music will be slightly early, as Nicholas has pointed me to loveliness this evening.

    The artist is that 1 guy, and he is the best one man music I’ve ever heard. His lyrics are superb, his wacky home-made instrument intimidating awesome. It’s called “The Magic Pipe” because it is. I’m not sure I know of anything so captivatingly versatile. There’s a Listen To Entire Album button. I highly recommend it and also say, watch the video too.

    I’ve discovered that I’m still twanging in dangerous ways from my dancing binge. It’s effort to turn my head, it goes against the natural reaction of my body complaint. I’m impressed. I walked away from an afternoon a few weeks ago attempting to teach Graham and Ryan how to use a sword with less bruises. (And Graham catches on quick to the idea of being hit without being hit). Course, part of it is the stupidly long walk I took with Alastair earlier today. He’s only in Vancouver a few days before leaving for San Francisco and Fiji, so we went for breakfast at Slickety Jim’s Chat & Chew this afternoon. My first mistake was expecting service on a holiday, my second was walking with him from there to Commercial and First, then up to Broadway. My eyes waved at some houses I knew and some interesting landmark graveyards, but the blisters are trying to argue that it wasn’t worth it. Lying on the couch at Korean Movie Monday was like sinking into hot chocolate on a cold day.

    The film tonight wasn’t astonishing, My Beautiful Girl Mari was too mellow for that, but it was legitimately beautiful. The IMDB summary tells you nothing of use. What’s needed is an appreciation for magic realism, for the illusion of edgeless animation, and a commiseration with the logic of children. There is no painfully basic plot, only a gentle climb into a remembered summer that unwinds into terrifically averted disaster and cleverly prosaic goodbyes. The alternate world the boys enter is deeply reminiscent of dreaming, (that the cat also visits this world, they do not bother to explain, and nor will I, as it should be evident), being a place of clouds and peculiar consequences that drops them back into the real world without any warning, though certainly with the sadness of parting.

    Subliminal Mind Software – Achieve Superhuman Mind Abilities

    I fell entirely in love with Lost In Translation, did you?

    It’s one of those strange little times, when you and I haven’t spoken and we’re left wondering. I’m reading the notes toward a paper of sexuality and it makes me laugh a little at how little I think about this sort of thing. I’m infatuated with history and mood and mythos, but the holiness of sex? It smacks of religion. Play as something apart from the self. I don’t wax full of jesus metaphor when I think of my desires. Yes, I miss you. I think of my repairing self in terms of myth and archetype. Visions of archimedes screws, that’s sexy. There’s the pun and the history and the lovely lilting action. I think in quivering multi-layer presentations sliding past innocence into carefully arranged chaos.

    In celebration of 50 years of spoken-word publishing, Caedmon has released “Dylan Thomas: The Caedmon Collection,” available as audio cassettes and a beautifully designed 11 CD set. They are all available for free download here, at Salon. Non-subscribers, like me, have to wait through an advertisement. For such a treasure, it’s a ridiculously cheap price. Dylan adds an unimaginable depth to his own work. It’s a rare gift to find an author who can read as beautifully as he does. Even if you’ve never heard of Dylan Thomas, (and for damned shame, if you haven’t, get out from under your weird rock), for the sake of decency, I demand you take this.

    When someone today used the word dragon, I brought to mind more than fantasy and scales. It’s no fun unless every meaning is evident at once. I supply large soaring creations of imagination, terrible art from the 80’s, wicked claws that tore poets apart in medieval Japan and young mythical virgins who were really fucking the millers son, millers sons being all the rage back in the day. They were rich, you see? Not like you and I. We are pulling on opposite ends of a very similar rope. It’s not the McEmployment but it’s as close as pretending can be. Stability and the risk board, all those coloured squares mocking the agonies of war. Roll the dice to find out where you get to kiss me. I need out of my job as much as you’re thinking about me when you shouldn’t be. We only sell those dice to women and that bothers my personality. The western world irritates in it’s persistent subservience to christendom.

    I suspect there’s a line between words that you’re not delineating, but that I might be seeing when you’re looking the other way.