Author: foxtongue

zombiewalk 2005

***ZOMBIEWALK 2005***

Saturday, August 27 – starts 4pm from the VAG (and 5pm from 15th and Sophia) (near Main St).

*** ZOMBIE JAMBOREE ***
Come to VIDEO IN (1965 Main St,) for zombieriffic fun starting from 9pm!

Jello, movies, unbaptisms and a pinata or two, all to the sweet sweet sounds of:

Irezicle
G42
The Creaking Planks
The Cranberrys
and more . . .

The walk will start in two-stages as follows:

1. All non-lazy zombies (or “super zombies”) are invited to gather on or around the big steps at the Vancouver Art Gallery no later than 4pm. From the VAG the horde will be skytrain bound. After a stumble through the mall and a short jaunt on Vancouver’s fine public transit system we will de-train at Main St. station and stumble on up to the Bethlehem Lutheran Church – 320 East 15th – two blocks east of Main. Once there, we will take a short pause to collect ourselves, gnaw on brains, and meet up with . . .

2. The lazy zombies. A second group of zombies will gather in front of the above mentioned church (Bethlehem Lutheran, 320 East 15th, at Sophia and E 15th) at or around 5pm. Remember – zombies tend to move slowly and occasionally have problems with limbs falling off, body stiffness and possibly skytrain security officers. If you do not see any of your brethren exactly at 5pm, be patient. Mill about and look scary.

Once all zombie factions have massed at the church it will be time to head to the final destination

*****NOTE CHANGE TO FINAL DESTINATION*****

The park at 8th and Brunswick.

We can pretend it’s a cemetery. After all, who knows what’s buried under everything . . . the consensus seems to have been: skytrain good; cemetery good, but too far and skytrain better. So park it is – there will still be games and fun, an a whole block of grass to wander about and fall down on. Plus – it’s close to Video In (1965 Main Street) – which is where everyone should go after the zombiewalk for more zombie fun!
That’s right . . . if you’re not sick of the living dead yet come for music, movies, participatory fake ritual, more games and more fun . . .

Video In
27 August
9pm, by donation

Yes, you do have to dress like a zombie. Those who do not do so are welcome, but risk having their brains eaten by confused zombies. You have to admit – they’re not all that smart, but they know a good living brain when they smell it.

Potentially useful things to keep in mind:
Causes of zombie-ness:
As everyone knows – or should know – zombies are usually attributable to one or more of the following:
1. voodoo
2. science gone astray – chemical or biological accidents, experiments, viruses and the like
3. the apocalypse

Of course, there are many more possibilties. Be creative. Corpses in all stages of decay are encouraged.

For the low-budget zombie:
Oatmeal and liquid latex works wonders.
Food colouring and corn syrup makes convincing blood, but sticky. However, also tasty.
Value Village – but I’m sure it’s hardly necessary to mention that.

Finally: As mentioned previously – zombies are only really effective when travelling together in large groups. Bring your friends, foes, family and other loved ones. Nothing says you love someone quite like caking yourself in make-up, limping down the street together and eating them in the park!

Bring along make-up in your pockets in case you eat anyone along the way

no brains at 2:30 a.m.


Evening Standard: AAARRRGGGHHH!
Originally uploaded by DarrenS.

Sadly mirroring personal mythology, the enchanting piano man turned out to be fake. Blond, handsome, slightly strange, it blisters the mind to think of what beauty the original story creates. Avoiding the world, he lived there as a broken prince successfully and brilliantly, filling the void that so many of us have in our most secret of romantic hearts.

Today Ray and I went out fetching undead attire. A liquidation house near Aaron’s house just got in wedding and prom dresses. It was just what we needed to go with our dismembered arms and shrunken heads. We’re going as a possible wedding party.

Scott, lafinjack, is here, having flown in from Texas for Saturday’s ZOMBIEWALK 2005.

For those who asked – Yes, meeting up at my house is an available option. We’re going to likely start with make-up around noon and there are tentative plans to gather later at April’s apartment downtown, as it’s closer.

the evolution of hindsight

I saw him in a photograph today, handed casually to me across a table. Part of my heart remembered and died, the rest of me got caught in the night captured. Shane was on stage that night, in a way he never had been before. We were there, this place, but across the room. It was this person, and my person, and Him. We sat bunched up on benches, layered like only the most comfortable friends can be. One in front of the other. I could lean back and taste happiness with my skin. I did. I could lean forward and see god on stage, orating. I cried. Later became one of our own little secrets. The image of him waiting outside, “I thought you would never leave.” It was too cold, we said, we thought. It would have been perfect. A silence held between the bare space between our bones, the breath that never came after the knife slid in. I don’t love anyone else, they’ve been pushed out, replaced by this one terrible figure. This creature that drives me to need blood, to need touch, to need… to need at all. I didn’t know how before. I haven’t drawn breath since he left. I haven’t drawn breath since he returned.

I should have pressed harder when I knew something wasn’t right.

This is the oldest story. My name is Psyche. It is widow. It is dust. I am a woman and my love has left me. Thrown me over without word, fled in the night when the candle was lit, but without a stanchion of rules for me to lean against. Fled uselessly, as I have no way to find him. History says I may get over it. That is all history says. It makes no promises for having a future that is not bereft of happiness. It is more honest than that, for all that it was written by man.

He called today, maybe while I was being handed his graven image. My vulnerability flared bright, limning my walls with pain, then flickered out. Flame requires oxygen and I have none. My blood is cold, sluggish and heavy, the same as my hands dripping letters upon these keys. I love him. I finally understand an aspect of religion I never did before, the desire to have protocol, to be able to hide behind ceremony. My child inside has revealed itself to be a newly lonely thing, unholy and made of roses. Petals are falling, He loves me, he certainly loves me not at all. Maybe he did once, but he forgot. He spent too much time as a bear instead of a mouse. Living in the skin of an animal, it’s said you lose your way. I’m uncertain if allowing such creatures into the home is a good idea. They make messes, they desecrate the sacred places. He used to sleep in this bed. We used to sleep in this bed. I remember being touched, being touched without crying.

When he left, I wandered the airport, refusing to leave without finding myself a memento, a tiny piece of sadness to carry as a solid thing. You’re like a dream, what if one day I’ll wake up? My eyes grazed over tables for silver and found nothing until the very last shop. There, on a shelf, a necklace of glittering red crystals that looked like a slashed throat set in victorian pewter. I put it on before I left the building and I have yet to take it off for more than one day or one night. It carried the promise of his reality with it, holding my neck where he kissed it, where he touched me goodbye so sweetly that a porter smiled into his sleeve at us like in an old-fashioned movie. I took a picture of myself on the bus back into town, trying to see what it looked like. I tried to smile, thinking how stupid bravery is, how I wanted to cry. Black and white and read all over, that’s me, I thought. He’ll call when he lands, he’ll call and I’ll tell him about this and he’ll laugh.

I feel better that I didn’t believe him when he said he was writing about me.

А робот красивый всетаки.

There’s something outrageous in the soft budding implications of the right kind of whorled red roses. My fingers want to slip inside the warm coloured heart of them and stroke outward. Then lick. Usually I am a sane girl, careful in my associations, not prey to flighty fancies, but occasionally there’s just something about flowers. The impulses leap, as if from a slipped leash, and land, quivering, in front of a garden of alluring possibilities, fiercely demanding meaning to be applied to simple explainable mundane things.

“I bought him flowers here before I left. I wonder what happened to them. They were beautiful enough to eat.” She’s standing, weight on her hip, with her head slightly tilted to the side, one hand making vague gestures in the air. In her pocket was a gun made of black ink, a paper paged monstrosity of honest secrets, his phone number. He hung the moon. Her eyes tighten. “No, I don’t want to know.“

  • zombie make-up tips.
  • a bloodsucking dalek
  • zombie infection simulation

    The owner of Love’s Touch is a pleasant coppery woman, friendly and prosaic. She’s asked me to start tomorrow for a short shift beginning at eleven. In my interview she asked my age and after my family. Both of which are usually not allowed, but in this case I understand. Significant others or parents are known to threaten girls who work in such places, as if the sex toys on the back wall mitigate them from all social responsibility. All bet’s off, there’s latex present. “You don’t have the kind of boyfriend who would crash in and grab you by the neck, yelling, if he found out you worked here, do you?” My first reaction is, “Dear me, people would put up with those people?” before I remember, well, yes. Of course they do. Everyone does at some point or another, it’s just a matter of extremity, how willing one is to be victimized.

    • a black and white picture day


    Robert Moog, the gentle genius known to many as the
    father of electronic music, died at his North Carolina
    home yesterday. He was 71.

    “One day after losing Bob Moog, the electronic music community has lost one of its greatest composers, musique concrete and found-sound composer Luc Ferrari. Ferrari not only was the founding director of an academy dedicated to musique concrete but continued to advance the notion of recorded sound as music with experiments like turning a recording of a Yugoslav village into music. The fact that we now find such innovations old-hat is partly due to the influence he had.” link

    Moog link.

  • Beths’ concert was delightful and Ethan’s sister very very sexy.
  • Tomorrow I have a job interview at an erotic costume shoppe. I am amused. There may be enough irony to give me escape velocity from the tawdry implications.
  • My keyboard seems to have died. I’m currently using an iMac keyboard off my roommate. It’s literally a pain to use, further proof that the designers were all sadists. If anyone knows of a cheap place to get ergonomic keyboards, my wrists would be exceedingly grateful.
  • Also, zombie make-up. Anyone have anything particular in mind?

    … and from zombies, we get:

  • remote controlled humans

    • where are we going for breakfast?


    CN15
    Originally uploaded by nowhere.

    Mishka’s in town for the first time in a year. We’re building a house of everything that happened since I saw her. Mine’s five fingers of clumsy pain in a cut glass cup that never existed, hers is three of short-girl cuddly with a dash of boy complaint for good measure stuffed into a tanned pillow. If you knew her, that sentence would make sense. It would be concise, even. As it is, barely anyone I know has ever come in contact with her. This should change.

    I’d like for my friends to meet her.

    She’ll be with me today until six-thirty or so, and I may be seeing her again this week during the day sometime. She’s back in Victoria for a show on Friday, then back here for part of the weekend, then off to Calgary to visit her relationship.

    Also, tonight is Beth‘s show:

    stay and

    &nbspLV sez to BoinbBoing, “Lia over at cheesedip.com annotated the Electronic Bard’s love poem from Stanislaw Lem’s The Cyberiad, for those of us who are not quite mathematically savvy but still want in on the joke.”

    Come, let us hasten to a higher plane
    Where dyads tread the fairy fields of Venn,
    Their indices bedecked from one to n
    Commingled in an endless Markov chain!

    Come, every frustrum longs to be a cone
    And every vector dreams of matrices.
    Hark to the gentle gradient of the breeze:
    It whispers of a more ergodic zone.

    Link

     

    I can’t tell if I got enough sleep. My bedframe of bones is creaking, unready for heavy use. The springs are fallen, rusting in thier saltwater sheath.

    Seven days of respect for seven days of disrespect is better than trade, you’re coming out on top.


    At the airport
    Originally uploaded by kickass karen.

    Across the bridge I saw a plane landing in water traveling the same speed as the traffic we were caught in. I said nothing, uncertain as what there was to say. Slide. Water. It was all one movement, as if you could feel it as a weight on the tongue. Part of my mind curled up, another unfurled. The sky was a glyph, something I could concentrate with the sound of rain. Weight one into the other, like bodies trying to find pleasure in pressure, and I could be free for a moment of his name. Instead inside my hands lay the bitter slice of pylon into wave, the contact moment when what was weightless gains momentum. The back of my eyelids was crusted with salt, barnacle spit, the erosion of steel next to the beach. I didn’t blink.

    Where are you here? A box. Retrieve your history or I toss it into the ocean.

    We were intending on going to Wreck to watch friends spin fire in their skins, but it was shut down by nine o’clock. A cell phone call warned us off those endless stairs in the dark. Isolated yet together now, modern world moments that make me happy like brief flashes of green velvet light behind a door I’ve lost the keys to. I’m going to have to force it soon, this walking asleep is getting to me. There’s signs that say this is just another coping mechanism, one on the other side of black depression. This afternoon I cried mid-sentence. Suddenly I discovered my words were broken, my language seized up irreparably, caught on the edges of my teeth and mangled into sheds of dignity that quickly fell away, dissolved by the pressure inside my eyes. There was no thought, just shaking.

    Kokoro tomorrow instead


    masque
    Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

    We missed Butoh today. However, after an aborted Dominique-Jhayne&Chris are-going-to-steal-Reine-for-breakfast, Chris and I are venturing out to find him a new digital camera. For this we employ our secret spy, our in on the man, Mr. Ferguson.

    My throat is still torn from howling at the women on stage last night. Called Stilettos and Strap-ons, Sylvia‘s group is new and rule-breaking. I entirely approve. As a segue into Rocky Horror, it was fabulous. A family reunion of utterly strange proportion. (No one knew I could femme quite like that, not even me.) We dragged my friend Amber from one event to the next, and I think she had a really good time. An unexpected meshing of social groups, but one I think I’m going to enjoy.

    Is there anything going on tonight?