Author: foxtongue

where (are/you)

I thought I was in a relationship, but in the last week, everything special has wound out of patience. It’s let go of the rope and what I feel is falling out. I’ve been remembering stories about immortality, about when the gods walked among the mortals of the earth. Two children waited in the dark outside the door, they went inside and saw candles, stars, quick bright flames and steady burning embers. They were lives, every soul upon the earth shining, visible because it was time for them to choose thier own. One chose the faster burning bright and the other chose the dreaming warmth that continued for thrice as long, (it’s always three in the stories, but you know this.)

I want a catalyst, a defining moment of this can no longer be, and so far what I’ve found is a damning silence. A caught grabbed tear the cloth with my fingernails phone-call with no content, that was last week, one day short of a week. Not enough to live off, not enough to find my way into having a being again. I said I would not write the first letter, not throw away my needs anymore for desire, for the elemental grief that’s the only available trade. I stand by what I said. I stand by my differences in thought, my basic requirements of contact and breathing.

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.

events: I might help with fireworks this year, yay.


Nerd Prom (sent from reader)
Originally uploaded by warrenellis.

Tonight, is Amanda‘s birthday party, a huge thing planned at Patti, Simon, Tyler, and Karen’s house.

Tomorrow, July 16th, is Quicky Culture Night downtown at Jervis & Davie. E-mail for directions. Remember to bring some sort of short piece of media to share!

Also, for those interested, it’s the day of the METRO MAKE-OUT: taking back first base for the second time. People are meeting at Broadway station at 6pm. I’d be up for it if I could offer more than enthusiatic hand-holding.

Monday, July 18th., Korean Movie Monday, where we’ll be watching Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring.

Saturday, July 23rd, is Illuminares, the lantern festival at Trout Lake.

Saturday August 27 at 3pm is Zombie Walk Vancouver 2005. Starting from “somewhere horribly frightening” a horde of living dead will stumble en masse towards Mountain View Cemetery on Fraser St.

call out

Today after work I’m being bundled onto a motorcycle and being driven out to a private studio to record some spoken word. I am what we call nervous. I am also somehow lost. My only writing is what has gone up here and I am uncertain which entries to pick. I’m very in the tiny kitten step stages of thinking there’s anything of worth in here.

If you have any you particularly like, please tell me now, as I have six hours left to dig through my journal and choose what we’re recording. I have very few that I’ve thought of and suggestions are appreciated.

curiosity’s sake and learning about this thing a bit more

Is there an uncomplicated program that can be used to back up a Livejournal? It’s been pointed out to me by Matt that I should really have a copy of it somewhere. I remember looking into this about a year ago, but losing the thought in the shuffle that was last summer. I’m almost certain there was a utility available.

edit: http://www.ljbook.com/ is where it’s at. Dear god, my journal’s now on my desktop as a very pretty little, (well, not little, no), PDF file. It took maybe four minutes.

(A toul that describes how many people you’ve in common with the users on your flist would also be nice.)

As well, does anyone know enough about the S2 formatting to teach me how to make a decent layout? Now that TAGS are an option, I would very much like to use them. However, I don’t like the profferred S2 layouts and I’m simply not savvy enough to make any worthwhile changes.

That and, er, hello to the almost one hundred people who’ve friended me who I don’t really know. I knew I shouldn’t have looked at my user info. Now I’m nervous. Who are you people? Why are you here?

Actually, better thing. I’ve been sitting on a little meme for a few weeks. This may be the time to whip it out:

1. How did you first find my journal?
2. Why did you originally decide to friend me?
3. What’s your favorite part of my journal?
4. What’s your least favorite part of my journal?
5. Ask me a question. Be as random as you want.
6. Recommend a band to me. I’m curious what you think I should be listening to.
7. Recommend an LJ user to me and maybe I’ll friend them.

my comment stats

you can see the changes


jhayne silver curve
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

My house is divided. One night, two evenings, three days, four fingers, five. A hand without you, counted every time the sun goes down and terrified of my heart. Another night, another day, that’s two more. Arithmetic on my body. My shadow on fire, blazing something tired and nameless whenever I close my eyes and don’t hear your voice. Haunted by more words than I can encompass without looking into your eyes, by letters unwritten in every pore of my skin that remember your lips. I’m not sleeping so well. Instead I dream of stars, painful pointillist versions of a city I’ve never been to, haven’t seen pictures of. Fire on top of pillars. It’s all under the same moon, I tell myself, the words like a broken bridge tumbling into a river in slow motion. Instead my eyes sting with the splinters of roses and I imagine a painful sprouting of wings from my back. Dark feathers to take me away from here.

My fingernails are long again, white crescents I could place in the sky. I would offer to prostitute my soul if it meant that I would be able to create exquisitely as Alessandro Bavari does. His art is enchanting, captivating my eyes to the exclusion of time. I look outside and the warm air’s been pulled out over the ocean, taking the light with it like a blanket to tuck in the other side of the world.

edit: a re-write for lj user inktea

free bird!

A little boy looks up at a man with graying hair, “Why do you play with desperation?” The man, he puts down his worn clarinet and replies, “Because they live in every town I have a gig.”

Two-thirds of the populace were living alone when it happened. Hallucinations, at first faint, flickerings in the reflected blue light from television screens, almost transparent in the cheap halogens found over bathroom mirrors. There were rumours of an LSD dump in the reservoir. Doctors complained that there was no standard procedure for treating so many for psychosis. Somebody blamed violence in video games. A week later, they had mass, depth. Archetypes, like a fat sodden guilt that would sit in the fridge and pout whenever the door opened, were haunting the under stimulated, the lonely, and the old. Stocks in drug companies soared, there was a run on anti-psychotics. Cities were drastically effected, tall office towers especially, but not as much as the small towns, rife with tiny disasters. In one rural area, an entire nursing home committed suicide.

–

  • Fishermen catch a missile.
  • Pictures of the Mermaid Parade.

    • Something erased itself and created a hollow

    This may be the strangest form of communication I’ve ever had, placing my secrets on public display with a code of memory to crack it. World War One never was so fun, this is something else entirely. This is the crossword puzzles that earned the daily bread of those men and women in the mansion in England, this is a slight lithe form of a showgirl in somebody’s theater bed. I’m wearing a full metal jacket, baby, come get me out of my head. Download a membrane of forgetting to be scared of consequences. It’s ridiculous how fast I kissed that man.

    Tell me a story, please. Save me a little from myself this evening. I’m alone and I’m not used to it anymore. I’ve met people and found that they are wonderful. It hurts.

    I imagine myself from the outside, a small girl dressed in faded blue, a small room that doesn’t signify much beyond some innate inability to put clothes away in drawers. I know I’m contagious and I wonder why. There’s nothing here. My surroundings are papers and books and tiny pieces of coloured glass, but there’s no structure, no meaning unless you have tweezers. I used to be a bit of a dancer, I used to be a bit mercurial. I don’t know what I am now. Someone who might be wounded, someone who might be a little more broken than she lets on. There’s a little bit of laughter, but that’s not myself. I used to think that everyone had a day the feelings stopped.

    I’m reading The Story of O again, chapter by chapter while I’m at work. Last time I read it, I had to get my mothers permission to take it from the library. (I wonder if she remembers that. It was in a stack of adult fairytales. She posted recently, my mother. She mentions that in reading my journal she realizes for the first time just how much I used to go walking at night. “At a certain point I knew she had her own life.”)

    I’ve decided to try and serialize something similar, just because, for the first time, maybe I can. I have to start doing something. Someone recently mentioned inferiority complexes and I had an attack of “how well am I hiding mine?” I assume if I ignore it enough, brazen my way through enough ridiculous situations, it will fade away to never pester me again. It’s a possible fallacy I’m willing to try. I’ve been ground down like a worn stone, passed from hand to hand, losing its edges. I’m better than I was, but I need to be better. If I’m ever going to get out of here, I can’t be tripping over shoelaces. I need to be on top of things, I have to have a brain with some validation.

    This is pretty.

    rehashing dates

    Alright, let’s try to figure this out.

    Friday, July 15th, is Amanda‘s birthday party, a huge thing planned at Patti, Simon, Tyler, and Karen’s house.

    Saturday, July 16th, is Quicky Culture Night downtown at Jervis & Davie.

    Monday, July 18th., Korean Movie Monday, where we’ll be watching Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring.

    Saturday, July 23rd, is Illuminares, the lantern festival at Trout Lake.

    Is there anything else of note?

    another day without anything to eat


    mask
    Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

    Beth wove my hair into french braids last night, two of them culminating on either side of the nape of my neck. I left them in overnight, the feeling of no hair around my head a novel one, and I wore them in the shower. I’m at work now and trying to imagine how one takes these things out. I imagine being kissed might do it. As if tipping my head forward into a warm chest would let the touch of lips on the crown of my head unravel every twist into tiny curls.

    Please give me resolution, bring me a damned child who knows what’s right and a blind man who can see through time. Bring me these things and other things and let me make a court of law where love herself may be judged. It is time to right these wrongs, bless the heathens free. Her face, we know, is red with need, but it can be signed on the warrant just the same. Bring me the blood of a marigold, a pansy, and a rose. Bring me a song that the first person sang when they invented loneliness as a minor chord. We’ll beat drums like hearts, like daffodil candy, like the gun shot that brought down the first born daughter who wasn’t wanted, and she’ll come to us, she’ll dream for us, and then we can take down her name.

    Tuesday again, a count-down day, one of many, one of few. No word yet from far away, and I wonder how long it will take. There wasn’t even a “I have arrived” or an “I am alive” let alone an “I miss you.” This is the way such things go, I presume, when things are dying. It begins with less and ends with nothing. Too much sublimation of self to pay for another’s way again and the debt isn’t being paid back. Part of me knew this would happen, just as part of me doesn’t know what will happen next.

    Work today is counting minutes, watching the digital white letters in the right hand corner of the screen and wondering to myself, “When do I get to leave?” whenever a plane goes by or a train. We’re close to tracks and the trains here are frequent, loud thunderous things with bells and hard whistles, every metal car grumbling about it’s own particular rain weather clickity clack. It’s on the edge of chilly here, like the temperature is a lake the city is walking beside at night. The calendar claims it’s summer, but it’s a man made construct and too rigid to contain reality this year. Each day has been something new, another volatile shade of unlikely weather.