Author: foxtongue

Apparently I think in rhyming scheme tonight, how upsetting. Can I escape & call it spoken word?


ziegfield
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

And with you I am not be. The waves push forward to the base of my throne and mock me. Immolation is the key here. Flames reaching past the wind to pull my hair in the middle of the night in a foreign city. Listen, there’s a sound here. It’s a heartbeat keeping time with surprise. It’s all very self involved though I think you’re seeping into me, humility a flag I bear that no one sees because the cup is not full but half empty. It’s like I can hear you laughing. The whole we are stardust thing and the sand is burying my feet in the salt that the earth gives us to dream about. Horizons go in both directions. Over there is another world. Youth bears crosses the way wiser heads never will. We speak of light and ruination and think we mean it. Mind the ship, steer the storm.

Break for chorus.

Here’s the King Kong Trailer for those who asked. He fights dinosaurs. Over the Girl. Yes. It’s got some wicked style, nothing artistic, but as a cliche homage it seems like it’s going to push the envelope. Game On.

Take the Bridge, it’s faster.

It’s tiring, hearing your name used in conversation casually. My reaction wants to sit and pour a cup of tea, forget that what I mean to you is not what you mean to me. I’m a girl, a scary thing, a creature that should have a bit more whimsy. Taking the chance was worth it, a koan I know by heart, a catchy pop hook that I hum incessantly. Music on means it’s time to hike up my skirt for freedom, give the soldiers something to think about on the front line as I bide again. The quickest I’ve ever kissed somebody, I swear upon that question about colour, but remember the gold is a state secret. There’s no other way to pay the tariff fee.

whipped cream with gasoline on top

KOREAN MOVIE MONDAY

This week we’re watching Attack the Gas Station.

Directions: walk west along broadway from commercial along the south side of the street. When you come to the psychic lady building, knock on the lower left windows.

note: Nicholas, Andrew wanted your manly emissions. He is sad that you have left. Also, David Byrne and Andrew W. K. should make an album together and call it House Party.

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.

trying to make tinsel with forks in a blender

I thought it was a helicopter but it turned out to be my hard-drive.

My computer is officially going to explode. My mouse is wire-short suiciding in sympathy.

This is more than slightly worrisome. There’s no more pretending that a full wipe is going to fix it. Anything that grinds that loud, enough to give the illusion of blades chopping the air thirty feet above my building, is on its way out.

There is a saint created in lonely iron.

I undid the top buttons of my shirt to let him press his hand against my heartbeat. The heat of him held me down, we were like statues in the midst of madness, the only still people on Heroin Row. Crackton’s the one place in town that I won’t take my shoes off. We were an island, addiction beating as waves, as sound around us. Singing and screaming, people yelling and scanning the sidewalk for dropped rock or cigarette butts. There’s no darkness to hide in that doesn’t already have its own slurred speech. It comes at you from all directions, the pleading of the needy.

I used to live there, right behind the Carnegie, in a strange space in the basement of what used to be a vintage bank, all grand ceilings and open floor. The shambling creatures that used to be humans are familiar, the hounds that chase them nothing new. Once I woke up there and opened my eyes to daylight and the sight through a crack between the curtains of a prostitute shooting a syringe into the base of a mans penis that she was firmly working in her mouth. He screamed, but I suspect he liked it.

Nocholas is coming to town today, an impromptu plan. Plans for today are somewhat fuzzy, but I don’t think we need any. He’s going to call when he gets into town. If anyone’s interested in meeting up, give me a call as well. He’s got some phone numbers but not many.

Which reminds me, Andrew‘s lent me a hand held PDA thing to keep phone numbers and writing in. I’m trying to get rid of my phone avoidance and actually call people. Part of this will be having phone numbers on me rather than in a single, mostly old, list on my computer. Part of my problem is that when I meet people, I tend to collect their numbers on little scraps of paper which soon get lost or on my hands which end up being washed before I write the digits down. This PDA idea, I am finding it exceedingly useful.

I can’t help but think of Baraka



Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

Alastair is thin, putting my arms around him is like putting flesh over bones. Until today, I’d forgotten how that felt. When I think of him, I think of what he looks like – how he smiled crookedly at me once while standing naked in front of a mirror, how he moved, quickly and fiercely, his drawn angles matching in some brilliant sketch of a walking man – and I glow for a moment, remembering.

When I met him, I thought we would be together a year. Months piling into months, days a flow of photographs and dance music. We would go to clubs together, we did when we were here and we did when we were in L.A. He would always look better than me, but I liked that. That he cared made me happy. I dance like a goth hippy, all waving hands and jutting curves, but he dances like a spider might, crouched black and thin with side to side movements. I can’t blend in as well as he does.

When he ran up to me today, he looked slightly different, like there had been a re-adjust of the system since I said goodbye at the airport. I imagine I might look a tiny different as well. I’ve lost weight again, and my hair’s turned red and gold as well as plum. It was hard to say goodbye, to decide to take that first step toward the plane.

We never were the same after a certain conversation.

Tomorrow we’re going for tea. He’s going to call in the morning. As always, I’ve not any idea what we’ll talk about, but I don’t think I have to. It will be enough to see him, imprint his cellular structure again in my mind.

buckwheat hair, I hide it well

Oxygen gasps, skin taut. That’s what I’m thinking of. I landed on the surface homeless and running. Check your balance, I thought, check your stride. It was a pun. Before this hundred pace book begins, I need to smile hard and develop a quick will. It might take an entire month to write this all out in human paper. Thirty days and a trip around the moon. A hot air example of summertime blues.

My stylus is scratching sound from a round disc of specially pressed memory, those old black things, before your time, I’m sure, but brought back into being by the trendy Ibiza boys, those Edinburgh saints of groove. Voice replies, back and forth. I wonder if I’ll ever get a telephone call, a crunched machine echo of a warm lovely taste synthesized as pleasure. Sixty cycles deep electric, an instrument of more than torture.

There’s an ease to this I missed. A glitter burst of putting words down. They don’t have to mean anything except to me. I fill my time with love letters, tiny particles of bits and bytes dreaming of a future where I can touch the sky and the stars are known to have planets it’s possible to visit. Recording everything would be impossible, but it doesn’t mean I don’t want to try. Stand on the lip of a seascape breeze and teach you all the meaning of that particular colour blue to the first people to have ever told a story about it. Photographs and moving pictures, add sound and protect the world by showing it off. Explaining why Barrakka beauty should be seen by more than art degrees. Spell out the memes of historical creation and cultural division.

Imagine a downloadable scrap of earth. A television history-scape of depth and vision with an insertable tactile interface. Install the ability to blink and hear the local traffic, the crowd sounds of a multitude of conversation. Even this little office would be of interest to somebody. A man in a net cafe somewhere over a tiny street, it’s late at night and he misses the lights that streetlights used to bring before someone went through with a gun and shot them all down, he might want to see me typing this. He might like to look out the window to my right and see an entirely new kind of tree or to my left and examine a production facility. The lack of pollution erosion is fascinating. The pink of the ice-cream shop is too garish, however, and so he flips to a woman making dinner in an outdoor market, somewhere arabic where he doesn’t speak the language. It could be a spelled end to destruction. In a optimistic view, the phrases in language would change. The media would drop it’s fear propaganda, unable to explain anymore that difference means danger. We would all be press students, members in an underground club that might even have it’s own secret handshake.

we speak of


poison oak
Originally uploaded by lightpainter.

Art-O-Mat, perhaps one of the most worthwhile ideas I’ve come across in a long time. Pimp it out, please. It deserves to pay the rent.

Never is a word you can outlive, in spite of it being so decidedly forever. It tastes like feathers, a black shimmer coating the tongue as oil covers puddles with wondering rainbows. I’ve been weak lately, drained of all confident measure I kept as true. The sky is no longer anything to look at, instead my head hangs, my eyes drop down to carefully look for the next step as my feet swing forward. It used to be that I trusted them, propelled by gravity and momentum, to step securely and find land, that solid ground from which I could move the world.

As I’ve been tagging all my entries in spare moments at work, from the first post onward, I’ve been discovering that reading my archives is strange. I spoke of certainty, of sanguine waters that I swam in, and I think, “There is such a difference in me now.” My teeth have been pulled. Since last fall I have lost so many core attributes that I feel like I must now be dying. I let myself be sublimated. I recognize it, because I’ve done it before. The easiest symptom to identify is doubt, for me it’s an echo of a ghost limb from where I’ve lost the hands I would reach with. It’s both easy to remember and hard because the evidence is behind me now, my love is no longer fierce. Only my sadness continues to be profound, and that has been dangerously mixed with frustration and hate. I need a cure and again, it’s not up to me. I carry the sickness, not the inoculation.