Author: foxtongue

Books I’ve been reading lately have been pushing me into wanting to write. I’m not used to this desire and I’m certainly uncertain what to do with it, but I have a pleasant rainy evening at the computer in a lovely house with cheery people conversation drifting up the white stairs like an auditory treasure touched with light jazz. I’m tempted to try creative non-fiction, because that’s what I write in my dwindling use paper journal. (The pen cannot keep pace with the keys and so is used on transit only, leaving me with practically illegible pages as a matter of course). I’m stuck not knowing what parts of my day to press to the white light of the digital page, which colours compress well, which conversations take well to being dialogue.

I’ve never talked about writing with anyone before, let alone anyone who considered themselves a writer, before Saturday night with Merilee. Processes have started in my head, the realization that maybe I might have a chance to make something, create something, even if it is not the holy awe fiction my hands crave to pour out like light. Barring that, when headlines are Vatican claims to millions, “Condoms don’t stop AIDS” it behooves me to share, to point anyone I can at this. Communication can solve things, can render ineducation inoperable. Is that why I have this thing? Every time I explain why I keep a journal to those who don’t have one, I smooth my heavy skirts and come back to my line about how the dissemination of information is sexy. Then I look up and explain heatedly that this is where my friends are, where it’s possible to meet people not profiles. I have no soap opera on my flist, I have photographers, writers, university professors, and the occasional cross-dressing scientist. I have tried to find the blogs they complain about and in spite of the Random option, I’ve never found one. Instead I find automata who writes down her life in Juneau so poignantly that I want to spend time in old yellow-glass-over-the-lights kind of bars to track down these people she meets every day or quitevolatile who captures still frame moments of scintillating pretty and introduces us to her friend who did the cover shots for Rasputina‘s latest album. I wouldn’t be in Toronto now if it weren’t for these people. I wouldn’t be as well educated or this likely to meet splendid people.

(Hah, there, perhaps I’ve hit on it. Livejournal infers luck upon the user).

ridiculous truth thought # 1703:

post-modern relationships are the new black and the new irony

I’d forgotten what this city does to me, how I throw out my arms in supplication over and over and smile to the wind. Being here is weight removed, a wooden trap burned away. Warren‘s leaving today as Montilee and her love puppet Doug already have done, (darling Phil Jimenez left Sunday too), and I’m thinking I’m going to follow suit. Hit the train station, add parity. It’s going to hurt to leave. I love sitting backward on the streetcar, the wide expanse of windows giving me a continuous flowing view. I feel like I’m flying there, like I’m in an airplane, gravity a hand large enough to cradle me. It was comforting today to walk up Yonge street to College and touch buildings with my eyes as I passed, look up and see the place where I first learned to smile. I needed it. If it had been Vancouver, something might have broken.

I smile now, thinking of my weekend, of the social strangeness that I helped birth. Warren collects interesting people and I’ve been discovering that when we get together, we are slightly unstoppable. Montilee and Doug and I decided to ambush him yesterday outside the comicon, having no reason to go in again past the tall man with the cane, but when we collected we decided that, well, we were going to break in because that was more fun. From that point on, we were ninjas. Around the side we stalked, perfect timing giving us illegal access in. Doors were opened, left opened, security had its back turned. We were naughty children until we found out that as we were walking through vast empty halls, he had crept out the front, escaping the nerds. It’s hailing again. Then I turned coat and became professional folk, demanding the address of the Guest of Honour. Not only did they spill the hotel, they also sent us to the front to ask location and directions with no questions asked. “Of course, that’s where most of our guests have been staying. Are you driving?” I was impressed with the efficiency of our whole situation and amused that a random girl with purple hair and a top-hat could waltz all over them without a blink. If it had been my hotel, I might have been a bit nervous. As it was, we cackled in the car before calling him down.

I love this city. I’ve been taken in by a Master Domme and her Woman. Upon giving me a housekey and showing me my room, I’m informed that I’m “welcome to bring tricks home as long as they’re clean.”

It’s nice to be among family.

These two are the splendid epitome of kindness. I could not have dreamed of better hosts if I had taken an entire spin around the sun to do so. Part of me truly loves them already, as if I would say Please and Could I really? if they asked me to stay. I’m tired now, exhausted really. I can feel it in my muscles where they meet the bone. I need someone’s hands now to lift them up and give them space so the tendons and bruises may breathe.

Sad music and aussie accents. I’m glad I’m leaving. T’hayla’s gotten ahold of me. She lives across the river, vaguely in the beaches, but closer. I called Joseph last night and listened to him wake panicking. I wonder how jealous the girlfriend must be. It’s wet out now, but warm. I’m hoping for lightning tonight, but the light is wrong, the taste of the sky is wrong. It’s like I could lick it and taste baking bread, there’s no spark, only comfort. I’m not on-line long enough to properly reply to letters, but know Michel, I got your comment and I’ve written your number down. Maybe I’ll come out on Monday. I miss Montreal too and it would be a delight to finally pull your hair.

I’m lucking out a little, but not too much. The hostel I was counting on still existing, surprise, does. Globalbackpackers, though I can’t afford more than this one night. The harsh colours aren’t much better than a park bench, but there’s apparently showers. The lounge is full of pretty people being jovial and I feel a bit out of place, but as it’s only one in the morning, I’m going to stalk out into the Friday night streets and see what I can do about getting picked up by some pleasantly drunk buzzed locals. I used to walk here until dawn. This place isn’t as acidly etched into my copper head as Vancouver, but I remember my way around. I’m trusting that people I run into tomorrow will keep me occupied nicely for the weekend. I’ll call those I can in the morning and I’ll hope for letters in the meantime.

Somebody tell Nicole thank you for me. I think if she hadn’t come to the airport with me, I wouldn’t be coming back.

Silk scarves and harsh edges, tongued stories into sympathy and little pieces of vengeance. Somebody up and for once it wasn’t my turn. There’s doubt about a month, there’s doubt but premonition. I clap my hands because I don’t believe in fairs nor cage matches. Dominque and Andrew have decided that for my birthday there’s to be a Cage Match To Be Jhayne’s Next Boyfriend. She wants them all in Speedos. I’m rooting for Alan Rickman. Someone behind me is singing about the moonlight on your skin, desert wind and your aching head. These days you can’t buy. I can’t place the words but I’m singing along as I type, sending letters out in term with the chords. I still don’t know what I’m doing here. Why you even try? I’m glad that you, sharp one, am writing poetry to me out here. I understand, but I don’t think I burn with any flame. There was someone on the street a moment ago, sitting in the doorway and they had your hair. I had a momentary urge to go pet them better, but then remembered. Wrong place. Treacherous road, desolated. The next room over has the Fugees, it’s comforting somehow, like music doesn’t die if you know it well enough. Like you and I, my taken man, like we can manage still in spite of whatever it is you’re not telling me. In spite of silence and leaving me to fend for nothing. Make you want me. There’s so many stupid words I can think of, silly phrases and none of them mean much right now. The anger is fading, which is nice, but it may be that I’m overwhelmed with being back, with grinning like a loon at everyone who says hello to me on the street. You fucked up.

You should be with me here.

Can you believe I still dress funny for this place?

No place to stay. Flying in, I watched outside my window as the plane crossed the line from day into darkness and it made me smile to myself, knowing that just seeing that puts me on the cusp of history. At first there are only mountains, if you’re going east. Endless white capped rocks as far unto the horizon and then abruptly, the cloud parts and everything below you is plains. I felt a pang akin to crying when I first caught sight of the city three hours later, the rosy glow seemed like home. I’m in the basement of a hotel now, across the street from the airport. A kind clerk named Manny opened the business room for me to use the internet and attempt to find a place to stay. My paid 15 minutes was up five minutes ago yet now I’ve some hostels and some hope. Downtown will be interesting, the five year gap will be glaringly apparent and as invisible as air, already I know some things have changed.

Dear friends, I miss you. You’re loved as now as ever. I’ll be back when my time on this ticket allloted runs out.

I’m to be at the airport tomorrow by one. This is manageable. I’ve so far no destination planned for when I arrive at ten, but I will hopefully have more solid plans later tonight. Company to the planefields would be appreciated muchly, as would company in the morning. There’s no ride arranged as of yet and I don’t know if anyone’s staying over tonight. I’m going to try and do my best but one person’s not returning phonecalls and everyone else is secondary. This is partially why I think I’m draining my bank account to bone dollar and fifty cents dry to escape this place. Spontaneity or death.

This wondering if I’m going to make it tastes like fear. There’s no logic here, not really. It’s a little bit crazy, spur of the moment, and that’s why I like it. That’s why I want it to work. I’m not getting what I need here, or at least not from sources I can drink from without tainting them with lead chip lips. The reasons people are ascribing to my sudden departure are the wrong ones, it’s almost as simple as somebody asked me to leave. This is skinned knees waiting to be kissed better and finding instead an airport. It’s not even like someone has replaced me, it’s only clumsiness and a total lack of understanding. I need the right words now spoken at the exact precise right time and it’s not about to happen. There should be a protest or at least a little bit of I’m going to miss you. I need to matter again. I need to remember that I can, that there are possibilities all the time and everywhere that I would never think of.

if there’s anyone in toronto or if you even know of a place to stay, please drop me a line. my flight leaves tomorrow afternoon

I just need to breathe through another day. I have the hours and day and weeks all lined ahead of me to knock over one by one by two and three. Another day won’t be too many. I miss you.

The machine is true but made of silk and strands of story. True moments of You have Just Explained Me. It doesn’t mean love when somebody understands you, but I don’t think it matters here. I have a shirt that carries you on it. That protects it from the laundry bin as if it were a pile of flaming fire spikes.

Dee, Where are my socks?

I’m still looking for airfare. Today I’ve a meeting at work, then for Three I’m meeting with Silva. It’s Passover, so I don’t know what’s happening with that. Dinner may not be happening. I should have spent a moment last night to research, but instead I walked from having Alicia over to trying to catch the fire-spinners with Chris. We’d only just missed them, but apparently so had Adrian and A.J. At ten I’m meeting with Bill for coffee. I think after that is when I’m free again to scour flights. This is getting freeing and irritating all at once. I need to get out of here.