Author: foxtongue

Because it is four:twenty and therefore Hitler’s birthday, here are some Pope links:

bunny addresses papacy

all of your pope are

the very secret diaries of

it has father ted

(this explains my logic)

Your hand holds mine as a glove would, fingers crept down to the joints and our feet our feet swing in surety rhythm. I wish we had a signature reaction, some little thing that would be only ours, but I know it’s rather impossible these days. I can only measure our interaction with your presence, your loud voice and my intimate glances when I pin you to the wall with my tongue.

Nowt exactly new news, but important: Google is now hosting video. Now it’s time for everyone to boot up the BroadCast Machine. As Warren pointed out, there’s no excuse any more for not uploading content on-line, especially with OurMedia‘s recent launch. (My account there is still too glitchy to work, is anyone getting results yet?). I’m looking into picking up a borrow on video gear from a friend of Alastair‘s for thelastfridays. P’raps we can edit something together keeping this in mind? It would be nice to have something to show for our efforts.

There’s a certain language within language to interaction that’s not so much structure as road signs. I think my friends are lucky that I rail against, I realize that this would be simple, this would be effortless, so this is what I shall do. I realized with my hand on the latch how easy it would be to turn around, knock on the door, and shatter a mirror with two words or one or none but a touch of fingers on lips. I like knowing how to read allusions now. I like how I can watch a question coming in the way someone looks at me, by the silence of their face. (Once you, today’s you and a different you from my first paragraph, looked stunned and it wasn’t the turtle hat.)

Do you ever visit a feeling which tells you, this, but for the grace of chance, is where your time-line would have led?

Thank you sincerely Christine!

The most ravishing Ms. Neato to ever draw breathe has gifted me with a pro Flickr account.

I am rather excited, as well as flabbergasted, which is resulting in a rather hyper bouncy Jhayne. I’ve almost 700 photos available that I couldn’t get at before, [insert *squee* here], mostly art and interesting vintage photography. Some of it needs labeling and all of it requires sorting, my folders having vanished into the ether when my pro account defaulted back to free in the fall. Parts of my personal history are emerging like ancient history from a few months ago. Last year is becoming like the unearthed greek texts that will be revolutionizing mythology now that they can be finally read with infrared.

I require going back to bed, but the body is not done yet. Blood propelled me from the bed and into the bath this morning at an hour I’d rather not admit to. I’m barely into the tub when it hits, splashing, filling the bottom from side to side. The red flushes the pastel ceramic into B-movie horror colours between my feet and I wonder if anyone else ever has these mornings. No matter that I had water running warm enough to burst into flame, I was cold, still am. The sun will be warm today, I can tell by the blasted blue sky above my window and the birds who won’t shut up, but I can’t imagine it particularly helping. I know me well enough to know that I’m unlikely to leave my house alone. There’s a LastFridays meeting tonight at my house, 7pm

Ophelia is my sister under my eye’s skin. Right under the cornea she sits in a giant plush chair, waiting for the water to rise and drown her in her pretty pale dress. Old scars line her white skin but she smiles, imagining the colour of her flaming coffin, picturing morbid fantasies of lovers and stars. Her eyes are violet and green, the way mine never will be, and her hair is somehow perfectly coiffed in spite of her general dishevelment. All her hems are tattered, mimicking the flutter of my heartbeat when his hand touches mine.

Kyle was practically voiceless, as expected. We conversed with notes scrawled on a flip-pad notebook back and forth across a crowded booth table. Poetry went well, nicely put turns of phrase rolling mostly off the stage into the audience to break like a wave when I discovered unexpected people there. The couple who were stripping me at SinCity were present. I have phone-numbers now and more proof that we mesh well. The two of them are a delightful couple, they let me in like I’ve always been there in spite of the fact that I’m shy in odd ways. (My bra was undone enough times last time to drive me away dancing. Also, nipple tweaking is just not something you do to me. They want to be torn off when it happens.) To combat this, that he can clip a bra together with his teeth impresses me unduly. I want to find a woman who will let me practise this. I imagine much laughter and far too many instances of wiping drool from their back. I never knew it was possible. Obviously my imagination needs either a kickstart or a boot to the head. The latter seems more likely, what with my inadequate ability to easily or pleasantly think of fantasies.

Nicole is half asleep on my bed, her red hair nicely meshing with the jewel-tone pillows. I vote she stays there. (I’ve made her a LiveJournal, fluxamonia). We gave up on my friend earlier and romanced Brian into coming to the hot tub with us. It feels odd to be talking with people while I’m blind, but I’m dealing better with it now that I’m practicing. I have to rely entirely on tonalities and gross body movement. It’s interesting and scary. Brian had an audiophile evening scheduled after, so Nicole and I returned to my apartment without him and settled into recovering from an overdose of warmth. Later tonight is Cafe Du Soliex poetry slam. Kyle will be there in spite of his recent tonsil removal. I commend his bravery and expect to act as interpretor.

Meanwhile, download this. I particularly appreciate the Tetris.

Lung, (alois), is a local photography god. He’s just come back from China and Vietnam, bringing enchanting goodies home. Sincerely I say, go look at him. His photography journal is well worth adding.

I arrived home today when the sun was rising, pre-dawn light scratching against the black, welting it blue. I woke wanting to chew on things, to dig my back teeth in and grind the world between my molars, using my hips to appeal to my beliefs. For the sake of momentum, I suppose I should get dressed and try to start some sort of day, but I’m being caught by interesting things and lovely conversation with delightful people. I’m waiting on a golden man today, his voice on the telephone or his fingers on the keys. Perhaps until then I’ll continue wrapped in a sheet and sitting in a pool of burning star. When my hair has dried, I’ll call him, telling time in the most old fashioned way.

BoingBoing has picked up something I’ve been explaining to people lately, about how we hit the oil peak it the 70’s. When gas prices started hitting a dollar, I began to be curious where on the curve we really were. I hadn’t quite expected us to be so far down the right hand slope.

Ethan brought me to a party last night. We walked from my house east toward Burnaby until we came upon a house full of girls with plastic earrings and boys with indie band t-shirts. Walking into the kitchen, a man stopped me, “I know you from somewhere. You’re the purple girl! You’re Jhayne!” I said, yes and he replied, “I don’t know where I know you from.” It was a good introduction to the night. I felt transplanted without any roots until I found that there was talk of making a fire in the backyard. There was a brick hut for it and people who didn’t know what they were doing. Half an hour later, I had flames as a visible low red above the chimney by almost four feet.

Bloody Squamish Days.

I close the door quickly when I’m like this, and I can’t bear to look at you in the thinning sliver, because then I’ll lose it. I won’t be able to wait for you to get far enough away. I couldn’t bear it if you heard me, this is too shameful, too full of everything you shouldn’t see. I let you taste the humour in my blood, the scarlet flow that grins and flashes teeth, but this I keep away from you. You’re too nice to me. You don’t need to die a little everytime the moon is full. It’s a neglect leftover maybe, it’s the intensity that tides bring when they wear away the shore. All of it tastes like iron and salt. All of it drips down my wrists to taint my world with too much need.

Modified Fusion Fashion Show II.
April 19. $6.
A Burlesque, Comedy, Dread Extensions, Visuals, Art & Fashion Show.
Shift at the Lick (to the right of the Lotus).

You don’t understand what you do to me. You take my skin and wear it like a tongued kiss to steal. I don’t know what you need from me, I don’t know what I can give to you. I want to spread my legs for you and like it. You’re red upholstery to stick to on a sunny day when there’s nothing ahead but miles waiting, horizons waiting to be superseded with the logic of an oncoming train. You’re the crunch of gravel under bare feet in winter, icy shocks I stand up straight to harden my souls for. If I could have another you, I would do it. Splice your genes dripping from my lips as clear sticky syrup so I might look you in the eyes, destruction in my wake, knowing I could keep you. It seems hard, but maybe it’s time for you to spend a lonely night alone and awake. You were kind enough to comfort me, you were sweet enough to desire me. It might be time to set yourself in my position. Staring at the ceiling, trying to imagine where your dreams are going. I know your hair is mingling on hard pillows, a colour match scented with perfume. Maybe you’ll curl like I do, trying to bury yourself in your own flesh to take your mind away from an impending end half a city away. Instead of feeling alone over washed cotton sheets, sometimes I want to walk naked outside in the rain, walk parting the waters like a biblical saint. I want to kiss you to sleep. Instead of this, I want to hold your body close to mine and sink my teeth into your breath. You are remarkable, you are holy to me. I don’t know how to remember.

After the movie last night, Andrew and I went and found Matthew at a hotel on Burrard, visiting his friend Patrick. Patrick’s wife was there as well, and his two sons. Listening to Patrick is like looking into an unbelievable world. He’s been an american soldier since the sixties, spending time in both Greneda and Vietnam. He’s a thick personable man with a balding head and BORN TO RIDE on his right arm who tells stories like a Hunter S. Thompson. The son of a casting couch encounter, he’s not intimidating in the slightest, I want to vouch for his citizenship. His younger brother went to The Chair in Texas, getting the Death Penalty for the violent killing of five child molesters.

“I got to call down several thousand dollars in tax money once. A sniper killed a four year old, so I knew the first thing to do was to get him to give away his position. This was easy, I used to be a sniper, see, so I borrow a flack jacket off the driver of the tank, a double armored one, right? And then I stand on top of the tank and hold up binoculars and just say “here I am! Now where are you.” I saw a little puff of smoke when he shot me, right on top of one of the buildings. I didn’t really feel it when I got shot, the damned thing just threw me backwards off the tank. So I’m lying on the ground clutching my chest, trying to get my breath back. I said, “You did get his position, right?” and this feller, he says, “Yes captain, but we didn’t need that much confirmation. You’re crazy.” I couldn’t really laugh, right, but I called an air strike. Damn chest wouldn’t stop hurting, I didn’t know that when they shoot you they shoot you twice”

I broke in, “Well, yes, it’s a double-tap.”

He looked pleased. “Well, yes, it is. How’d you know that? Anyway, we stopped the snipers killing anymore four year olds, for a few hours at least. Expensive, but damn wurth it. The two bullets were this far away when we pried them out of my vest.” He holds his fingers up a few centimeters apart, “I don’t know why we kept going back there. No matter how much you wanted freedom for these people, there were always a few idiots trying to shoot you and they weren’t picky about it. I can’t stand for killing children.”

Then he leads into another place, another time. More war.

“We’d come into these villages and they would be empty. There wouldn’t be anyone anywhere, we’d scout around in the jungle, send guys out in all directions, nothing. Eventually we learned, started following the birds.”

His wife speaks up, “They just killed everyone”

“Yeah, mass graves. We’d get the caterpillars in and push the dirt back and there they were. Entire towns a few feet under the dirt. Women, babies, all the old folks too. There wasn’t anyone they didn’t bury.”
She says, “It was the shortest he’d ever been anywhere, but he was more wrecked then than any other time. It was bad. I can’t imagine.”
“I wish there was someway of telling people here.

I want to carry a recorder next time I see him. They’re here until Tuesday, hoping to move here permanently. In spite of the fact that they are everything Americans want to say they are, everything they want to claim,they have to leave. “There’s no tolerance.” I feel somehow like I’m talking with family, it’s unshakable. They’re all an odd mixture of samurai and lakota. They all grew up with horses and guns, they grew up going up mountains and defending they who require the spoken word.

How do we manage to live erasing these people? There’s no room for heroes in this day and age, the day is passing. They had lives that don’t exist anymore. We need inspiration now more than perhaps ever before and yet we’re killing it. Destroying opportunity with faulty government and lackadaisical apathy, sometimes I can’t stand it in spite of the fact that I think I understand it.

Nicholas asked for writing topics earlier today. In my laziness, I decided the most evil thing to ask for would be for his interpretation of me. This was my reply:

Once upon a time, there was a princess. She lived in a fairy tale castle and kept waiting for her prince to come. In the meantime she tried kissing some frogs, but they never turned into anything (except for the one time when it was really a toad and she ended up hallucinating for the rest of the evening.) While she waited, she found herself wondering why she was waiting for a prince in the first place. Why princes? What was so wonderful about princes? And why did she have to wait for them? She thought about it some more and decioded that she might as well go and try to find the prince, because he sure as hell wasn’t coming. One day she climbed out of her bedroom window and climbed on down into the World.

So we all looked for her, of course, but nobody knows where she’s gone. Time walked on, we grew up and somewhere out there the princess is hiding.

Maybe she’s the lady behind the counter of the antique store, collecting unconsidered trifles.

Maybe she’s the girl with the pasties on her nipples from the sleezy peeler bar down on Fourth and McQueen.

Maybe she’s hiding in the bookstore down the road, the girl with the dust-covered lenses and off-colored hair showing her roots sitting behind the counter.

Maybe she’s your best friend, the one with the run down old house in the middle of nowhere and a garden covered in blackberry vines. The one that you drink green tea with, that you talk to about books and life and each other’s love lives, and the one that you never think of as anything else but, y’know, her. The one you go to parties with because neither of you have anybody else, and everybody else thinks you’re a couple and you laugh about it because you know it would never work out; she’s still waiting for a prince after all these years.

Maybe she’s the girl you wake up next to in the morning – there’s an unfamiliar pair of cold feet in the bed and a pair of nipples jabbing into your back and an arm around your chest, and you panic and relax because, oh, right, it’s just her, and you curl up and go back to sleep. In the morning – homemade Eggs Benedict and pan fries, wearing bathrobes and sitting on the porch. Five days later and you still can still smell her perfume on your body. “Call me,” she says, and you do for once.

Maybe you never see her. You stop by the castle and she’s gone, and you never find her again. Too late for you, you should have gone looking for her years ago. The castle’s fallen down now, a pile of rubble. Years from now archeologists will crawl over its corpse.

Down on the street that they call Death Row, it’s another day. The old man with the guitars strum and croak and croon, the pretty spanish boys drive by on their bicycles and the boozers and beggars sit on the sidewalk and try to remember who they once were. Somebody puts on a gramaphone record – Le Quintet Du Hot Club de France – and we can hear strings and brass weaving their way out onto the street.