Author: foxtongue

50% even preference, me, on symetric VS asymetric faces

“The plural of anecdote is not data”.

This person has collected over 600 music videos for download. I’m impressed. I love music videos, they’re snapshot glimpses into a beautiful world where music threads everything into a narrative, sometimes surreal, preferably pretty, in dastardly ways. Andrew and I went to see Oldboy last night and it was like that. Not for everyone, but perfect for me. Serrated humour. Sweet brutality. The undertones of making me cringe. I cried out Marry Me to the main character after he made me wince in spite of my jade blood. Have you ever seen Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance? It’s similar. I want this in my home. A man is captured off the street, framed for his wife’s murder and put into a hotel reminiscent prison room for fifteen years. There’s a television, but that’s his only contact with the world until one day he wakes in a box on a grassy roof. He’s dressed in a sharp black suit and cannot see for the sunlight. From there he’s given the task of finding out who put him there and the why behind it. I can’t believe some of the angles, some of the framing. I want to find the director and pledge my youth to him. A year for every ounce of brilliance you download into my brain. Another year of lasting life from mine for every tricky skill you give me.

Imperative viewing if things like this make you happy: Headless Robot Zombie Science Flies.

Today I can’t remember if I have plans this evening. I can’t recall shaping words which would have defined my Saturday Night. There’s no sun today, only fake television light. Everything is lit from an unseen source. I woke next to me love this morning, and I could feel the smile blossom under my skin when I came aware enough to know the body next to me was a separate thing. We held hands in the dark until the sun came to wake us. Seven o’clock fall in, fall back and down forever.

edit: I’m told apparently that Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance and Oldboy are actually made by the same director, (which somehow justifies my ridiculous brain in some obscure way). Apparently he’s making a revenge themed trilogy and those are the first two films. The third is to be called Lady Vengeance. This to me seems a bit odd, as there was no-one left alive in the first movie to continue to a sequel. They killed everyone.

these links are needful interesting


Not Your Average Coffee
Originally uploaded by cabbit.

I was inspiration for the evening and all I wanted was to run my fingers through your hair. The entire cast nodded at “he was an angsty goth boy” and it was beautiful. The synchonicity of sympathy, the moment of “we have all been fifteen”. I felt satisfied with my life suddenly, when I saw for a moment how I could laugh at what I’ve been, who I’ve been with, how I have changed and grown. I am older now, and far more young. It’s a gentle reminder. Yes, I’m having to cling lately, counting blessings like pennies saved by a child, but I still know how to smile.

Whenever I am with him, I think to myself that when I am gone from this persons life or they from mine, I will look back and want a hundred pictures of them, a thousand, to look over and hold close, but then I put the camera down and thumb the power button. I don’t know what to do.

I need to take Robin out more before I go. If anyone has any suggestions, they would be appreciated. We’re going to be going to the poetry slams again, so that’s every second Monday taken care of, but I’m uncertain about our Fridays and I can have him Thursdays as well. This city can be so cold to adventure seekers. One has to trespass or creep along, hiding in corners while security guards go by, and he’s not exactly up to sneaking yet. He’s more of a loudly plodding boy, one who knocks things over and takes ten minutes to climb a fence as high as his waist. I’m not sure how the government would react if they knew of some of the things I’m trying to train him to, but I don’t particularly care. I think running is a requirement in life, and so is getting around people who have been put specifically to keep you out of interesting places. I still need to instill curiosity and we’re trying to have him think for himself. Both are new in peculiar ways, but they seem to be taking. I want Robin to be able to function on his own and not mind doing so. I want him to be able to look outside and think, “I want to do something today,” and then be capable of choosing something and participating in the world in the manner proscribed.

there was a wind once that destroyed the hearts of all it blew through

I decided last night that I was going to dye my hair scarlet. I smeared flesh red gel stickly onto my brush and then through my hair. I was thorough, I was neat.

It didn’t work.

The damned gunk turned out purple.

I am less than disappointed. It seems that I am now genetically predisposed toward purple hair. Sadly, it is a limping along purple, a timid pale patch of purple, purple that would get run over if it tried to cross the road, so I’ve doused myself in plum to fix it. If anyone would like an almost untouched tin of Punky Colour Red Wine, it is yours with my blessing. Next time I try, I will pick a more ridiculously named red in the hopes of serendipity forcing her tongue into my mouth a little sexier. This time it was like she was counting my teeth, and who wants that? She might take one as a souvenier.

Chris was my brilliant company today. He looks out from under ice lashes and decries politics and history and ethical being in the system we call society currently. He tells of how change is slow, how people are afraid, and yet he paints a picture that educates in all the right ways. I wish I could speak evenly with him, that I could keep up. I learned today that Vancouver is the only municipality in Canada with an ethical purchase policy. In spite of spending time among protesters for years now, I’ve never heard that, but I really like it. I’m glad somehow of our parks that use plants that weren’t sprayed with pesticides, that our city works brew fair trade coffee.

Tonight there’s a group of people going to TheatreSports. We’re gathering at Granville Island, meeting at the doors at quarter to nine.

I’m considering my options in the realm of travel. It seems that I’m going to E3, but I’m not very certain what it is. I only know my hooks have been thrown at me, Road Trip, Technology, Down the Coast, by Andrew and Ian. I’m embracing leaving, the images of highway and blind kinetic energy. Fluttering my hand out a window as water flows by, watching the sun rise and set over unfamiliar horizons. I don’t know if it’s going to be enough to save me, if it’s going to take me out of myself to the point that I can wear my skin again without feeling too small. I’m shearing off tiny pieces of person here, sloughing them off so I can continue to not care a little longer, so I can hold on until I’m hanging by my nails like I do financially. Not taking Robin out lately has been hurting, wounding the pocketbook to the point where I’m beginning to actually worry a little. My work doesn’t cover half of what it should. I catch myself almost relenting when Nico wants to send me a towel.

If my laundry gets stolen again, I’m going to be old again before my time.

I’m waiting for the red to set

My skills are an attic full of dead birds. My hair is full of flame and my lungs murky with fuel. I remember heat dripping from my fingers lighting my chain with blue fire. I would watch it soar above me to flip in gravity like an arcing ball of physics, waiting for me to catch it and bite. They used to have wings, they used to fly. My tongue stings in memory, my elbows chafe with rope. Twist, turn, feet planted never as firmly as they needed to be because it was dance, darling, not serious, no, in spite of the crackle swish of fulmination this close to your face, this close to your hair. Fury when it tore out, treating it like a whip to crack, bring it back, gathering cord in one hand out of the other, play them off each-other, the congregation is beginning to murmur. I remember that. I remember how it would confuse me if I listened, so I tuned them out and only listened to my own artificial wind. I miss it. Never caught in my own photograph, I’d forgotten how rich it was, how much I miss the taste of white gas on my fingers afterward. To the sky, both of them, like embers, like suns. To my back to catch on my neck and twitch, kittens to scratch me with red little welts later, when I paid enough attention to bathe in cold water. Learning never was this fun. I can’t bear to think of it now, but I have to. I want it back again, this home I had, the conflagration surge of death in my heart.

Darren’s making pretties again.

I’m in the process of making a modern day mix tape for Ellen. It’s a group project, everyone making copies enough so that all involved may receive one. I’m discovering, however, that in spite of the fact that I have several thousand songs to choose from, I’m failing short of having some sort of theme. I think I have a nice idea, then “but I’m currently listening to Alphaville, who on earth am I to claim taste in music?”

Oh the shame.

In other news, I’ve been personally asked to participate in B.C. politics as part of “the worlds first serious political party devoted exclusively to sex positive issues” by a friend of mine who’s apparently involved. I don’t know as what and I suspect that I’m to get up and read raunchy poetry. This is my general impression. “Groovy,” I said, “but I don’t have any.” Monday the 18th of April is a supporters meeting. There’s an open invite to anyone interested in the party to drop in. They’re also having an erotic art show, are accepting submissions of art, and are seeking volunteers for the event. Platform, candidates, events and volunteer information at http://www.thesexparty.ca/ I’m likely to spend a day or two volunteering for the sake of it.

ganked from wicked_wish

Extra, extra, read all about it — enterprising fellow risks wrath of U.S. Government, anal probe.

    “So tonight I spied on Area 51. Actually, maybe I should explain a little more, before I lead with such a tempting sentence. If you go to CNN’s website tonight, you will see a story about google’s new map search service. Basically, the company has integrated satellite technology into their map-searching site, and now you can get ACTUAL photographs beamed directly from somewhere in space. This section of the page just launched a day or two ago, and already many people are upset because they feel, for some reason, having satellite mapping software on the web that gives basic users the ability to stare at the roof of someone else’s house is an invasions of privacy (Sheesh, what prudes.)”

Check it out before Uncle Sam shuts it down.
This is far more interesting than hithero suspected.

Meanwhile, these people have been collecting interesting Google Maps.

the positioning of trees

Today is the mind of a day where the light look fake. Rain erasing the horizon and yet light flooding everywhere, diffused godly light. A revelation of light with the water pouring down so brightly that you can see every drop distinctly. This is light for driving on the highway, this is light for the inclination of leaving.

The glass was pretty on the passenger seat, a green pile of sharp pebbles that cascaded to the floor. After filling the building washing machine with laundry and soap to discover that it was broken, I wanted to have a bucket of it to pour into the cold metal bin. We had breakfast in the afternoon at EAT SOUP and lingered over newspapers, quietly comfortable. Something in the door had to be repaired as well as the window replaced. I don’t understand, what happened to old fashioned sparkplugs? Tap, smash, be off with you.

A line for Katie occured to me today: “I hold his eyes in the palm of my hand,” I said. “The silver glitter shine gives meaning to the seven pieces of coin.”

Nothing different, nothing profane in what we were doing.

We were up too late, the gate of night was falling. We were wandering languidly past our bedtimes, past his certainly, the boy asleep in the back. Night here means wandering, night here means nowhere to go. If there were stars to see, we could have, but they were hiding, lost in thick cloud. We set our sights on closed roads, we set our sights on the scars of september eleven. If port security weren’t so ramped up these days, we might have never been deported. From country to country we sailed and I collapsed as if shot against the car when I went to look for the man in the train with the shotgun power. They laughed and we went to play in another part of town. The very end of the road is a stalkers shrine with a cop car that goes around and around all night overnight every single hour. Singing along to the music, I felt like I alone in the universe knew the words to the music pouring from the speakers, louder behind us then before, like light streaming at the speed only it can go. Shining on the road, I leaned forward so the little white strips could see me. We were breaking physics. Glowing pale lines, empty fields, the planes touch down from Tokyo at two in the morning. Andrew stayed awake until we dropped him home.

In the hour and half we had for rest, the car was broken into. Glass smashed into the seats, today was all dealing with ICBC and the auto-glass shop. A third of the city was hit, a few hundred cars. I found out when he returned hours early, when he pulled me from nightmare shakes to explain his stress. I’ve put him to bed, held him and laved him in care until he could sleep. We’re damp with it now, but under the covers he’s warm. Soon I’ll wake him, for we must go and see to the vehicle. It’s not ours, it’s a borrow, but I want him to have every moment in sleep that we can possibly grab.

Occasionally I can pretend he lives here. In spite of things, contentment floods me.

It’s time.

you know how I can tell that I’m classy?

I’m tired. I’m tired and I’m sleeping. I wake because I’m thirsty, so I do something about it. I go back to sleep and I wake for a phonecall. I wake to my lovers voice, his beautiful voice. I hang up the phone. I look up and see blue sky and daylight. I hang up the phone and find lipstick on the spout of my teapot.

This will go up as an mp3 later, I think. Yes.

before I go out to get your present.

Standing with you can feel like movement, like we’re rushing at a thousand running paces with our feet still. It’s distracting, who is the innocent when we’re both lions tearing the throats of our laughter out with sharp teeth? Kissed and tell me, kissed and snakes writhing, desert storm moments of key note ivory playing our song with long nailed fingers. Stone was never so soft before. In the dark we have light because every star wants to sing for us, every shining globe of fire wants to say our names. Casually we accept this, nodding our heads and taking hands before running. This is like sins don’t count, this is like guilt is something to eat off silver plates and discard like missing you. who said I need you first? This is one more year now I’m here to see it, half a year is coming up. Peaks, valleys, a scrape the sky conquering of bedpost notch proportions but better, but lucent. I’d like to think this is special. I’d like to think this is it. Speculation is this is more than I expected, this is stretching hands toward the moon in ways I never have before.

Thank you for letting imagination thrive. You caught me hook in heart. Thank you for allowing me the silk of your hair. You took me for a spirit guide. Thank you for allowing the burn of your eyes. You hypnotize genes into being. Thank you for allowing you to see me right.

I could murder a plate of sunshine right now

Like children, we made a nest on the floor in blankets. He’s was asleep and I typing, hoping the clatter of the keys wouldn’t distract him into consciousness. I wished I too were asleep, but I was working instead, watching the chat clip past a line at a time. I had to put aside my craving, sublimate it, and pay a modicum of attention.

After it was too late, he had to go. Another hemisphere was calling, t-minus candy after running to cripple my leg into limping. I’m used to it, I can take stairs faster on a cane then anyone I know. Desire smells like another place right now, like a drawing room with sunlight in, like walls with colours running down. I wrote once that I felt like taking my blood and throwing it at the sky to stick and I have a bit of that tonight. Let the vivid hues take me, let the drumroll begin. He was a cupped hand full of water with the light of fireflies shining through my fingers. On and over again, the weight of flesh catches my breath in little ways. His hand on mine. My hand on his. It’s sun flashing off water, it’s the flight of a predator bird above me, that scratchy snap as the span completely unfolds. We could be a landscape, we could be minds unfolded into poetry.

It’s Matthew‘s birthday today.
Indie Tits is sincerely the best new webcomic I’ve read recently.

Take me, my dear, to a place (check coats at the door) airport pretty. I fear your breath is what keeps me breathing. My soul changed hands, I’m not. I noticed in time to find where it went. Skin deep is all the knife needs, this guilty pleasure knot crawling inside of me. All I need is something you shouldn’t consider giving. I’m an animal that requires someone to hold this pose with me, dance a little in the middle of the floor. I’m addicted to the paraesthesia you provide in my daily life, in my smiling against your breast, forehead resting underneath your chin.