Author: foxtongue

I posted an article off citynoise about Justo Gallego’s “Self-Built Cathedral” fairly recently and I’ve found out today that additional photos of the project/site/builder have just been posted.

I’ve been spending all night up with Myke, (who is apparently damned attractive, no really. I have pictures to prove it. His hair is worse than mine. I love it. We could destroy entire shops of brushes with our hair; with the right kind of weather, cities would fall under our combined static.) He’s half convincing me to come down to Ohio for a visit. Yes, a little voice inside my head says, that sounds exactly like something you should do.

At one point we were picturing how I would explain such a conversation to my mother:
“I met this nifty fellow on-line. He’s an artist, yes, you like that sort of thing. Yes. No, he’s trying to talk me into staying with him in Ohio.”
*holds phone away from ear for five minutes*
“No mum, he thinks I’m neat, apparently. Yes, he’s older than me. Of course he is. Everyone is, mum.”
*five minutes*
“Mum, I’ve been following his journal, of course he’s not a predator.”
*now ten minutes*
“No, there would be things to do in Ohio. He’s got a friend with a sideshow I could pester until they let me join. (Lemme send you a link, they’re all blockheads. No, that’s actually a term, mum). They’d love me – I have those pyrotechnics tickets which let me buy explosives, and you know I could make my own glittery out-fit. I think it could be a good idea.”
*this is where her head might actually implode a bit*

People I don’t know answered my poll with things like phone numbers. I am almost curious enough to call, but I think I would prefer to talk to them here first before doing anything as rash as showing up on a caller ID. The other thing I learned was that I should likely get this AIM thing. Speaking on anonymous oddities, however, who has been sending me the random Depeche Mode? I appreciate the thought, but I really don’t need anymore. Honestly. I don’t think I can take it. Bad enough that Daleks are attacking British Parliament.

The sun is blinding hungry today. I turned my lamps off an hour ago and the light only became more apparent. The brighter is gets, the more it hurts. The glare from across the street is already too much to look at. It will be a good day in spite of it, I suspect, if only because we can start a Jerry Falwell VS the Pope Deathpool and kids have actually started killing each other over video-games, so both the left and right get to cry verification today.

Things Not Saxophone

I’m desiring your company, I’m desiring the ability to stroke the vessels which carry your blood and pluck from them all wounds and harmful mannerisms. I want to press my lips to your flesh and suck out your pain like marrow from the bone. On my eyes are the memory of you curled on my bed undressed. Hands to head, I ran my fingers through your hair and cried. Everything is coming apart, tiny skeins of skin, water salt running down to wet your face. If I could see you as glass, look through your flesh like water, I could do it. If I could taste your heartache like colour. This is a strange little solo, drama of the saddest sort, my mouth pressing out breath after breath that I would give to you if only I could convince you to take it.

I want to hold your ruby pulse in my hand and feel it flutter like a caged bird and take the thorn from its paw. A want to scrawl a map of creation on every inch of your body, use the holiness of truth to protect you from nature’s most subtle fury.

Then I stumble again, the block that kills me, makes me hide and quiver and die inside.

I can’t tell if you’re lying, you’re so good at not telling me anything. I cannot claim that your love is not important, that it does not drive me to getting up some mornings, but every badly written word stabs me to my quick. Indiscretion is a hateful gift. It lets me know that you’re hiding still behind convictions that I’m not allowed to see. You can’t take this away from me. It’s mine now, a gift you gave to unwittingly, like your devotion.

Now my heart is being broken too. I can’t do this anymore. My soul machine is spreading too thin. The skin’s going to break and let everything in.
Spikes, darling, fucking spikes of pain.

I worry about you. I wake up in a panic of tangled blankets and I’m pulling on pants halfway out my door before I realize that I have no idea where I’m going. Urgency strike, zero hour. I see bland hallways lined with beds superimposed on my apartment and I don’t understand. Is this refraction of last nights film? Must be, has to be. There’s no other option. Never before have I done this in the daytime. One evening, many years ago, I had been idly discussing the merits of various authors when the urge to leave had hit me. Mid-conversation I stood up and said, “I need to leave.” and I had dragged myself as far as the bus-loop before I realized that I didn’t know where I was supposed to be. My companion at the time asked me over and over what I thought I was doing. I was so frustrated that I yelled at him. I don’t KNOW where I’m supposed to be, I just know here is WRONG! I felt so flaky, so idiotic, pacing back and forth attempting to figure out what it was I was suddenly remembering. I felt like a cat before an earthquake. Later I was asked, “Why weren’t you at the funeral?” and I almost cried. It had been then and somewhere out in Burnaby. There was no way of knowing, there was no peripheral knowledge I could have based my unease on. It’s a little piece of me that I utterly loathe.

Heart Attack & Vine.

There’s sun outside and I see it dripping down my window like rain. This is a Tuesday which isn’t framed right. Lief is coming over, and Robin. I haven’t seen Lief in a long, long time. I wonder what we’ll talk about, how we’ll catch up on things but I’m distracted. I’m concerned that I need to be somewhere still.

I woke the other day with my eyes still closed, certain that Matthew was next to me, but when I turned my body to hold him, he disintegrated into a cloud of black feathers. This morning was different. I closed my eyes half an hour after the dawn and fell deeply into dreaming. Someone was with me, someone I’ve never met but know rather well in sidelong ways. We were in a room I used to have and I explained to them that this wasn’t my home but the room my mother used to keep for me. Our interaction was odd and strangely real. My subconscious has undue verism that I can’t escape.

I could almost make a story of what we did, how our bodies shifted to make room for the other on my bed as we lay and we talked, a quiet storm of words. I think we were meeting for the very first time; spending a morning together asleep was the plan. Jetlag and my schedule matching up like a carnival game, all the little ducks shot down bang. He lay on his back and I curled up beside him, pressing my back into his side, his arm my pillow and home. We talked about shelter, how the internet is breeding a new form of interaction that we dubbed digital rain. Taking his hand in mine, I looked down to his fingers and laced mine though, putting it behind me, thinking small self-amused girl thoughts. I began to fall asleep then, in my dream. I could feel the weight of tired muscles pushing me into the bed. When he took my hand to touch more clearly, I stretched out and leaned against him, one leg over his leg. A tiny tense arching acknowledgment was his reaction, inescapably polite, but embarrassingly gratifying nonetheless. Enough for me to twist around and kiss his cheek, in my head laughing at my flash of return arousal. I am a naughty girl. I swept my hair away from his beard and lay myself down on his side. I thought to say, You know it’s not allowed, but didn’t. It would only be stating the obvious. We lay then with legs tangled, stomach to stomach, and fell into sleep, dreaming a new dream, my weight warm and his arms making me welcome.

Not the sort of thing I’m used to when I close my eyes. I’m accustomed to walking, wandering cities, sitting in plazas I’ve never been to and hope one day to visit. I dream of exploring, flying and talking with the other passengers, with details like the colour of my blanket and how my seat doesn’t quite lean back. I dream of the future, moments that haven’t happened yet and never were. There is a beach with white sand out there somewhere and I plan on finding it by accident, by fate. I dream of memories. I dream of smothered impulse chain of circumstance and social physics, not fictional encounters with denied provocation. I am curious as to what my brain is doing, if this sort of thing will continue or if I will drop back into my endless cities, my greek sylph babbling that lends me to endless moments of disphoric deja-vu.

What do you dream of?

reposted

this is taken almost directly from mykeamend